MisStaked (3 page)

Taking a deep breath, he pushed in on the kitchen door. It swung in, tossing him off balance. He tumbled into an avocado-green fragment loosed from the very bowels of hell. Yellow-ochre floor tiles swam up to meet his collapsing body. His cheek skidded across the cracked tile, soon followed by the rest of his lanky form.

"Keep it down, Dipshit. Jim's trying to explain about cumulus clouds,” the old woman shouted from the living room. “Hey, check my Hamburger Helper, while you're in there. If it burns, it's your ass."

Breathred groaned. This was not going well. He rolled onto his back. A shiver of pain ran up his spine. Fate picked that exact instant to throw a shadow over him. The vampire!

He jumped to a crouch, trying to catch a glimpse of the undead specter. His head snapped to and fro. It would have swiveled, if he could have managed it. He could find no sign of his quarry. The foul spirit must be in his gaseous form. That was the only explanation he could think of that made sense.

Again, the shadow flitted across his upturned face. If the vampire assumed solid form while he was unprepared, he was as good as dead. Breathred scoured his mind for the answer to his dilemma. The handbook had mentioned something about forcing a vampire to come forward. Then, it hit him. The proper mixture of holy water and garlic extract would form a mist he could use to ensnare the most devious of vampires.

Breathred thrust his hands in the deep pockets of his duster, releasing a barrage of vials from the lint-choked depths. He almost cried as bottles flew everywhere. He hastily reached out to gather them up. His hands flew around the uneven floor, as the small bottles rolled down the sloping floor toward the back door.

With one eye watching for the vampire, he finally retrieved the last of the vials. Thankfully, he was able to accomplish this without losing any more of his precious tools. He had at least had the foresight to pad his pockets with tissue. Otherwise, they would not have survived the trip here in the first place.

He rummaged through the glass menagerie, locating the two bottles he needed. He scooped the rest up and threw them back in his pockets. He then turned to his outside pocket and pulled out a miniature Bunsen burner, which he set on the floor in front of him.

"Don't forget about my Hamburger Helper, Pretty Boy,” the old woman snarled, sending Breathred's hands to shaking.

On the third try, the burner ignited. A thin blue flame licked the underside of the brass bowl Breathred held over it. He allowed two drops of holy water to hit the sizzling brass. He quickly added three dollops of garlic extract to the mix. In no time a fine green mist rose from the brazier.

Breathred leaned back, satisfied with his handiwork. The spell had worked just like the handbook said it would. He didn't have long to dwell on his success. A prickling dappled his spine. A weighty pressure fell on the base of his neck. The prickling rapidly became a cold sweat. He was too late. His stupidity had let him become entrapped in the vampire's grip.

He tried not to move, even though the smell his own fear filled the recesses of his quivering nose hair. He forced his hand to reach for a stake, but found he was immobilized with fright. He tried not to dwell on the fact vampire hunters did not freeze up when faced with a vampire. It was just so unseemly.

The vampire nuzzled his neck. The soft hair of its mustache sent goose pimples over the soft flesh. Breathred's right eye slowly moved to his side. Hoping for a glimpse of his captor, all he could see was the monster's shadow frosting the left side of his face.

Then the beast struck. Four missiles of agony coursed through his neck. Breathred let fly an anguished squeal sounding like a cross between a game show contestant and an inebriated wildebeest. The sound seemed to weaken the vampire's hold on his brain. Breathred shot from the floor like a monkey on fire, but the vamp refused to relinquish his bite. Streaking from one end of the kitchen to the other, he tried to dislodge the bloodsucker to no avail. The vampire wouldn't let go.

Breathred would have thought his girlish whimpering would have ‘caused the monster to release him, if for no other reason than to laugh at his hapless victim, but no such luck. A mad dash into the aging stove sent the old lady's supper flying into the air. Luckily, for the floor, the majority of it landed on Breathred, scalding those areas not encased in leather and superheating those that were.

Another round of shrieks filled the air. This time they were of a higher octave, but no less annoying in timbre. Amid the howling, Breathred decided he had had enough. He was a vampire slayer, by Gumby.

He swung around, throwing his back against the wall. He smiled, when he heard a bone-curdling crunch on impact. It took him several seconds to realize the sound originated from his own fractured spine, and not from any damaged he'd managed to inflict upon the vampire, which was absolutely none. For the second time in the span of an hour, Breathred's eyes took a first hand perusal of his brain, as he slid limply to the cold floor of the kitchen.

He lay there, trying his best to ignore the pain. It seemed inconsequential to worry about mere physical pain. He had suffered the vampire's kiss. Any minute now his body would change and he would become that which he hunted. How ignominious to fail on his first mission.

Being one of the undead wouldn't be so bad. He rarely left his father's basement during the day, anyway. If he could stomach sushi, blood should be no problem. It would be like salty ketchup. Now that he thought about it, there were a number of people he wouldn't mind putting the bite on—that smelly Mr. Callabash, for one. Breathred had never forgiven him for an erroneous graded D-minus in the fifth grade. Smelly old fart always had it in for him. Yes, this could work out for the best, he thought with a devilish grin.

A weight fell on his chest, which could only be the vampire's hand. This was it, the coup de grace. Breathred squinched his eyes tight, not wanting to see his final moments at the vampire's hands, or fangs—whatever the case may be.

The undead beast's tongue flicked over the flesh of his neck. It felt like raw, wet sandpaper against his skin. Breathred felt the soft purr of its breath tickling his nose hairs. A river of sweat swam over his forehead in expectation of his immediate demise.

Breathred silently clicked off the seconds until his life ended. He was hesitant to state the obvious, his life was meaningless, but it was close to being so. He had never amounted to anything. There was so much more he could have done with the life he'd been dealt. Heck, he never even left his father's house, unless moving into the basement counted, which he was sure didn't. If this was to be his end, then he would face it like a man, or like a mewling coward who was able to at least open his eyes to witness it. It was the least he could do, considering how badly he had screwed everything else up.

On the count of three his eyes flew open. A pair of slotted eyes greeted him. They were framed by a face of gray fur. He noticed none of those details. The one thing he did take note of was the fact the vampire's long white whiskers tickled his cheek.

Realization hit him like a soon-to-be-ex-wife with a summons in one hand and a ball peen hammer in the other. The vampire was a cat. Incredulous to be sure. Vampire cats simply were unheard of. Could this be a new breed sent by the undead hierarchy to ensnare People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals for its own foul devises? It was too dastardly to consider.

To his ultimate horror the ca-mpire, as Breathred decided to call it, licked him and proceeded to situate itself on his face. Breathred was content to let his captor do as he pleased, as long as it continued his existence. It was when the ca-mpire lifted his leg and started licking regions best left unnamed when Breathred had finally had enough. He could take being transformed into one of the walking dead, but being the receptacle for said feline's nether juices was where he drew the proverbial line.

The main problem, as Breathred saw it: how did one remove a ca-mpire from one's face? He gently raised his hands until they were even with his cheek. The cat stopped its bath and glanced over incredulously. It offered Breathred a disgruntled meow as if to say, do you really think that is such a good idea? Truthfully, Breathred wasn't so sure, but the fact a pair of semi-attached hairballs now dangled precariously over his pursed lips gave him very little choice.

Throwing caution to the wind, he slapped his hands together. The cat, being slightly smarter and quicker, saw the move coming. Defying gravity as only a cat can, it leapt into the air, performed a perfect back flip and came right back down onto Breathred's shocked face seconds after the two hands had slammed together.

Breathred let out an unholy scream, which galvanized the cat into action. The cat let out its own howl before sinking all four sets of claws into the side of Breathred's head. The action sent the slayer flying to his feet. After that, instinct took over. His arms flailing Breathred soared around the kitchen. He tried every possible tactic he could think of to remove the hysterical feline. His attempts only drove its claws deeper into his thrashing head.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a spatula hanging from a rack next to the stove. Angling his body, he swung toward it. He snagged the utensil on the first try. Using one hand, he was able to pry the cat's tail up. He deftly inserted the spatula under the upturned appendage.

This only served to drive the animal mad. Its claws dragged inward, sending tendrils of pain throughout Breathred's aching cranium. Breathred fell against the kitchen door, flipping back first into the living room. His twirling flight took him directly into the path of his irate client. The sight of him and the howling cat drew her away from her show. She shot him a perturbed glare, but made no move to aid him in his plight. With no other opinions in sight he fell to the floor at her feet.

"Boy, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you on the crank? Have you been snorting jungle weed in my kitchen? My God, what'll the neighbors think?"

"Mabam, wub you tindly remube dis rrussy fub my race,” Breathred croaked from under the cat's gyrating body.

"Here now! I am not paying you to play with my Bruiser! I'm paying you to kill the vampiric beast. Get busy with your job and let me finish watching my story,” she wobbled to her feet and ripped the cat from his bleeding face. She snorted with an upturned glare. “Is that my Hamburger Helper on your clothes?"

The cat took that moment to decide it was his job to clean Breathred off and jumped from the woman's clawed hand to Breathred's heaving chest. After getting over the initial shock of the cat, Breathred allowed himself to breathe again.

He pointed at the cat. “Is this the vampire, ma'am?"

The cat took exception to this and slashed his hand with his claws. He purred and continued to eat the congealed tomato sauce and burnt hamburger off the side of Breathred's face.

"Yes, you fool. Can't you tell he has fallen under some demonic spell? Are you blind as well as stupid?” She turned to the TV suddenly and let out an aggravated howl. “Will you look at that? You made me miss the end of my show. Jim always winks at me just before he signs off.” She clasped her hands together, turning her attention back to Breathred. “Well, are you going to get rid of the vampire or are you just going to lay there, bleeding all night?"

"Madam, you have my word there is no vampire here.” He answered her. He had begun to rethink his whole ca-mpire theory. The cat backed up this notion by licking an unsavory section of his anatomy and throwing Breathred a superior-sounding snort to confirm this suspicion.

"Good job, then.” She dragged her purse from the folds of her muu-muu. He started to stop her, but she pulled out a ten and handed it to him before he could say anything. “You should know that I took out for the cost of the Hamburger Helper. After all the mess you made you should go down to the Chinese takeaway and get me some supper. My blood sugar's a bit low after all this excitement,” she sniffed.

"I will be more than happy to.” Breathred replied, silently hoping she would beg off. “Do you wish to give me the money?"

"I just gave you a ten, didn't I, Dumb-ass? You better be glad I'm letting you keep the damn change and aren't charging you for having to clean up the kitchen. Tell Wang that Polly sent you. He knows what I like.” She flopped back down in her chair and waved her hand at him, letting him know the discussion was at an end.

Breathred shrugged and headed for the door. Bruiser looked up from his continuing bath and gave a growl sounding a little too amorous for Breathred's liking. He didn't even look back as the door closed behind him. He just hoped no one from Boffrends heard about this. Somehow he doubted vampire slayers were supposed to get their heads handed to them by a cat or be stiffed by little old ladies. Then again how was he to know? This was his first night on the job, after all.

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The main thing to remember is this—no matter what you think, the undead are
not
more afraid of you than you are of them.

The place had been boarded up for some time. That suited Leopold just fine when it was theoretically going to be his house. Now that he was in residence, the matter was a totally different story. The advertisement listed the dwelling as having Old World charm. True, he had not specified exactly what he wanted when he phoned his solicitor about acquiring property in the Seattle area. Next time he would not make the same mistake. He had an image to uphold and a boarded up derelict was not the image he wanted to project. He had yet to find any Old World charm in the musty ruins—another bone of contention he felt the need to bring to the attention of his solicitor at the earliest opportunity.

Then again, he had not come to Seattle to entertain. This was business, pure and simple. Maybe when he was done with this undertaking there would be time to call in a decorator and, let's not forget, a fumigator. Leopold swore he had seen things shoved in the back of the closets to make even a vampire prince of his nature call out for his mommy in stark terror. Not that he had, but he was just saying that roaches should never be the size of Pomeranians. The place had potential, but whoever had it last had let it fall to shite. What did you expect, when one was dealing with these colonials?