A Vampire In Vegas Part I: The Gift That Keeps on Giving

In Christine on The Scene by Christine McKellar

(Each week in October as a “treat”  I post a segment of this four-part “fictional” short story. Happy Halloween!)
 
 

A Vampire In Vegas

by Christine L. McKellar

Part I

“The Gift That Keeps On Giving”

fangs and lipsI became one of the undead a week ago. It happened at a nightclub on the Las Vegas Strip where I really had no business being—not at my age, anyway. The sucker that nailed me (beg pardon) is a well-groomed gorgeous young hunk that I, busy girl, should not have been flirting with in the first place. Until Greg came along, I was alive and living amongst the millions of rational people who don’t believe in vampires, werewolves, witches, or any undead ghouls, ghosties or goblins.

I was already sick to death of the vampire fiction that plagues the major bookstores. (Technically speaking, sick to “un-death” is more the reality for me these days.) No one could touch the vampire genre like the very gifted author Anne Rice did so many years ago. I see now that she cleverly wrote the true history of vampires, then sold it to the public in a fictionalized format. Readers drank it all in like starved and thirsting cattle: which truly makes sense to me now that  I find myself viewing every mortal as a 3-D appetizer or entree on an endless international menu.

For countless centuries vampires have been mythically portrayed as soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking monsters. Now that I’ve become one of that very real dark inner circle it’s easy to comprehend how, without the threat of death (and thus eternal damnation) hanging over one’s head, a self-respecting vampire would have no qualms whatsoever about drinking and draining the life’s blood out of mere mortal men, women and children. Armed with supernatural strength, unholy mental powers, and the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet, it’s only natural that the undead have developed into a highly secretive, ego-driven sect that knows no moral boundaries nor answers to any living (ha ha) authority.

The commercialized  vampire/undead mania of today, however, has burst all bounds of decency and morality. There are vampire soap operas on the cable channels, for Pete’s sake! And what about the tween vampire books and movies? Blockbusters all the way around for a crowd that’s too young to stay up after curfew—much less after midnight. As a writer of genuine fiction, it galls me that gents and publishers are simply gaga over a trend that has no real substance or significance! Scores of decent writers are overlooked, while reams of vampire/werewolf copycat effluvia flood the book market.

On that uplifting note, let’s get back to my dark dilemma and my equally as dark mentor, Greg. I wasn’t sure what his true intent was that fateful night when he insisted on walking me to my car. I hadn’t minded flirting with the seductive young man in the crowded nightclub. However, in the gloomy near emptiness of the parking garage I somewhat regained my numbed senses.

Every alarm bell in my head began to ring when Greg moved close to me.  “I have a gift for you,” he purred into my ear. A gift? I don’t know why but the old joke about herpes being “the gift that keeps on giving” flashed immediately to mind. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I pushed at his (yes, rock hard) body. “I had a good time, but I’ve really have to go home. I have deadlines tomorrow, you know.”

Greg insisted. I resisted. To the casual observer we must have looked like we were doing a weird version of reverse twerking. I still wasn’t sure what Greg had in mind–other than the seduction of an older woman. I made one last attempt to untangle myself, albeit verbally, from his cold, hard embrace.

“Greg, I didn’t mean to lead you on in the nightclub. I assumed we were just having some flirtatious fun. I’m old enough to be your mother. I’m in no way a cougar, either. I can swear to that. All my friends can swear to that. My entire family will swear to that. My Labradoodle will swear to that.”

“I know you’re no cougar, I know that,” Greg whispered into my ear. (Little did I know I had already lost the battle when I let Greggie get his mouth that close to my neck.) “But, I love your books. I especially love the sexy sailing series. I want you to write forever and ever.”

Yes, Greg was one of the rare few I meet in public who has actually read my work. We’d discussed the merits of my three novels earlier that evening over my third and (forever) last martini. Greg, of course, doesn’t drink spirits—just blood. And he then proceeded to drink mine.

Au contraire to what Hollywood and New York publishers push down the throats (sigh) of the general population—a vampire bite hurts like hell! It hurts so much you are rendered speechless. You go rigid with pain and shock. And when the evildoer begins to suck the very liquid life out of your body—Oh! I shudder to even remember that feeling! It’s not vertigo and it’s not like being dizzy. Those sensations would seem as pleasant as an orgasm compared to that horrible feeling of being drained. Of being—emptied. The heart goes badda badda BING over and over in your chest as it tries to compensate for the loss of life’s precious fluid. And then you die–and you know it.

Call me a lightweight, but it truly bothers me now that I must hence and forever more inflict this same physical and emotional agony on others in order to nourish myself with the human blood I need to survive: Which brings me to other core issues I have with being undead. What my careless little carnivore did to me has caused unmitigated problems beyond belief. And let’s forget about eternity  for a moment. I’m taking about on a daily (oops! I mean NIGHTLY) basis. I’m talking about NOW.  Becoming a vampire has wreaked utter chaos in my un-life.

Right off the bat (dear, dear) is the vampire’s deadly allergy to sunlight. Fortunately, being a writer I have an inherent excuse to offer family, friends, and cohorts as I withdraw from the living, breathing, warmth-embracing life I once knew. How about this lame yet oh so plausible excuse– “So sorry about cancelling lunch today (or any day for that matter).  I’ve simply gone over the deep end and have become a nocturnal hermit. Of late my Muse only comes to me in the dead (ho ho) of night.” As for my  weekly social tennis matches? No problemo there. The claim of a “sports injury” fixes that.

I’m not sure how long these stories will fly (shut up), but higher powers are at work for me. I feel the time may soon come for me to remove myself from familiar environs. As a vampire I’ve got to hunt to sustain myself. I don’t want to be so foolish as to keep hunting in my own backyard. The upside down economy could very well be my escape goat. I can plead borderline poverty and thus a need to relocate so I can downsize. Thanks to the Internet I can still stay in touch (from a safe distance) with those closest to me.

Should I decide to relocate, how far would be far enough away? Seattle? Alaska? To the moon, Alice? We shall see. We shall see. I have much more serious issues to deal with first…

(to be continued)

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(Next week)

A Vampire In Vegas: Part Two

“A Midnight Midlife Crisis”

I’m a tad bit more than mildly claustrophobic. As my new unreality began to sink in one of the first things that had me grabbing for Greg’s (yummy) neck, was the unthinkable prospect of having to sleep all day, every day, in a boxlike constrictive coffin for mucho millenniums. Like, totally forEVer. Talk about damnation! Talk about hell on earth! NO WAY! HUH UH! NOT GONNA HAPPEN!

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This short story is a work of fiction. People, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
© A Vampire Satire/A Vampire In Vegas  2008 Christine L. McKellar. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright owner.