Like hell he's that thing's mom. He nearly shudders at the thought, but he's got to stay focused here.

"I'm trying." Spike responds as he pulls on the trigger a second time, but he can't seem to get it to budge. "The damn thing's jammed."

Because there's no way it could be his hand to blame. His fingers were working perfectly earlier, so why would they cramp up now? -- Then, as he starts to move it off its target, the gun suddenly goes off, loudly in such a small room. The bullet ricochets off of the top of the fridge and back to the ceiling behind them.

Biting back a reaction to nearly shooting himself, and the increasingly disturbing speech that thing is giving, Spike spots the paper and growls out. "Grab that, it's the note."