Unmade: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale (17 page)

            She
took the empty can and tossed it in a bin. She walked halfway down the bar
swung open the refrigerator door, grabbed a beer and swung the door closed all
in one fluid, well-practiced motion. She popped the top with one hand and
placed it on the bar in front of him. He already had his money and tip in his
hand ready to pay her, a couple of bills and some change. She grabbed the cash
from his hand delicately and held her hand palm up for him to deposit the
change. He placed the change in her hand, calculatingly leaving his fingers on
her wrist just long enough to feel uncomfortable.

            “Thank
you, beautiful.”

            She
gave him an uncomfortable smile and turned to walk down the bar towards the
cash register. She walked a step quicker than usual. She placed the cash in the
cash register and his soiled tip in the tip jar and then went about her
business as usual looking as calm as she had been before, as effortless and
carefree as when he had come in. But her face showed it. Her face showed the
seed that he had planted. He smiled into his next sip of beer and asked himself
the question, “Why does it feel so good to be scummy?”

            The
patron next to him thought the question had been for him. He gave the Old
Soldier a look and decided that the old bastard was probably already three
sheets to the wind and talking to himself. The patron wasn’t surprised when the
crusty Old Soldier next to him blew gas out both ends at the same time and
laughed. The patron looked down the bar for an empty seat, but there was none
to be found.

            The
Old Soldier noted the man’s reactions and laughed on the inside at his
spinelessness. The first beer had lightened his mood a little bit and he was
beginning to enjoy himself. He figured it would be better to go through tonight
with a little buzz than sober and doubtful.

            Everything
was going like he had planned. It did no good to just go up to a bartender and
fuck with them. They were used to it. In a place where your job is to get
people drunk, a little belligerence never bothered anyone. You would be asked
to leave or thrown out, but that was about it. If you wanted to shock a
bartender, you had to creep them out. You had to get them out of their comfort
zone, shock them into action. Belligerence was comfort, belligerence was normal
and it could be handled. You had to make them feel that something was wrong,
something was sinister and out of place, and often, it had to be done in
stages. The tension had to be ratcheted up, until the nerves break and the
reaction explodes from someplace unseen.

            He
had already started the game. A simple touch, an out of place word, these were
little things, and if he quit the game early they would be forgotten in half an
hour. He had no intention of quitting. He wanted to see her break.

            He
lit another of his beauties and thought that maybe tonight
he
was
Beelzebub, covered in smoke and stink. The sweating can of beer in his hand
beckoned, and he downed as much as he could in between drags of his cigarette.
The smoke burned thick and he laughed on the inside as he watched his
neighbor’s head look down the bar periodically for an empty chair.

            He
plunked his empty sixteen ounce can on the counter and tried to catch the
attention of the bartender, which was a lot more difficult than it had been the
first time. She took care of the other customers at the bar, until they had all
been satisfied and when she had no more excuses, she made her way down to his
end of the bar.

            “Can
I get you another?”

            “Why
the hell not? I got no place else to be.”

            She
took his empty can and tossed it towards the bin where it bounced off of the
rim and onto the floor. She hissed between her teeth and moved to pick it up.
He wasn’t the only one to stare at her shapely bottom as she bent over to pick
up the discarded can, but he was the one that she saw. She popped the fridge
open again and brought him the beer, not even bothering to open it for him this
time. He had his money ready to go, all bills this time.

            She
reached to take the money from him and turned to leave at the same time. It was
not unlike a child snatching candy from a stranger. He did not let go of the
money, and she turned to question his reticence.

            “Before
I give you this money, I’d like to know the name of the lovely lady I’m giving
it to.” He smiled his most charming smile.

            “My
name is Lucinda.” She tugged on the money expecting him to let go as soon as
she gifted him with her name, but he didn’t.

            “Mmmm,
Luuuucciiindddaaa.” He enunciated the name in a sort of sexual tone, wiggling
his shoulders like a snake crawling through sand. “I like the way that feels on
my tongue. But you know what Lucinda? I think I’d like the way you’d feel on my
tongue a whole lot more.”

            She
jerked the money out of his hand and set her jaw. “You better cut the shit, or
you’ll find yourself kicked out of here.”

            He
raised his hands in mock apology and surprise. “I’m sorry, I was just tryin’ to
give you a compliment. I’m just a dirty old man; don’t mind me.”

            She
accepted his apology with silence and stalked to the cash register, slamming
the drawer shut after placing the money in it.

            The
man next to him regarded him with a look of disgust. It didn’t matter, he
wasn’t the type to do anything about anything. You could shit on his mom, and
all he would do is give you a dirty look and take another sip from his beer. He
opened his beer and took a gratifying sip. He lit another beauty and smoked it
slowly. When he was done he chugged his beer and crushed the can placing it on
the counter as loudly as possible to get the whole bar’s attention.

            “Lllllluuuuuuccccciiinnnnnnddddddaaaaaa,
I need another down here.”

            She
gave him a look, and then glanced across the bar at one of the bouncers. They
passed some sort of signal that he couldn’t see, and the bouncer disappeared
out of the front door, most likely to notify Earl that there was some sort of
problem. She walked to the refrigerator and opened it, snaking out another
beer. She moved slowly, stalling for time.

            He
felt the presence of someone behind him, a hot body radiating heat, and he knew
that he was now onstage. A few eyes had turned in his direction from down the
bar, and the man next to him must have found an empty seat because he grabbed
his drink and disappeared from his side.

            Lucinda
finally made her way to his end of the bar and she placed the beer in front of
him, unopened. “That’ll be two-fifty.”

            He
held the money in one hand close to his body, as he opened the beer with the
other. He put it up to his lips and drank from it. Lucinda reached for the
money, leaning across the counter. As her hand touched the money, he let go and
grabbed a handful of Lucinda’s left breast. He even managed to get a squeeze
off before he was wrestled off of the stool that he had been sitting on. He kept
chugging his beer as he was dragged stiff as a board out the back door.

            He
could hear Lucinda yelling, “Kick that old fucker’s ass, Earl!”

            He
was tossed in between two dumpsters in a back alley, which had somehow managed
to keep a thin layer of slime in the summer heat. Earl loomed up above him, a
towering giant from his vantage point.

            “I’m
sorry to have to do this old-timer, but no one messes with Lucinda and gets
away with it.” Earl reared his foot back and the Old Soldier curled himself up
into a little ball, awaiting the force of the steel-toed kick that he knew was
coming.

            He
heard the sound of ginger footsteps on dry pavement, and when he opened his,
eyes he laughed. Both of Earl’s feet were now on the ground, there would be no
kick. A silver spike was sticking out of Earl’s neck. It had been placed
precisely where he had told his friend to put it, in the jugular vein.
Unfortunately, he had forgotten to tell his friend to not leave the knife
sitting in Earl’s throat. The knife blocked the flow of blood, and even though
Earl was most certainly a dead man, he would still have a few minutes to alert
people to his situation if they didn’t act fast.

            He
needn’t have worried. As soon as Earl realized that he was in pain and that the
pain was coming from his neck, he reached up and pulled the knife from his
neck. A tiny squirt of blood shot out of Earl’s neck, the blood had definitely
started to flow. Earl turned around, his body still filled with enough blood to
function. He saw the man behind him. He recognized the face, but it seemed to
be on a completely different body. The face that he saw shouldn’t be attached
to the stick of a man that now stood before him. Maybe this stick man was the
twin of the other man. He definitely didn’t have enough meat for it to be the
same guy.

            As
the stick man looked at Earl, waiting for him to react, he finally realized
that he was bleeding profusely from the neck and that he had the offending
weapon in his hand. He pulled his arm back to gather strength to plunge the
knife into the stick man, but before he could do so the Old Soldier had thrown
his legs between the larger legs of Earl, twisting and bringing him to his
knees.

            Blood
still pumped from Earl’s neck, as he looked from side to side, trying to figure
out exactly what was going on. The Old Soldier stood up and shoved the kneeling
Earl onto his face. The arm that held the knife flailed out to the side, and
his friend came along and stomped on the hand. The bones crunched underneath
his foot, and even though the knife was technically still held by Earl, there
was no real control. He leaned down and took the knife and tossed it into the
alley where it could do no more damage.

            The
Old Soldier became frustrated with the nonchalance of his friend. Earl still
had more than enough strength to toss him off of his back. They needed to end
this quickly and quietly. “Drink ‘em! Hurry up and drink ‘em!”

            His
friend dropped to his knees and placed his mouth over the slowing jet of blood
that issued forth from Earl’s severed jugular. He had to chase the open wound
around with his mouth as the Old Solider began to pound Earl’s head on the dirty
pavement.

The blood
covered his throat quickly and he swallowed as fast as he could. He was right,
the flavor of Earl was far superior to anything that he had ever tasted in his
life. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and the images and scenes of
food and flavor took over, transporting him from the slimy back alley and into
the memories of Earl. He tasted things that he had never tasted before, things
that were so delicious that he almost wished he could eat normal food again. He
drank and drank and still the blood came. He could hear the dull smack off
Earl’s face on pavement from somewhere very far off. He tasted everything that
Earl had ever tasted: the breast milk fresh from the tit of Earl's mom,
birthday cakes, hot dogs, sausages, the pussies of Earl’s former lovers, and
even one mouthful of cum. It all went down his throat and into his mind.

He didn’t know
how long he drank Earl’s blood and he never discussed it with the Old Soldier,
but he definitely thought that it wasn’t long enough. He wasn’t stopped by
anyone. The Old Soldier didn’t make him stop drinking. No one walked through
the back door to see what type of beating Earl was putting on the old pervert.
His body simply couldn’t take anymore.

The tastes and
images slowed to a crawl like the spinning reels of a slot machine, and then
they stopped altogether. His stomach rebelled, and he could feel Earl’s blood
sloshing around inside. He rolled to his side, filled like a tick. He felt as
if he was going to pop and then he stood. His stomach cramped and contracted
and a red flood flew up the back of his throat and out through his mouth and
nasal passage. The blood splashed upon the slimy pavement and he fell to his
knees.

            The
pain was gone. He felt good. The old man tore a chunk of Earl’s white T-shirt
off and tossed it to him.

“Wipe your
face, boy. We got to get gone.” The Old Soldier walked to the end of the alley
and picked up the bloody knife. He wiped it on the back of Earl’s vest that was
now stained at the top with blood. Blood still dribbled from the wound in
Earl’s neck and his eyes were open. His mouth opened like he was trying to say
something. It looked as if he was having a silent conversation with the alley
pavement.

The Old
Soldier reached into his jacket and pulled out one of his beauties, not the
kind that he smoked, but the kind that you used to kill vampires. He tossed the
square-handled stake, that until recently was just a piece of two-by-four, over
to his friend who was just now getting off of his knees. He caught it in midair
and looked down at Earl. The Old Soldier flipped Earl onto his back and his
friend with the stake in his hand gave him a good kick in the ribs.

“Go on. Stab
‘em. He might be a vampire. We don’t want to come back here next week and find
him standing at the door.”

“Where’s the
heart at?”

The Old
Soldier pointed at the middle of Earl’s chest. “It’s right here.”

“In the
middle? That doesn’t seem right.”

“Well it is.”

“But when they
do the national anthem we put our hands over our heart and that’s on the left
side… or is it the right.”

“That’s all
bullshit. You put your hand over your lung when they sing the national anthem.”

“Why?”

“How the hell
should I know? Just stab the fucker already.”