Chapter Four
Even when I was alive, I never acquired a taste for the “caramel macchiato, extra foam, more-expensive-than-a-car” fancy drinks at upscale coffee houses, and as a zombie it certainly didn’t matter to me. Old bitter coffee hit my tired taste buds just fine, and I wasn’t going to waste money on a brain-matter latte if I couldn’t enjoy it. McGoo was the only one who had a fondness for sissy drinks, particularly a cinnamon latte.
I knew, of course, that vampires were just as picky and discriminating with their gourmet blood drinks. I thought they were overcompensating. Since Fletcher Knowles was now one of our clients, I had to at least respect the popularity and booming business of the Talbot & Knowles blood bars. Since humans in the outside world were extremely nervous about monsters, especially hungry ones, they were happy to see vampires enjoying fancy blood frappés and plasmaccinos. Blood bars were popping up on every corner like toadstools in a shady graveyard.
The dirty dealings that ousted Fletcher from the Board had occurred behind closed doors at the corporate headquarters downtown, but I wanted to see the blood bar customers in their native element. Several days later, after I had taken care of some loose ends at the office, I decided to go to the nearest Talbot & Knowles blood bar, a thriving café that occupied the shell of an old gas station. The distinctive crimson awnings provided deep shade for day-owl vampires who liked to sit with their laptops and pretend they were writing a script.
To use the proper vernacular, I just wanted to case the joint, but when I arrived, I found more excitement than I expected.
Tensions were riding high after the violent serial killings by the demon from the Fifth Pit of Hell. Humans had good reason to be nervous about unnaturals.
The blood bars were supposed to show that outsiders didn’t need to fear vampires anymore, just like the widespread distribution of Monster Chow products satisfied the appetites of the rest of the unnaturals. All the blood drinks served by Talbot & Knowles baristas were certified organic, voluntarily donated or purchased, some even synthetically produced. A vampire satisfied with a fresh arterial espresso wasn’t likely to attack some bicyclist out on a late-night ride.
Now, though, vampire protesters were lined up with angry signs and black parasols to shade them from the sun.
“Lower prices on blood!” someone shouted.
“A Cadillac blood plan is great for those who can afford it, but what about common vampires? We need blood, too!”
“Mmmmm, delicious blood!”
The vampires were getting restless—not surprising since at this time of day they should have been home resting in their coffins. Trying to enjoy their drinks while ignoring the hubbub of protesters, several upscale vampire customers sat under the blood-red awnings. One earnest young vampire with a full head of brown hair and long sideburns busily typed on his laptop, paying little attention to the disturbance. He must have been in the middle of writing a good scene.
I shambled up, calling no attention to myself so I could watch the protests from the fringe. I approached one busty lady-of-the-night vampire who wore a clingy black formal gown that revealed cleavage that should have been classified as a national monument. Her long black hair had a single white streak down the left side, and her fingers were covered with enough diamond rings to open up her own jewelry store if she divested her fingers.
“Even if you can’t afford fancy blood drinks, basic blood is widely available, isn’t it?” I asked her. “Why the complaints?”
Her lips turned down in a frown, exposing her delicate pointy fangs. “What would you know about it? You’re an entirely different sort of undead.” She sniffed, looking at my forehead. “I’d get that hole in your head plugged up before more of your brains leak out.”
“It’s more of a problem when the rain leaks in.”
Eventually, she deigned to answer my question. “Basic blood tastes like crap. We’d all be happier vamps if we didn’t have to feel guilty when we treat ourselves to a specialty drink.”
“Is that what you hope to accomplish by protesting here? That corporate headquarters will lower prices franchise-wide?” I doubted the new hostile-takeover Board of Directors would be eager to do that.
“Oh, dear no! That’s an impossible dream. We just want them to issue coupons.”
The young blood barista came out, wiping his hands on his red apron. He looked nervously at the protesters. “Why don’t you go protest somewhere else? This is harming our business.”
“Exactly the point, moron,” said a potbellied vampire in a plaid shirt. He wore a trucker cap with an extra-wide bill that shaded most of his face from the sun. His enormous bushy beard made him look as if he hadn’t shaved since the Hatfields and the McCoys were friends. “I ain’t interested in your hemo faggot concoctions!” The redneck vamp was with two similarly dressed men, probably brothers or cousins … maybe both.
The young writer under the crimson awning finished a paragraph and looked up from his laptop. He scowled at the protesters, annoyed that they had interrupted his concentration. Flagrantly, he picked up his tall glass of iced blood with a froth of cream, slipped the straw between his two fangs, and slurped loudly.
The bearded vampire shouted, “Forget those damned artificial drinks. We like the natural stuff, fresh from the source!” His two brothers/cousins nodded, waggling the bills of their caps up and down. In unison they scratched their beards, and cockroaches tumbled out onto the sidewalk, as if even the insects couldn’t stand the facial hair environment.
“You mean drink from … people?” gasped a shrill, gray-haired vampire woman who looked like someone’s undead grandma.
“That’s right. I’m Ernie. You might’ve heard of us—we’re from Suck Dynasty.”
“Don’t be so barbaric,” said the erudite, busty lady-of-the-night next to me. “We’re civilized creatures now. If we’re going to live in harmony in this world, we’re supposed to drink blood out of containers.”
“That’s right, little lady,” barked Ernie. “And containers that hold blood are called humans.” His two brothers/cousins chortled.
Even the protesters began to get angry with one another, waving their signs as well as holding them up for shade. The mood was getting ugly.
The vamp writer with his laptop lounged back, arrogantly watching them. He made a point of taking a long slow sip through his straw as he drained the blood from his chilled glass with a satisfied sigh. “Ahhh, nothing like a perfect blood drink made exactly the way I like. There’s a special piquant flavor, a fizz in the back of the mouth.” He twirled his straw, rattling the ice cubes before he slurped the last bit of moisture in the bottom. “This is the best I’ve ever had. You should all go try one.” He was egging the protesters on, provoking them.
I stepped forward before this got out of hand. “Let’s calm down. No need to get their blood boiling.”
Several vamps in the crowd looked up at the crimson awnings and muttered, considering the idea. “Maybe we should try one. I’m thirsty.”
“It’ll make …” said the vamp writer, as he heaved a ponderous breath, “… you feel …” His voice deepened. He began to shudder. “Full of energy!” His voice was like a growl pressed into words. His shoulders stiffened, and he clacked his fangs together. His eyes burned with a reddish glow. “Destructive energy!”
He curled his hands into claws, scraping the surface of the tabletop, then he leaped up, knocking the metal chair backward. With a wild roar, the vamp writer snatched his laptop and hurled it into the crowd where it smashed into the Suck Dynasty rednecks.
I cringed, hoping he’d saved his draft file to the cloud before smashing the laptop.
With an even louder roar, he grabbed the table and spun around to smash the plate glass sun-treated window in front of the blood bar. Protesters screamed and backed away. The vamp writer’s fangs elongated into sharp tusks two inches long, and his features grew more hideous. He thrashed around, slashing the air with his claws.
“Whoa, you may want to consider switching to decaf!” I said.
The berserk vampire launched himself at the crowd. He slashed at the grandma vampire, and she squealed, scrambling for her wire-rimmed glasses before they were stepped on.
The brave and rowdy Suck Dynasty vamps weren’t very brave when they saw someone actually fighting back. They tripped over one another as they retreated through the crowd.
Doing my civic duty, I tried to block the crazed man before he could attack the curvaceous lady-of-the-night vampire, but he bowled me over and knocked me to the ground.
The buxom vampiress backed away, but the raving monster’s claws caught the front of her dress, tearing the fabric and exposing cleavage that went nearly down to her navel. The rampaging vamp paused in shock, ogling her large breasts.
In detective school I was taught never to ignore the cleavage gambit. “Everybody, pile on! We can overpower him.”
The protesters closed in. Some of them battering the berserk vampire with their signs. Since I was on top of the wild man, I received half of the blows.
“Dogpile!” called another vamp, and he dove on top of me to help hold the struggling man down. I felt like an undead sandwich. More and more threw themselves on top of the squirming mound.
Beneath me and a dozen other heavy bodies, the rampaging vamp thrashed and squirmed, then finally went limp like a deflated tire. I heard wailing sirens in the distance and tried to hold out. Finally, he lay still, and I groaned to my fellow tacklers. “You can unpile now.”
Slowly, the weight of the helpful vampire protesters diminished. The young vamp writer lay unconscious on the sidewalk, as if whatever supercharged him had burned itself out. I retrieved my fedora and saw to my dismay that it had been stomped flat.
I couldn’t understand what had happened. Sitting under the crimson awning, the vampire writer had seemed so calm, so sedate. What could have driven him into such a frenzy?
I reassembled myself as best I could, and watched as the ambulance pulled up. The EMTs, the emergency mortician techs, strapped the victim down on a gurney and hauled him away.
As the crowd started to disperse, McGoo arrived, late as usual. When he asked me what had happened, I said, “I’ll tell you the whole story in the Goblin Tavern. And you’re buying.”