Title: Chuck Norris vs. Spike
Fandom: Chuck Norris (I'd say BtvS, but Chuck Norris is Everything)
POV: Spike. No one gets into Chuck Norris' head, but Chuck Norris.
Rating/Pairing: NC-Human - can anyone stomach this much pain and bloodshed? Aside from Chuck Norris? Pairing is Chuck Norris and whoever the hell he wants it to be.
Summary: Fighting. Quips. Facts. Roundhouse kicks. All you need to know is Chuck Norris.
A/N: Chuck Norris is currently holding me hostage. May he have mercy on my soul. Also: time frame is AtS, S5, post "Damage." In the Year of Our Norris, 66. Chuck Norris doesn't accept "A.D." It's "C.N." And any missing letters or commas are there because they were scared of Chuck Norris and left the story.
X_X #_X X_-
Spike stood on the gangway of the puddle jumper at McKinney International Airport. There were four planes at the airport, two of them were bi-planes, the other was a crop-duster. He supposed the Wolfram and Hart plane was responsible for the "International" part of the title. Hot and muggy, even at 10 pm - it would make the pig's blood curdle. Better remember to ask for ice cubes.
A Chevy Suburban with blacked-out windows pulled up, and a guy in a suit and cowboy boots climbed out, opened the door, and addressed him.
"Mr. Spike? We've located the target. They're filming on the other side of the field behind me."
"Field? Cow or oil?"
"Most likely. We have means to clean your boots afterward, sir."
Spike sighed, rubbed the phantom itch from the stitches that weren't on his wrist any longer. Fred reckoned the shamans didn't take into account the deep itch of healing when they removed the mystical stitches that reattached his hands. He climbed into the SUV and took the file the employee held out to him. He flipped through the pages to the back and studied the picture of his target.
"Who the hell wears goatees? Pedophiles and guys who soup up sports cars, that's who. What's with the cowboy hat? You sure this fella's name isn't 'Bad Bart?'"
"Sir, if I may? You are in Texas. Cowboy hats are regular dress. Also, do not underestimate the target. Wolfram and Hart have attempted to acquire him for many years, but he has always eluded capture."
"What's the big yen for this clown? Demon? Part-demon? Hell-god? Don't try and tell me you knew he was her-"
"Sir, it pains me to say that we did not have his full history. I have been newly assigned to him, as the person that preceded me has been... reassigned."
"I bet he was."
"Sir, we do not know that the target is anything other than human, although studies show he is no ordinary human. Our psychics are unable to penetrate his mind and discern any further information not obtained though visuals."
"Is that right? Well. This should be interesting."
The SUV pulled onto the dusty two-lane and headed towards the stadium lights in the distance where filming was underway. The big truck skidded to a stop and Spike jumped out, ignoring the small-boned man with headphones around his neck yelling that it was a closed set. Spike strode with purpose to the man juuuust a hair taller than him with the cheesy goatee and bright shiny badge - wanker. Probably wears that at home, too. - and nodded once he got the target's attention.
"Right. Mr. Cowboy Wanna-Be? You need to come with me."
The target cocked his head and smiled.
"See," Spike said, smirking, "I invented that move. Tried to patent it a few times, but apparently you can't do that. 'S not gonna work on me, so-"
Spike reeled back from the force of the blow to his solar plexus. Apparently this was going to be a bit more difficult than he hoped.
"Nice punch. Now, I don't want to hurt you, but you-"
Spike's head rocked back when the left-hook he hadn't anticipated in time connected with his jaw.
"Quit it!" Spike said. "I don't want to have to resort to-"
Spike ducked low and drove his fist into the human's belly. That should be enough to drop most de... Man. Was Wolfram and Hart sure this was a man? The target straightened his spine, cracked his neck, and pointed a finger at Spike.
"Bruce Lee hit me once. Once."
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
"I'm Chuck Norris. You're dead."
Chuck Norris whipped off his cowboy hat, which landed neatly on a fence post, and began rolling up his sleeves. "You a stunt double? You one of Segal's?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about, but if it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll-"
Spike shut up and feinted left, just before a fist connected with his cheekbone. Speedy bastard, that's for sure. Spike crouched, twisted, and back-handed the man across the nose and started walking towards the collapsed body. Except the man hadn't collapsed.
Chuck Norris touched the back of his hand to the drop of blood on his nostril and sucked it away with a grin. "I haven't had my own blood on me in what feels like a lifetime. I'm impressed. You're about to be dead."
Spike rolled his eyes and held his palms up, "I've been trying to tell you, I am dead. Look, I'm here to give you some information, information recently acquired by Wolfram and Hart, an evil law firm. 'Cept they're not always evil. Well, they are, but the new management-"
"They teach you to never shut up in sissy fighting school?"
"Oho! The little boy wants to play, does he? You know, I haven't had a good fight since Angel and the Mountain Dew of Enlightenment. If you want to play, I'll-"
A throat-clearing cough of warning from Spike's assistant shut him up.
"Right. I'm not here to fight," Spike said, sighing. "Here on business, and god, I hate Angel right now."
"I don't do business with evil men. I roundhouse kick them until they die from it."
"Well, see, that's the thing. Not evil anymore. Saved the world. Fight the good fight right now, which doesn't include pummeling you until I can-"
Chuck Norris moved like a cat. He roundhouse kicked Spike in the chest again, sending him flying back ten feet.
A young guy filming this pulled a pair of headphones off his head and nervously asked, "Are we... are we still rolling, sir?"
Chuck Norris turned to the director and stared until the young man's lip wobbled and he sank into his chair. "You film until I tell you to stop filming."
"That is it!" Spike vamped out with a roar and lunged at Chuck Norris. "Stop-" A hard right to the jaw. "-kicking me-" Left uppercut to the ribs. "-and listen to-" Hay-maker to the temple. "-what I have to-" Knee to the groin. "-say!" Head butt.
Spike grabbed Chuck Norris by the wrists, pinned them behind his back and took a mystical rope from his assistant's hand. It had been created for this particular job. A quick wrap twice, a loop perpendicular, then a final loop about the wrists and Chuck Norris was going nowhere.
"All that Asian-style fighting doesn't phase me," Spike said, preening a bit at a job well done. "See, I've killed the best."
"That's impossible," Chuck spat out, "because I'm still alive!"
Spike blinked, ran his tongue over his lower teeth and looked down to hide his smirk. "Right. Son, I killed the best fighter from those parts back before you were even a twinkle in your daddy's eye."
"Chuck Norris doesn't twinkle in anyone's eye. Not unless Chuck Norris is wearing metal-soled shoes. I'll give you a minute to get that one."
"Are you speaking in some foreign language, or something?"
Chuck Norris turned and fixed Spike with a a cold stare, unmoved by the stress position the bindings forced him into. "My fists speak their own language. Braille."
"I just came to tell you that... Oh, great. Little Mister Muffet's caught wind of my little trip. Just what I don't need."
Spike turned towards the Subaru Brat with blazing KC Lights that was tearing up the dirt path towards them. The brakes squealed and Andrew hopped out of the passenger seat dressed like an extra for Crocodile Dundee: The Whimpering. Andrew itched himself under the criss-crossed ammo belts - empty - at his chest.
"Spike!" Andrew huffed, "We made it perfectly clear to Angel that anything to do with Slayer business is OUR business."
"Well, I'm not Angel, am I? Besides, how on earth did you think you were going to bring this bloke in? Knock him unconscious with your constant yammering?"
Andrew stifled a squeal of delight in the face of a real, actual celebrity, raced back to his truck, and pulled a piece of paper from a folder then raced back. "Mr. Walker Norris Ranger, sir? Spike, untie him! Get him to his feet! Mr. Norris? I would be honored to have your autograph, sir."
Chuck Norris stood as Andrew pulled a pen from one of his many cargo pockets. Chuck Norris took a firm step in a mud-puddle and kicked at Andrew's paper, driving the flat of his sole directly into Andrew's chest. A month later when Andrew would wake from his coma, he would delicately touched the one-inch, boot-shaped depression in his chest - the doctors said it would never heal - and smile at the framed muddy bootprint his nurse would thoughtfully place by his bedside. "This'll be worth hundreds. No one has ever survived getting his autograph before," he will eventually say.
Spike stepped over Andrew's unconscious body and gave his own roundhouse kick to Chuck Norris's chest. "He's a wanker, but the lad's got his heart in the right place. Most of the time."
Chuck dropped to his knees, coughed and looked up. "You can torture me. You can drive bamboo shoots under my nails, hang me on hooks in the blazing jungle sun, or shackle giant Vietnamese water rats to my face. But they're not going to stop me. I'll get out of this, and when I do-"
"You'll swear vengeance on me, come after me with all you got, and there'll probably be a working out montage set to an emotionally-charged lousy rock song. And water rats? Kinky. Me and Dru - oh, that's a crazy bint I moved heaven and earth for back in the day - we had a thing about puppies for a while. Trained 'em to like the taste of baby -. Sorry. Don't have time for memory lane. Look. You have a kid you didn't know about."
"I have lots of kids I don't know about. Lots of kids people wish were mine. Women want Chuck Norris and-"
"Third person gets a bit boring, sorry. I talk, you listen. You've got a kid. Turns out she's a slayer. Did this to me," Spike pulled up the sleeves of his duster and showed the healing scars on his wrists. "Cut off my hands. Eh, I got better."
Chuck Norris slowly began to smile. A lesser man - I'm not a man, but get on with it - would be chilled by that smile. "Maybe this kid is Chuck Norris'."
"Yeah... Didn't I tell you that already? Oh, I forgot the fun part. She's a homicidal maniac."
"Of course she is. No one can take Chuck Norris DNA and handle it, except Chuck Norris. She'll need to be trained."
"She's being trained. Turns out, her mum lied and said that some other bloke was the pop, both killed horribly, girl went insane. Long story only slightly shorter, she's living with the other slayers and they think it would be helpful for her to reconnect with actual family."
"You mean they need me to train them."
Spike smirked, "No. They're being trained, and haven't I said that, like, twice now? Are you daft? I don't think there's anything you can teach them that Buffy and the others can't teach them, and far better than you, I'd wager."
"Oh, so it's to be mental torture, is it?" Chuck looked off in the middle distance. "Well that doesn't work on Chuck Norris. I am one of the greatest martial artists of all time. I even have my own style of martial arts training, called Chun Kuk Do."
"And what's that mean?"
"Roughly translated: My foot through your face."
"Sorry, heard worse, and from scarier... things than you. Whatever you are, more than human I bet," Spike turned to his assistant, and pointed at Andrew. "Dump him in his car - it looks like his driver's not up for confrontation. Tell the driver to get him to the nearest hospital. And you," he turned back to Chuck Norris, "you coming or not? Not like you have much of a choice, really, I'm just being polite."
"You'll never be able to hold me for long."
"I don't want to hold you at all, you ponce! Come on," he grabbed Chuck Norris' bound wrists and led him to the car, and climbed into the backseat next to him. His assistant walked around the back of the car, nodded to the director who quickly blinked to hide his solid red eyes, and pulled out his cell phone.
"We have acquired him. He's under our control for the time being. I'll be sure to collect a sample of his tears after meeting his daughter, Dana. I personally oversaw the cancer project, you think I want an antidote out there for anyone to get their hands on? I'll send it via DHL as soon as I obtain it." He climbed into the vehicle and started the engine, pulling back onto the dirt road to the airport.