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There was a sickening gloopy sound as a turd of gel splattered all over Angel’s dress shirt. Horrified, he turned to find Spike wearing a shit-eating grin, pointing the offending container towards him as though this were a very gooey game of cops and robbers.

Eyes wide, Angel surveyed the damage. “This is a $300 shirt!”

Spike blinked at him innocently. “Just following instructions, pet.”


Spike turned the bottle towards him. “Squeeze body wash onto a pouf and—”

Before Spike could utter anything like ‘massage,’ ‘lather,’ or ‘repeat,’ Angel had him slammed against the metal shelving, sending a display of shampoo tumbling. He squeezed until he heard pretty choking sounds, while a mother of two looked on in horror.

When hers grew up, she’d totally understand.

Suddenly a laser stream of water was shot directly into his eye, blinding him until he recoiled.

“—and wet it,” Spike finished smugly. He was grinning like an idiot, holding a bottle of drinking water.

“I am never going grocery shopping with you again.”