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My first contribution to the project. It will be interesting to see how the different writing styles mesh together, if they do at all. I think I can see the plot developing, or at least there are some elements available for plot development now. Or something like that...regardless, I'm eagerly awaiting Chris D.'s chapter.
II
Moments earlier, on the other side of town, in a similar diner (it does, in fact, belong to the same chain of diners as the one in which Derek’s bloody fork will be thrown shortly) similarly occupied, Henry Herman was sitting on a toilet. Specifically, he was sitting on the toilet in the women’s restroom. Henry always used the women’s restroom at this particular diner, not out of some strange fetished programming, but rather because he felt it was cleaner than the masculine equivalent.
So Henry sat, on the toilet, avoiding the return to his booth as best he could. He figured he had about three and a half minutes more before his booth-mates grew too suspicious of his absence. At his booth: Holly (sister), Roland (her husband), and Peter (relationship unknown). Henry despised Roland, largely due to his being in Henry’s class every year of elementary school. Also due to the time in sixth grade when Roland knocked Henry’s fresh-off-the-grill hamburger out if his hand and onto the dirt at Henry’s Backyard Birthday Bash. Mostly due to that time in sixth grade.
When the fork hits Lenny’s chest at the other diner, Henry emerges from the restroom. He walks to his booth, his mind made up: he was leaving.
Hey guys, I’m sorry but I gotta go. Work called. They need me downtown.
You took a phone call while on the shitter? Roland asks.
I never said I had to shit.
Well, you were in there so long. I just assumed.
Thanks, Roland.
You still answered your phone in the bathroom. That’s so gross. Holly frowns, disapprovingly.
Thanks, Holly. Look, I’ve got to go. He tosses a crumpled up ten dollar bill onto the table and walks towards the door.
Don’t forget your sidewalk chalk, Picasso! Roland shouts after him. Henry pretends not to hear and exits the diner. He flips the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and steps out into the rain. A few steps later and he’s fumbling for the keys to his ’96 Honda Civic. A few more steps and he’s at the driver’s side door. He slides the key into the lock and with his knee presses on the door while turning the key and engaging the handle, a ritual necessary to open the antiquated door.
On his way home Henry gets a non-fake business call.
Henry. We need you. 14th and Exeter. Double homicide. Pretty messy.
I’ll be there in five. Henry flips closed his phone, turns the red Civic around and points at the desired intersection.
Four and a half minutes later Henry arrives on the scene. He parks a block away, grabs his pack out of the trunk and heads toward the mass of police officers and medical personnel gathered in the street. His arrival is unnoticed.
Sir. Excuse me, sir. Is detective Lantz here? Henry pulls at the shoulder of a uniformed officer.
Huh? Oh, it’s you. Hey, Lantz, you’re boy’s here. The officer motions at a small group of policemen. Detective Lantz looks back at them.
Hey, Henry, over here.
Henry walks over to the curb where the officers are standing and sets his pack down. The policemen return to their duties, oblivious to Henry’s presence. He opens his pack and extracts the necessary equipment for the task at hand.
What do you think, cyan or cerulean for the pants? he says out loud to no one. He decides to go with the cyan and takes the corresponding stick of chalk out of the large box of multi-colored chalks.
Yes, cyan was the right choice, he says when he finishes tracing around the victim’s tee shirt. Now, is this blood maroon or wine? Or perhaps a combination? When he’s done, Detective Lantz ambles over to check his work.
Christ, Henry, we just need an outline, not a fucking mural.
Yes, sir, but I thought mustard was a good match for victim number two’s shirt.
Keep that shit in art school, son.
Yes, sir.
Alright, then. Thanks for coming out.
Henry replaces his things in his pack and walks back to the Civic.
After much talk between myself and two fellow fictors, a multi-author novel project is now underway. Tentatively titled Check, Please, we're alternating chapters and smashing them together, hopefully with stupendous results. Eric W. stepped up to the plate in the leadoff position, and his contribution, the first chapter, is included below. We'll see how this works out...
I
You heard the man, give him your wallet.
That's not what he said at all.
Two grimaces. The man's skin is pinched at the neck and jawline.
Of course it is, you nit, now give him your wallet.
That's not what I heard you say, is that what you said?
No. I said wallet. Just wallet. A short man, galoshes. An umbrella. The rain, always the rain.
I can't believe this shit. Indignation is hard on most faces, no exception here.
The first man is Derek Unger. He was born in a hospital in Brussels, but only because his father was stationed there in the war. He's bored and his face is pockmarked. He spent years in front of the mirror perfecting a smile that has worked its way into any number of women's pants.
The second is Lush. That's what he tells people when he meets them. He has a pipe that his grandfather gave him from after the same war that Derek's father fought in. The two men have no idea they have this connection. Right now, their concern is with Derek's wallet.
Wallet. The short man repeats himself. His hand is like a badgers paw, maybe a raccoon. Perhaps a badger when it's dry. A raccoon's timidity, in this downpour, it's understandable.
Why would I give you my wallet, will you answer that? Lush's lips smack as he says this. His breath is hot, and there's a hint of chili that makes him feel like the bile is rising in the back of his throat. This doesn't really happen until there's a gun in his mouth. Later.
He doesn't need to explain anything to you, man. Give him your wallet.
Just shut the fuck up, man! I'm asking this guy questions and you keep answering. What do you have to do with this anyway?
Wallet, Derek.
Derek had no idea the short man knew his name. He's visibly surprised. Shaken more than he would have been if the man hadn't know. That's obvious, perhaps, but it works. He hands over his wallet. The shorter man keeps his hands under the protective circle of his umbrella's shade.
Lush has a piece of pipe, of the metal variety, tucked in his jacket, which he brings to bear against Derek’s skull at the completion of the request.
Yeah?
Yeah it's here. The shorter man re-folds a piece of paper he's just finished examining from Derek’s wallet. He drops it into the pocket of his rain jacket.
---
What'll it be gentlemen?
Two eggs, over easy. Grits, hold the hash browns.
How do you want your toast?
Held as well.
No toast?
No toast. Thank you.
And you?
Lush sets his menu back between the ketchup and the mustard. The shorter man orders a coffee and a side of cottage cheese. Lush hates cottage cheese, shakes his head.
And your friend? He doesn't look too hungry. Aspirin?
Yeah, four aspirin. A second glass of water would be nice too. Oh, actually, cranberry juice. Lush loves cranberry juice.
Alright, back in a moment, gentlemen.
Derek’s head droops. He's got a spot of drool at the corner of his mouth. His hood has been forcefully held up to cover the purplish egg rising on his shaved head.
So. Lenny.
The short man is Lenny. Shit-Eating Grin Lenny is what his cousin's called him when they used to play rough at the farm his grandparents owned.
So. Lenny.
Lenny is clearly not paying attention to Derek. He's staring at the spot of drool on Derek’s face.
Clean that off, Lush.
What?
Clean that off. That spot of drool.
Lush checks his lips. Lenny isn't pointed at Derek, and Lush is self-conscious. This is fairly typical. Lenny points at Derek, who's mouth is starting to gape open a bit.
What? Oh. No thanks, man.
Do it.
Fuck you.
Lenny slams his fork into Lush’s hand. Lush yells.
This is a good opportunity to take a gander at the rest of the diner. There are four other patrons, none at the same table. The waitress, Miranda, has her hair in a bun. She loves eating the frosting off of cinnamon rolls and her husband of three years left her for a job in another state. Chasing the dream is how he referenced it when he left her. She's staring at the men’s ticket. Hard.
The three men are now all wide awake (though Lenny remains stone-faced). Derek rips the fork out of his hand and throws it, in a slightly offhand manner, at Lenny who dodges it. Hard to do in a small space. The fork thuds into his chest, and then falls softly onto the padding of Lenny's side of the booth.
It has blood on tips of the prongs.
And I kind of hate her now, probably due to the innumerable cold shoulders thrust into my advances, but then she stifles a quiet laugh and instantly I’ve forgotten and forgiven any trespasses and when she bites her lower lip and scrunches her nose I melt a little, content with the scene I’m seeing in my head of the two of us hand in hand exploring a long, bright grocery aisle, a small black basket in my free hand and an avocado in hers as she meticulous inspects the green orb, but by the time she’s done the real her, the one I hated moments ago, is already out the door, down the hallway and off into a world unknown and untouched by even my imagination, and I guess that's fine, for I am much more enamored by the infinite possibilities of the her that is still holding a ripe avocado than the her that just left.
According to a professor of mine, the three main goals of a 'gangsta' (hearing a white college professor in his fifties use the term 'gangsta' is always amusing) in the late 80's were:
1) get a girl pregnant
2) take a life
3) survive in prison
So far I'm 0/3, which probably isn't a bad thing.
Yes, this is the worst haircut I have ever received. Yes, I paid for it, too. $16.97. Three of those dollars were a tip, which I normally wouldn’t have given, out of principle, but my girlfriend has made such a big deal about tipping in the past that it’s almost become habit. And it’s not just that the haircut sucks; the whole experience was a total disaster. The woman with the scissors (not a barber, that’s for sure) talked. A lot. About things that I could not have cared less about. No, I don’t care about your teenage sun. No, I’m not interested in your uncle the famous historical writer (it helps if you remember his name, too). No, I really don’t want to hear about the lineage of your family or all the terrible stories your grandfather told about the war. And if you say pitcher instead of picture one more time, I might take this ridiculous smock off and use it to hang you. That might have been a bit harsh, but this haircut is terrible. You should see it. And, just like at the dentist’s, I don’t want you bombarding me with questions about my degree and my career plans and my social life while you are wielding sharp instruments around my face. Please focus on the task at hand and cut my goddamn hair straight. Seriously, what kind of question is what do you want to do with your life? I want to work some shit job every Monday through Friday until I’m too old to do anything fun and watch my relationships with close friends disintegrate as we all grow older and closer to death. Or maybe I just want to have my hair cut decently and in peace.
The reaction to the cut isn’t good:
You look like either a pedophile or a victim of a pedophile.
Oh, great. I’m shaving it immediately.
No, keep it. You look like a little funky monkey, it’s cute.
What? A funky monkey pedophile. That’s just what I had in mind. In fact, the next time I go in to get my hair cut I will tell them. I’d like to look like a pedophiliac monkey, please. Oh, and could you add a little funk too?
True story, unfortunately.
On the back of my spacewhale I feel a slight tinge of panic as the inerstellar cetacean takes flight and slips through massive clouds of gas and dust particles and cosmic debris. The panic subsides and I remember the pleasure of space flight.
There are other people on the back of my spacewhale. They aren’t much fun. In fact, the two girls sitting directly behind me are candidates for the most-annoying-sub-twenty-one-year-old-duo award. Probably will win. They talk constantly during preflight preparation, about the most mundane bullshit: boys (not men), television programs, sex with boys (and definitely not men), and clothing. Their voices are like serpentine razor wires, slinking and wrapping around my head, piercing my ears. Midway through the flight their batteries are depleted and they fall into restless sleep, shifting in their makeshift beds and kicking the back of my seat.
The girl across the aisle, funny story about her. Right after the stewardess goes over the safety features of the spacewhale and just before it takes off, the pilot comes on the intercom and asks for someone named Kayla Keyes.
Kayla Keyes, will you please ring your call button? Kayla Keyes.
No call buttons are depressed, and soon the captain is back on the intercom.
One more time. Kayla Keyes. Please ring your call button.
Still no call buttons are depressed and the captain comes on again, frustrated.
Kayla Keyes. Ring your call button now. Kayla. Kayla Keyes.
One more time: Kayla. Kaaaaaaaayla. Ring your call button.
I happen to glance off across the aisle and catch this girl sitting in the aisle seat raise her arm and press the call button overhead. A small light comes on and dings and soon the stewardess is coming down the aisle.
Kayla? she asks.
The girl just looks up and shrugs her shoulders
We called you four times? Why didn’t you answer?
The girl shrugs again.
Well, you could have saved us a lot of time here. Anyway, we have an important message from your dad. He says to text him as soon as you land.
The girl shrugs once more and the stewardess leaves.
I watch the girl stare down her phone, hovering over her lap, protected by furious thumbs. Texting a storm. All this well after the pilot commanded all passengers to power down all transmitting cellular devices.
Some time later the spacewhale touches down at Sky Harbor Intergalactic Spaceport in Phoenix. Not long after I’m standing at the passenger pickup bay, waiting to be picked up by unknown family members. I say unknown because I don’t know which members of my family will be picking me up, and some of those members I haven’t seen in six years or haven’t even met yet. That would be my step-cousin, the one that, though she’s been my step-cousin for ten years now, I haven’t met. Her name is Jesse, I think. The others, the ones that I haven’t seen in six years, include my aunt Melissa (we call her Missy) and cousins Lindsay and Dan, my step-uncle Dennis and his daughters (my step-cousins) Jesse and Megan. That’s Jesse I haven’t met. Megan I never will meet, because four months before I got on my spacewhale and travelled to Phoenix she packed a bag and ran away. Also there: my mom and dad and grandma.
The longer I’m waiting in the pickup bay the more nervous I get. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize Missy (more concerned that she wouldn’t recognize me) and dreaded an awkward ride home with Dennis. After half an hour I give up all hope of having a decent trip. Then, out of the darkness at the far end of the pickup bay, a sleek silver craft roars towards me. Music blaring out the open windows (“Ocean Man” by Ween) and I see my cousin Dan behind the control panel, eyes hidden by silver aviators and head obscured by a very old locomotive conductor’s cap. His fiance, Janice (I left her out of the list of family members because I’m not sure what to call a future cousin-in-law), sitting next to him. Dan notices me, violently jerks the silver craft at me and guns the sub-lightspeed thrusters. At the last possible instant he hits the brakes and slides the craft right up next to me.
Well, get in, he shouts over the music.
I open the rear hatch and toss my bag in before crawling into the tiny passenger compartment.
Hours later I’m poolside, staring off into the Phoenix sun while my dad throws coins into the water. For Jesse. She recently turned sixteen and, not having a job or allowance, will do nearly anything for money. So my dad throws coins in the pool, and when she gets home from school she puts her backpack down and jumps in after them. Four dollars and seventy-three cents, enough for lunch at McDonald’s, she says.
The next day Dan and Jan take me with them to the airport to pick up Lindsay. We leave early and stop in the desert. It’s hot and barren and full of bizarre vegetation and everything I expected the desert to be. We walk along a trail, mostly in silence, watching the dry air move through the spines of cactus. The colors here are soft, muted. Nothing is vibrant.
Lindsay is standing nearly in the same spot I was twenty-nine hours ago.
The ride back is quiet. Dan and Lindsay talk, but only to each other and only in their secret sibling language. We see a homeless man on the side of the highway with a sign. It says anything helps. I say sorry, we thew all of our change in the pool. They laugh. Dan tells me he once tried to send me a telepathogram, but couldn’t remember my area code so he tried a random combination of digits he thought might be right and sent it to someone he’d later discover to be a fourteen-year-old girl (the telepathogram: did you know more than half Earth’s population lives in yurts?). I laugh.
That night Dan and I stay up late by the pool. He sips from a glass of Wild Turkey and smokes. I just sit and don’t smoke. We talk for hours about music and passion and art and integrity, but we just say the same things we sad the last time we stayed up late and talked. The same recycled conversation. Still, it’s a connection, which is more than I can say for my time with Lindsay.
No one wakes me up in the morning and I sleep through breakfast. I stumble through the kitchen and out onto the back porch where breakfast debris litters mostly empty plates and the whole family is sitting around a table. I sit and drink coffee and listen to Grandma talk about Grandpa. He died six years ago--his funeral was the last time I saw Missy or Lindsay or Dennis. She talks about Poppy (how it came to be that we all call him Poppy, I’ll never know), and how empty the house is without him. I can see the hurt in her voice hang in the air like cold ocean fog.
The day goes by quickly: hot, dry, still. We go off into the desert again, Dan, Jan, Lindsay and myself. We walk a long dirt trail, winding around mesquite and under the upreached arms of ancient saguaros. I hang back and talk to Lindsay. Or try to talk to Lindsay. I ask her about bands and movies but she;s less than enthusiastic in her replies. Finally I get her to talk about the family.
It’s weird how we’re supposed to be related but we have nothing to relate to. We might as well be strangers.
Yeah.
I mean, I don’t know anything about you. What have you been up to all these years.
Not much.
Oh come on, you gotta give me more than that.
Why?
Because we’re cousins. Family. We should know each other.
Why? We see each other once a decade. You don’t have to be friends with everyone, you know. She walks away, catches up with Dan and Jan. I stop and pick a spine off a young saguaro and roll the slender dagger between my fingertips.
Dennis transports me to the spaceport. Dan, Lindsay and my dad are off searching for used record stores and old book shops. Jan, my mom and Missy are taking Grandma shoe shopping. So I’m sitting next to Dennis (who looks like some strange breed of Jay Leno and Wayne Knight’s character in Jurassic Park), in his cream colored luxury cruiser, doing my best to sound interested in his awkward computer babble. He stops and buys us ice cream, and for a minute we sit, not talking , just eating ice cream. Dennis finishes his ice cream first.
This is some family we’ve got.
Tell me about it, I say, my throat thick with the frozen treat.
He starts his cruiser and sets off for the spaceport.
I hope you’ll come back soon, he says when we arrive at the departure gate.
Yeah. I close the passenger hatch and enter the spaceport. I think about what Lindsay told me yesterday in the desert and board the spacewhale, leaving my family in the dusty sun as the great creature swims off into the upper atmosphere.
Probably I’m too contented to be a good writer. So I tried to be an alcoholic, like Kerouac or Bukowski or Hemmingway. Didn’t work. I never liked the taste of alcohol and mixed drinks just made me sick. So I tried my hand at drug addiction, like Burroughs or Dick or Hunter Thompson. Also didn’t work. Turns out it’s supremely difficult to score hard drugs in Crawford, Nebraska (population: 1,107). Really, this town is Mayberry. No rough side of the tracks, no ghetto, no dark underbelly. And besides addiction is a skill I do not possess.
But back to the contented writer thing. After failing to get on the addiction wagon I turned my attention towards sabotaging my close relationships, like Kerouac or Bukowski or Hemmingway or Burroughs or Dick or Thompson. My family is scattered around the midwest and I don’t really talk to them much anyway, which ruled them out. So I turned my attention to my girlfriend. If I could just get her to throw a lamp at me or smash some dishes maybe it would be the spark necessary to write the next Great American Novel.
I’d come home late and not tell her where I was. She didn’t care. Said I needed my space and that’s okay with her. I’d be emotionally distant as I knew how. She said it’s just a phase and I’d get over it. I even tried leaving fake love notes to non-existent lovers on my desk. She never read them--she’s not the snooping type, I guess. So I told her I was having an affair. She laughed, asked me with who and said there are only seven girls in town within ten years of my age and if I was sleeping with anyone older or younger I had more problems than infidelity. I accused her of having an affair. She laughed.
Goddammit, I’m serious, I said.
Okay, honey.
Nothing but smiles, so I went into the kitchen and took a coffee mug out of the cupboard and hurled it into the wall. Being one of those plastic, refillable jobs it just bounced helplessly off the wall. Laughs.
What’s his name!
A new cup projected into the wall with a successful explosion of glass.
Honey, wasn’t that the cup you made for your mom in the fourth grade?
I slinked over to the debris, knelt down, tears welled up in the corners of m eyes.
Look what you made me do! I was sobbing now, streams of tears and snot sliding down my face.
It’s okay, honey. It’s not broken too bad. Let’s try to glue it back together.
Okay.
* * *
So now I’m on our front porch, lemonade in my hand. The late summer sun is broadcasting its final warm rays of the evening and the sound of cicadas pulses rhythmically through the cottonwoods and a slight breeze trickles through my hair and across my face.
To hell with Hemmingway. All he did was undo everything Faulkner established. Kerouac and Bukowski, too. Just shiftless drunks who embellished their mundane lives. Burroughs and Thompson were too twisted to keep their shit together and managed to coast downhill into greatness on a single piece of work each. And Phillip Dick, he was just a paranoid amphetamine fiend, so caught up in his own delusions to make anything of his life.
She appears through the screen door and refills my lemonade, the engagement ring on her left hand clicking against the cool glass pitcher. They can have their names emblazoned on the pantheon of great literature. I’ll take my porch.
Is part of the business. I don't know exactly what I mean when I say business, but that seemed like the right word. Anyway, got two new rejection letters today. Form letters too, not even personalized:
Thank you for taking the time to send this submission. Unfortunately on this occasion we are going to pass.
and
Thank you for sending us your work. We're sorry to say that it does not suit our current editorial needs, but we wish you luck with it elsewhere.
Not bothered by these ones, as all I submitted was a poem (Hungry), and only because I was in Arizona and very bored. It's the ones that you've worked hard on that hurt. Or the ones that are close to you. Probably that's the worst.
Wet earth beneath his feet. Soft impacts of snowflakes tapping on the shoulders of his jacket. Hands in pockets, head down. The wind sifting through unseen branches. No voices, no signs of existence outside the dull sphere of firelight. The wind quickens, pushes orange embers away from the fire and into the night. He tucks his face into the collar of his jacket, looks at the fire. He looks deep into the bed of coals, little pockets of flame licking up at the falling snow. He stands and lets the fire die, its light lost and heat radiated away until it is just him and the wind and the tapping snowflakes and the sound of his breath in the night.
Definitely feels like a good end to something. What it is an end to? I have no idea. Haven't been able to get back in that frame of mind. Probably a bit too Cormac McCarthy, but I liked it. More to come.
I've started a new blog. A blog about food. To keep this one free from culinary clutter. It's called Mental Mastications. Check it out.
...is a ridiculous phrase. Meteors don't rise! They are rocks (essentially) captured by Earth's gravitational field and pulled towards it's surface at extreme rates of speed. THEY ARE FALLING! No one would say sky-diverific rise, would they? No, because skydivers, like meteors, aren't rising. Falling. Always falling. Rant brought to you by Wikipedia's article on Sara WIllis' novel Ruth Hall.
Is the entity looming over my desk. He has not communicated with me, yet, except to inform me of his presence. Above are two visual interpretations. The drawing is very cartoonish; he's much more sinister in person. I know he's there, but when will he speak to me? Soon, I hope.
The girl at the register is cute. I pretend to casually glance her way, until I make out the name on her nametag. Laura. She has long dark hair, a fair complexion, and is thin. Very thin. I could probably break any of her bones, easily. I want to take her home and make her sandwiches until she reaches more human proportions. She is polite but not nosy, as any good cashier should be. She asks me how my day is. Fine, I say, how is yours? She shrugs I’ve had better. She rings up my items and asks if I want them in a bag. All I purchased was a small box of nails and a small box of ceiling hangers. And a jar of real peanut butter. The good stuff. I think I can handle it, I say with a grin. Are you sure, she asks, these are pretty dangerous. No, I’ve been lifting lots of weight lately, for this exact purpose. All right, she says, have a nice night. You to I say, headed for the door. What an idiot, I think to myself. That’s all you could manage to say? I’ve been lifting weights? Nice one, meathead. By the time my first foot falls outside the door, I’ve thought of at least a thousand better things I could have said. I live for danger. I’ve received all the proper training for these situations. It’s okay, I’m impervious to puncture wounds. The list goes on. By the time I put my key in the car door, I’m half-convinced I should turn around, walk back in there and holler don’t worry about me, I thrive under hazardous conditions. But I don’t. I drive home and pretend like I said something funnier, wittier. I pretend that after I impressed her with a clever remark, she asks for my signature on the receipt, and just before I can finish writing my last name she also asks for my phone number. That shit only happens in movies, I guess. And maybe Nicholas Sparks novels. My life is not a Nicholas Sparks novel, which is sort of a blessing and a curse. Blessing: I never gag on sentimentality in my day-to-day life. Curse: I never fall madly in love with the awkwardly beautiful soulmate. A semi-true tale, and a product of the same day that saw Killing Jerry Seinfeld's genesis. I usually operate like that: weeks and weeks of sloth and disinterest followed by a day or two of frenzied productivity, then more sloth. Not too sure this piece has a future, though. At least not on its own. Perhaps it will see life as part of something else. Perhaps it will be left here, on this digital page, to die and rot into obscurity.
The vampires outside the window were very bothersome. All red eyes glowing and peering through the window. I wanted to close the shade, but was too scared to go near the window. Which is ridiculous, as the glass is both thick and vampire-resistant. It’s not coated in garlic or anything, but there is a manufacturer’s guarantee sticker in the lower left corner. So, really, my fear was completely irrational. Though, when dealing with vampires near one’s dwelling, it can be beneficial to handle the situation with caution, regardless of any anti-vampire systems that may be deployed. This is all my fault I suppose, the vampires. I spent too much time in graveyards over the years to expect that I wouldn’t have some sort of run-in with them. But now there were twenty of the fuckers outside on my front lawn, and I was fresh out of crucifixes. Wooden stakes though, yeah, I had those. I had plenty of those.
I spend time in graveyards digging up recently deceased bodies. For, research purposes. And by research I mean experiments. Necromancy. I’ve been experimenting with necromancy, which is the practice of bringing the dead to life. Like some sort of zombie conjurer. Anyway, so I used to rent backhoes and dig up coffins and take them home. I’d take the bodies to my garage and try to bring them back to life, but the coffins, those I chopped into various sizes for firewood. Yes, I have a fireplace, and I use it often. Also, burning is a good way of removing evidence, and coffins. Turns out a lot of times firewood and anti-vampire stakes are the same thing, which, though I didn’t know at the time, would become immensely helpful in the future.
Go to my room and bring me my scarf, I told my girlfriend. She’s great, but she won’t be any help tonight. She doesn’t have the stomach for this kind of work. When she returned, I wrapped the scarf around my neck, pulled on my coat and picked up the sharpest of the firewood. I kissed her quick and headed out into my very vampire-dense front lawn. The battle was anticlimactic. Really, twenty blind vampires aren’t that hard to defeat. Turns out they don’t even possess bat’s echo-locative abilities. The worst that happened was one of them got his pale hand wrapped in my scarf and I had to slither out of it, to avoid tearing it. Other than that, though, piece of cake. The bodies I dragged to the back yard, piled them up next to the garage, being especially careful no to disturb the carefully placed stakes. Come sun-up I’ll have a nice pile of ash behind the garage.
It’s amazing, the ramifications of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This morning, for instance: everything was set for me to leave the house at the appropriate time, to catch the appropriate bus, until I tried to make my lunch. I got two pieces of fifteen-grain bread out of the bag in the cupboard, as usual. I got a knife out of the silverware drawer, as usual. I got the raspberry jelly out of the refrigerator, also as usual. However, instead of getting the vat of peanut butter out of the same cupboard as the bread, which I would have done way back when the bread was extracted from said cupboard, I got a small jar of all-natural peanut butter out of the same refrigerator containing the jelly. To be perfectly clear, I do not condone using all-natural peanut butter, under any circumstances. The oil has a nasty habit of separating from the food-paste, and unless you stir it constantly or refrigerate it, it is completely worthless in it’s binary state. But my girlfriend, she insisted that I make the switch from delicious, non-separating Skippy to this new, purportedly healthier demon. She’s pretty cool, but she knows nothing of proper PB&J manufacturing.
Anyway, so I have to refrigerate my peanut butter, which keeps it in a terrible, un-spreadable condition, and when I attempt to spread, it pulverizes the bread, rips wide gashes through the fifteen-grain matrix. I try to spread another dollop of the thick paste on the other piece of bread, with similar results. I glance at the stove clock, notice I’m four minutes behind schedule and curse out loud. Furious, I slap the two pieces of ravaged bread together, squeeze them into a ball in my fist, until the thick, un-spreadable peanut butter oozes between my fingers, and hurl the useless mass into the sink.
So now I’m on a bus, not the one I should be on, but a later, less timely bus. My hand smells like all-natural peanut butter. In five hours, I know that I will be sitting in the break room at work, angry and hungry. Worse than that, though, are the vampires. I expect them at any time, their pale noses hot on the trail of my peanut buttery flesh.
Strangely, it wasn’t my peanut butter fist that drew the vampires to the front lawn. It was my necromancing. Turns out one night I managed to return a corpse to the realm of the living. Except this particular corpse was less of a corpse and more of an undead vampire who was just resting in his coffin, and who, by being returned to the living world, ceased to be a vampire. Also turns out that this particular vampire was well liked in the vampire community. Something of a comedian, I guess. But the rest of the vampires, they weren’t too happy with me for stealing away their funny-man. At least that’s what I was told by one of the blind nighstalkers on my lawn, moments before I staked him. He might have also said something about unrelenting attacks on myself and loved ones, until I returned this undead Seinfeld, but I was too busy plunging firewood deep into his heart to ask questions.
Twenty blind vampires were only the first wave. The next night, there were thirty. And they had all the vision necessary for serious combat. As luck would have it, I still had plenty of firewood, and my good friend Meriwether Duval. Meriwether though, he’s no vampire slayer, but who is, really? Buffy, sure, but she’s not so much of a vampire slayer as she is Sarah Michelle Gellar pretending to be a vampire slayer. What I could use is a bona-fide, steak slinging, crucifix wielding bad ass. I’d settle for Sarah Michelle Gellar, though probably for different, less vampire-related reasons. None of that mattered though. It was just me and Meri and thirty goddamn vampires on my front lawn. Oh, and my girlfriend.
I called for her to bring me my scarf. Why don’t you just stay inside, she said, we spent all that money on the vampire-proof windows, we might as well use them. Vampire resistant, not vampire proof, I said. Now please be a dear and bring me my damn scarf. She’s all right, though I often wonder if Sarah Michelle Gellar would be of more use in these situations. When she returned with my scarf she asked me when I became so devoted to vampire staking and wasn’t I too scared even to close the blinds the night before. I told her Ripley was scared shitless in Alien but the didn’t stop her from kicking xenomorph ass.
Meriwether and I, on the front steps, stakes in hand. I instruct him to take the eastmost fifteen while I attend to the westerly fifteen. He stared at me blankly and I said just go wild, we’re Lethal Weapon 4 now.
It was bloodless, the battle, which isn’t to say that wounds weren’t inflicted nor vampires slain. It’s just that, though they consume blood, vampires don’t necessarily bleed it. That is to say, vampires are undead, so bloodflow isn’t required and therefore, when staked through the heart, they don’t bleed. I could never understand how heart penetration is supposed to kill something that is both already dead and independent of their cardiovascular system. I guess that’s just the way it is. But the battle, victory. Thirty dead vampires and not a scratch on my body. Meriwether, he didn’t fare so well. I can still say the battle was bloodless because the fifteen vampires he was responsible for teamed up and drained every ounce of his blood through their hollow pale fangs in no time flat. Sucked him completely dry. At least I was able to stake most of them while they were hunched over his body.
After a few days and many failed incantations, I was finally able to revive Meri. Within a week or so he was back at full strength and, aside from the many fang-marks, he was as he was before the battle, except now he demanded to be called Hrothgar. Of course, during that time I had to fend off countless vampiric hordes by my self. She was there, my girlfriend, and she’s okay, but she didn’t even help be haul bodies to the ash pile behind the garage.
That night, no less than one hundred vampires outside, I decided enough was enough and that I would give in to their demand. I opened the vampire-resistant window and called out to them. I told them I was sorry and that I’d do whatever it is they wanted me to if it meant and end to the nightly slayings. The leader of the vampires came to the front of the pack. So be it, he menaced, and proceeded to explain in excruciating detail everything they expected me to do.
Turns out the guy I accidentally brought back to life, yeah, Jerry Seinfeld. Been a vampire the whole time, since the beginning. So when I said earlier that he was some sort of vampire Seinfeld, I couldn’t have been more right. Anyway, tracking him down was no problem. Hrothgar and I rented a car using the credentials of one of the vampires and drove to New York. We had used the internet to discern the rough location of Seinfeld’s mansion, and drove lazy but strategic loops around the vicinity, until, one night, we spotted the infamous comedian speeding along in one of his many Porsches. We ran him off the road, pulled his living body from the wreckage and tossed him in the trunk of our rental. We escaped home without incident.
Pulling into the garage, Jerry Seinfeld bound and gagged in the trunk. I tell Hrothgar to be alert. He might try to distract us with his trademark observational comedy when we open the trunk and carry him into the back yard. I pop the trunk, get out of the car and walk to the back. Hrothgar asks how are we going to turn him back into a vampire. That’s for the vampires to worry about, I reassure him. Now help me with the legs.
I was a little disappointed that our cargo had passed out during the nine hour car ride and was still unconscious even as we haphazardly hauled him out back. Secretly, I was hoping that he really would try to distract us with some good did-you-ever-notice mojo. I used to watch his show all the time. Hrothgar brought me back to reality. He asked me if this wouldn’t be easier with some more help. Who, I ask. Oh, yeah, her. My girlfriend. She’s, uh, nice, but do you think she has the braun for this operation. No, best to just bite down and do it ourselves.
When the body was firmly lashed to the posts we had driven into the lawn, we went inside. I called for my girlfriend, to let her know we had returned, lest she didn’t hear us struggle from garage to yard, laden with comedian weight. There was no reply. I walked from the back door up a small flight of stairs into the kitchen. To my surprise, there was my girlfriend, splayed out on the kitchen table, a thick pool of blood covering the floor beneath her. In the corner, looming in the shadows like he was in a detective novel, a vampire. He waited for a moment, then skulked out of the shadows towards me. Where is our funnyman, he hissed. The funnyman’s in the back, I said. He hissed some more. If you don’t bring us our funnyman by tomorrow night, another loved one will suffer the same fate as your precious girlfriend here. But I said he’s in the back. Like, we already have him for you. The vampire hesitated, then menaced, in the same cautionary tone as before. Oh, I see. Sorry for the mess. He walked past me, down the stairs and out the back door. A few seconds later Hrothgar entered the kitchen. Hey, did you know there was a vampire in the house? I just saw him walk out the back do--holy shit! What happened here? They killed her, I said, as incentive to complete our mission in a timely fashion. Hrothgar came closer, put his hand on my shoulder. I’m so sorry, is there anything we can do? Don’t worry about it, I said. But, isn’t she going to turn into a vampire? No, they didn’t bite her. From the looks of it they drained her blood the toothless way. Hrothgar turned to face me. You’re necromancy! You can bring her back, just like you did to me! I said don’t worry about it, and walked to the kitchen window.
Outside, in the back yard, a cluster of vampires had gathered around their former kin. The body we recently secured to the poles in the ground rose from the grass, hovered a few inches off the ground. No shit, I said out loud, and made my way outside. Hrothgar, he stayed in the kitchen. Not much of a Seinfeld fan, that one. I sidled up to the vampires, ensconced myself in their midst. Vampire Seinfeld still hovered there, a pair of leathery wings caped out behind him. And what’s the deal with Dracula, he said. What’s he a Count of anyway?
This is the complete, unedited first draft. For this outing I tried not to get caught up in the editing process while writing, instead trying to get the story on the page as quickly as possible. Thus, the many plot/grammar/logic problems. Further drafts will be posted as they are drafted. I'm curious to see where this story goes.
