All disclaimers apply.

(Closing scene. End theme begins.)

I didn't do it for her. Why would anyone think that? There wasn't anything I could do for her anymore. I don't think there was anything I could do for her, ever. It's a choice I made for my own sake. Not revenge. Revenge is just one way of saying it isn't my own fault. That I didn't play some part in this warped little maudlin tragedy. And I did.

Besides. Vengeance requires hatred. Not feeling much of anything, right now. Just kind of cold. Numb. Vaguely, I realize I'm dying, but I'm still here. Somewhat. In between Hades and Heaven and wondering how in God's name I got here, anyway.

I miss him, now. That's strange. I put the bullet through his heart, and I still miss him. I guess I never really thought it would end like this.

I guess I still had some hope we could fix it.

Well, open the box one more time, Pandora. There goes Hope, fluttering on its merry way to Hell.

Shit. Just trying to make a joke. Sorry. That wasn't very funny. I'd bet my last pack of cigarettes that somebody out there is laughing their asses off, though. Some sadistic omnipotent force is getting some cheers at my expense, and if I ever see them, wherever the hell I'm going, I'm gonna blow their frickin' face open.

What the hell happened? Why did I have to kill my best friend, my brother? Why did the woman I love have to die? Why couldn't it have been different? Why did it have to be this way? Why, why, why . . .

Hah. Cry me a fucking river.

I could whine all the way the way to the great divide and it still wouldn't change a damned thing. Still wouldn't change the fact that I'm lying here in a sticky, uncomfortable pool of my own blood and wondering just how long it takes to die and why Death's keeping me waiting. Jeez, it isn't as if the Reaper has anything better to do than pick me up. Kinda his job and all, anyway. The bastard's probably leaping with joy at this very moment. Yeah, you got me, Grim. After so many hits-and-misses, twenty-seven years of me grinning and flipping you the bird, good ol' Spike's coming home at last.

Agony sluices through what's left of me, and it isn't all related to the bullet wounds, sword stabs and slashes and shrapnel piercings. It hurts so bad that if I wasn't already dying, I sure would be now.

It's funny. After so long living and finding it hard to feel, hard to care, here I am, in the middle of the final scene, last shot, and I'm feeling it all. Like being dropped in a vat of water so cold it kills almost instantly. Or molten rock so hot it eats you up without hesitation. But I feel every second till I feel nothing, and all those good similes and metaphors and whatever else they're called. Like that.

The pain is sucking me backwards, and I'm seeing things I didn't see before. Things that mean shit now, but hell, I've got nowhere to be, now, do I?

It was . . . awhile ago.

Vicious? That's a stupid name.

Strange remark coming from someone named Spike.

Least it's a noun, not a frickin' adjective.

I'm glad you paid some minimal attention in grade school grammar class. But I can see why you never graduated.

Go to hell.

Thought he was so much better than anyone else. Some pale, white-haired pretty boy with a morbid fascination for swords . . . yeah, he was always kind of scary, cold eyes, downright creepy smile, but I'll never forget how know-it-all he seemed, like he was above pulling a trigger. Till he stabbed me in the leg, son of a bitch, right before thoroughly slicing up six armed men with that lethal butter knife of his in under ten seconds. Learned that lesson pretty quick: Don't fuck with blond pretty boys.

Man, it's cold. But it feels good. Clarifying. I'm thinking more clearly than I ever have before. I've been stumbling around drunk for three years and finally the hangover has passed.

Great timing. I'm just on my way out the door, here, kinda in a hurry. No time to linger, I've got to see a man about a halo. Or hellfire. Or whatever.

Never was very religious. Maybe it's just fade to black, no credits, no tragic swan song. Well. It's an end, regardless. I'm happy with that much.

But maybe I'll see her. Wherever. Wonder if she'd wait for me. Never did before. We were never there for each other when we were needed. Sure, we'd help with the physical wounds, but we let the invisible ones keep right on bleeding. In fact, sometimes we stabbed some more in. Don't know how that turned into love. Maybe it would've been better if . . . if, if, if.

Shit, love really doesn't hold any guarantee, does it? No warranty or anything. If it breaks, it's your own damned problem. Best feeling in the world, priceless, really, but if it turns around and tears your throat out, the gods can't be held responsible. They give real backhanded gifts, you know. Just call me an atheist.

Though I suppose that isn't a good status to call when you're in my particular position.

Well, to hell with it. Literally, if necessary. Things are never as good or as bad as they seem once you wake up. Dream's over, show's done, time to move on. Hey, look, it's night outside already. Hey, look, the sun's coming up. Time really flies when you're lost in the story. Goes zooming by when you forget yourself for just a millisecond too long.

Then you come back to reality and find out you're me, getting colder and colder by the minute and wondering if that Dante guy was right. What if the worst level of Hell really is a frozen wasteland? What if that's really where all the traitors go when their time's up?

If it is . . . hey, Satan, move over. Looks like we're gonna be roomies.

Yeah. Sorry. Another bad joke. This is really inspiring some of my sickest humor. Death'll do that, I suppose.

Getting darker. Don't feel anything physically anymore. Lungs starting to give out. Wouldn't keep doing me much good in this battered body anyway. And since my health no longer means shit, I'd really like to light up right about now. If a man ever needed a good smoke, I need one. Huh. Maybe Grim's got a pack on him.

If I had a voice left, I guess I'd say I'm sorry. Am I sorry, really? Well . . . sorry it had to be this way. Sorry we were such idiots, buddy, letting a woman get between us like that. Sorry love wasn't enough for either of us, sweetheart. Sorry I let you die, both of you. Sorry I won't be bringing in the bounties anymore, old dog, but take care of the shrew for me, she needs all the friends she can get. Sorry I never did get to explore my new-found affection for kids and dogs.

Apology accepted? No? Didn't think so.

Well. Air's gone. It would taste like blood, anyway.

I'm not unhappy. Not happy either, but not unhappy. Just glad it's finished. Here's the ultimate closure, you know?

It isn't such a bad way to end a dream, really. Kind of morbid, though. Hey, Grim, where are you? Don't wanna be late coming here and rubbing it in, do you? Death's a one time experience, won't be getting another chance like this. Falling, falling, and I'll never hit the ground.

Or maybe it's kind of like . . . flying. Yeah, flying. Like soaring through millions and millions of stars and it never ends, never slows down, you never run out space to fly and be free. Get those wings you always wanted, no strings attached, no machines, no fuel needed. Just up there, and you never have to stop. Just keep going.

And the colors, so many colors. Mostly just blue, though. Endless sky.

I've never felt so alive before in my life, and now I'm dying. Yeah. Someone's finding this real funny right now. But they're not laughing harder than I am.

So . . . I guess that's it. Time to wake up.

See you around. Somewhere.

(He smiles.)

(Last chord. Final frame. Fade to black.)