Flesheaters and Bloodsuckers Anonymous: A Dark Humor (15 page)

            She lowered the
orange with a grin and bent over Harold, still safely in the realm of the dying
sunlight.  “Uh oh, better put some ointment on your burn,” she cooed. 

            “Fucking bitch,
you fucking tried to hypnotize me, fucking bitch,” Harold muttered, swallowing
his hard consonants.  The end of his nose swelled rapidly shut, muffling
Harold’s attempts at rage.  Warm liquid flowed generously from his nostrils. 
He didn’t need to lick his lips to know it was blood, but he did anyway.

            “I did hypnotize
you Harold,” She smiled into the sentence, then stood straight and began
dissecting the orange with bony, conic fingers.  “Really Harold, you should be
able to resist such a simple ploy.” 

            Peeling the
orange with surprising speed and dexterity, Orlen popped a segment into her
mouth. 

            “Didn’t fucking
work.”

            Orlen swallowed. 
“You were on the verge of answering me when you had your oopsie.”  She popped a
few more orange segments into her mouth, squishing them enthusiastically.  “You
aren’t the smartest bloodsucker are you?”  Orlen asked around a mouthful of
orange.  “Besides, I got the answer I needed anyway.  You’ll be hearing from
us, Mr. Blank.”

            Orlen set the
uneaten orange on the counter next to the little pile of orange peels she’d
made.  She pivoted on a heel and walked out of the kitchen.  Her footsteps
echoed through the apartment, the front door opened and closed and she was
gone.

            Harold spent
another 15 minutes cowered in the corner of the kitchen until the sun was
sufficiently down enough for him to crawl along the floor, past the open window
and into the rest of the blessedly darkened apartment. 

            He went to check
himself in the bathroom.  The end of his nose had blackened and cracked open
like a roasted red pepper.  Little congealed blood trails ran down the sides of
his nostrils and onto his lips.  Harold tenderly probed his swollen proboscis,
whimpering in pain when he barely skimmed the tip.  He was alone and would damn
well whimper when he wanted too.  Heck, his eyes might even cry too.

            Harold pulled
some toilet paper off the roll and wet it, wiping away the worst of the blood
from around his nose, mouth and the rest of his face.  He tossed it in the
toilet and pulled out the Q-tips and Aloe Vera Gel.  He was seriously
considering the purchase of a large gallon jug of the stuff.

            Whetting the ends
of the Q-tips helped him carefully daub the excess blood from his blackened nose. 
Harold squirted a large amount of aloe gel into his palm and smoothed it over
his skin, leaving it thoroughly coated and glistening with the cooling
ointment.  His nose felt much better. 

            After cleaning up
in the bathroom, Harold walked into the bedroom and considered going back to
sleep, but it wouldn’t help.  He was very much awake now and any snatches of
sleep wouldn’t be the deep restorative kind he needed to heal.  Better to go
out, keep himself busy through the night and get a real rest in the morning. 
Harold didn’t work tonight so at least he wouldn’t have to explain the burn to
David.  Or have to deal with Orlen dropping by for a visit.  Harold swore, the
next time he saw her.  Crunch.  She’d know what it meant to mess with a vamp.

            Harold groaned. 
There is a group meeting tonight.  He pressed his forehead against the mirror
and exhaled, sending two lines of fog around his swollen nose and up towards
his eyes.  Well, screw it, no way was he dealing with Donald’s crazy talk
today.  He’d skip and go find some lunch fill up on.  Maybe get himself an
after dinner snack while at it too. 

            Harold pushed
from the mirror and looked out of the bathroom at the alarm on his bedside
table, which in reality was a couple of milk crates with several layers of
heavy cardboard spread across it.  Maria would be getting off work soon. 
Better to leave before she got back and asked questions.

            It didn’t take
long to bound down the stairs and out the door.  He did glance around briefly
just outside the apartment.  To his right, the neighbor’s open window curtains
revealed the couple having a vigorous fight.  They fought a lot and always,
always had the living room curtain pulled open wide, day or night.  Harold
couldn’t decide if they were exhibitionists or just didn’t think anyone could
see inside.  The rest apartment complex lay ensconced in darkness, no outside
lights, one of the great perks of living in a crappy apartment.  There were
lampposts, of course, but they all burned out long before he moved in and management
hadn’t bothered to replace them.  He doubted they ever would.  Harold didn’t
see a lot of maintenance going on around the place.  The next major rehabbing
this complex saw would likely involve a wrecking ball.

            Harold squealed
out of the parking lot in his Phantom.  Most of his extra cash went into
keeping up and maintaining the vehicle he’d had since it was brand new in
1965.  If Harold bragged on
that
part to anyone he might as well be
signing his own death sentence.  Harold wondered how Zork was doing.  He hadn’t
seen him since the diner and getting a glimpse of the treatment he received at
the hands of Bergstrom and Potts left Harold chilled.

            The G-men enjoyed
hurting Zork.  It was part of their job, another duty in their line of work,
but fuck if he thought they should enjoy the process.  Harold didn’t enjoy
killing.  It was part of his life.  The hunt was another aspect of living for
him and it was difficult to do the first few years.  It still bothered him. 
Was it really possible to stop?  He’d never tried.  The hunger pains always
left him with dangerous needs.  The need to eat anyone, rather than having the
peace of mind that came with making his own choices.  The ability to pick
someone he felt deserved being a meal rather than going nuts and grabbing the
nearest person, a guy on his way to work, a woman with her shopping or worse,
the kid walking home from a friend’s house. 

            It’s what kept
him sane. 

            Working at the
hospital, he’d mostly came to rely on donated blood.  It was just so damned
hard to get though and so much better warm.  Blood tended to congeal as soon as
it hit the air.  He’d learned that hard way early on in his life as a vampire
when he used to store blood in large pitchers.  He gave up the practice after
choking to death on a fist-sized blood clot.  It was a really disgusting way to
die and, well, come back again. 

            Harold didn’t
have to drive very far to reach the seedier side of town and his most recent
hunting place.  Already its denizens were lurking less outside and more inside
the buildings to avoid the same unlucky fates their compatriots enjoyed.  He’d
heard the news reports warning people to stay indoors at night on this side of
town, hinting at a possible vampire on the rampage.

            It didn’t take
long before word of unusual and violent attacks filtered through a neighborhood
and meals grew harder to find.  So, Harold staked out his own little piece of
territory.  He developed a system, ironically inspired by crop rotation.  He
simply hunted quadrants of the city and the surrounding suburbs in sections,
staying in one neighborhood a few years before the sudden rise in crime rates
caused the blood supply to dry up.  He never took the same order in his crop
rotation either, it was always different, always random, so no one would be
able to plan ahead and increase patrols in the area.  Police patrols equaled
toasted vamp.

            Harold parked
along one of the slightly busier streets of the town’s very own little red
light district.  He eased the seat back and started people watching.  Things
were just picking up, prime time for the those working the streets.  Harold
enjoyed a few glimpses of butt cheeks, cleavage and midriff as they wandered by
in various costumes, the uniform.  He wasn’t after them tonight.  He felt more
inclined towards snatching up one of their clients or maybe even scoring a pimp
for dinner.  The dirtier, nastier, the better.

            Slim pickings
though, nothing but Type-As wandering around looking nervous.  A couple of
balding pates in white polo tee shirts identified a family man or two looking
for his next mid-life crisis.  Nothing horrible enough to warrant eating,
really.  As he watched, Harold’s nose developed a throbbing pulse.  Blub, blub,
blub, right under the burnt skin.  He looked at it in the rearview.  Yup, still
a blackened pepper. 

            He prodded it,
poked it, picked ever so gently to avoid the scream of pain his flesh would
inevitably give off from the molesting by his curious finger in its current
cooked state. 

            One prod to many,
Harold yelped, and the skin cracked diagonally across the bridge causing a
quick of spurt of blood to hit the rearview mirror, leaving Pollock’s like
splatters on the glass.  Now his nose was screaming, sending minute shocks of
pain deep enough into his face that Harold could feel it in his soft palette. 
He hissed against the pain, wiping the blood quickly from the mirror with his
jacket cuff and lay his head onto the head rest to wait for it to subside.  He
focused on breathing through his mouth, bringing cool air in and out.

            Thank god, the
pain did go away and his nose settled back into the bliss that was the gentle
blub, blub, blub of his blood pulsing through swollen flesh.  The throbbing
wasn’t too bad. In a way it was almost soothing. 

            Harold drifted
off into a semi-doze, carried on a red sea, a warm metallic breeze blowing in
his hair and a beautiful woman beside him.  He couldn’t see her clearly, but it
could have been Maria.  Her hands touched his face, traced his jaw and spread
across his shoulders.  They kissed and her hands slid down his chest, feeling
him up all over his sides and back to his shoulders which she shook gently.  He
kept kissing her soft, full lips and reached to stop her hands where they still
shook his shoulders.  He pulled away to tell her to stop shaking him and
finally saw her face.  It was Potts. 

            Harold screamed,
woke up in his car and barely stopped himself from rubbing his face with his
hands before he hurt himself.  He screamed again when he realized there was
actually a hand on his shoulder.

            “This one’s a
real skittish putz, Joe,” Potts said, bringing Harold’s nightmare to life in a
garish twist.  The squat man’s jowls reflected glints of light from the
streetlamp as he spoke, then jiggled madly has he laughed at his own words. 
Harold truly despised the man in that moment, enough to kill him… Not with his
teeth.  Harold wouldn’t get close enough to bite the bastard, not if his life
depended on it.  Not even then.  Maybe he could do it with his bare hands. 

            “What the hell,”
Harold pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighed.  Another
craptacular evening this was turning out to be.  Feeling distinctly trapped in
the car, Harold pulled the door handle and opened it into the Gee man’s
paunch.  His woof of surprise was satisfying.  Harold leaned into the door,
forcing the fat man to back up so he could get out of the vehicle.   

            Harold closed the
door and leaned casually against it.  “Is it me or did I miss the memo about
pissing off vampires tonight?”  He muttered to Bergstrom, choosing to ignore
Potts while he rubbed his great gut and looked daggers at Harold.

            Bergstrom smiled
his perfect pearly whites, even in the darkness they shone bright and
iridescent.  It made him feel a little self-conscious about his own fangs,
which were frankly stained with what else, blood, and in need of a whitening.

            “Another nasty
looking burn Mr. Blank,” he responded, “You do know the sun is bad for you?  Or
have you just been feeling a little suicidal?”

            Ah crap fuck,
he’d forgotten about his nose.  Harold fought the urge to duck his head and
returned the man’s stare.  The fed skillfully diffused the tension by pulling
out a pack of cigarettes and patting the bottom a couple times until one
reluctantly slid out.  Bergstrom plucked it between two thin fingers and
wrapped his thin lips around the filter.  He held out the pack to Harold in
question, but Harold shook his head.  It wasn’t the cigarette, but the man
offering them. 

            “I know, these
things will kill me right?”  Bergstrom laughed, grinning those pearly white
teeth.  “But, considering my job, who wouldn’t succeed first?” 

            Harold didn’t
know what to make of that.  He still had no idea what condition the man had. 
Although, he wasn’t exactly racking his brains to solve the mystery. 

            Potts recovered
enough to lean his side against the car and get too close to Harold for
comfort.  What a way to end the night, crammed between number one and number
two.

            Harold’s car
protested under the second man’s weight.  The metal groaned, dented inwards and
the door frame clicked loudly and shifted behind Harold.  He didn’t want to
pick a fight with this one, but Potts was rapidly making it hard for Harold to
ignore the transgressions against himself and his beloved phantom.

            “What are you to
doing here anyway?”  He glared at the fat man.  He just smiled back, pleased
with himself and his place in the world.  Agent Bergstrom exhaled from a longer
drag on his cigarette.  He took another, glanced both ways up and down the
street.