A Vampire Satire: Part I-The Gift That Keeps on Giving

In Christine on The Scene by Christine McKellar

A Vampire Satire

by Christine L. McKellar

Part I

“The Gift That Keeps On Giving”

I 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) was 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 lived 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 plagued the major bookstores. (Technically speaking, sick to “un-death” is more the reality for me these days.) As a writer of genuine fiction, it galled me. Agents and publishers simply went gaga over a trend that has neither substance nor any real significance. Scores of decent writers were, and have been, overlooked. On the other hand, no one could touch the vampire genre like Anne Rice did so many years ago. I now see that she cleverly wrote the true history of vampires, and then sold it to the public in a fictional format.

The commercial fiction vampire/undead mania of today 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.

For countless centuries vampires have been viewed as soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking monsters. Now that I’ve become one of that 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.

Back to Greg. I wasn’t sure where he was going that fateful night when he insisted on walking with 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 regained my numbed senses. Alarm bells in my head began to ring when Greg pressed his body close to mine.  “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 got 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 reverse version of 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.”

“I know, I know,” Greg whispered. (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 ones. 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 sailing series merits earlier over my third and (forever) my last martini. Greg, of course, doesn’t drink spirits—just blood. And he proceeded to drink mine.

Au contraire to what Hollywood and the New York publishers are pushing 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. Then, the heart goes badda badda BING over and over in your chest as it tries to compensate.

 I know I now must inflict the same 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. It has wreaked utter chaos in my un-life. Right off the bat (dear, dear) is the deadly allergy to sunlight.

Fortunately, being a writer, I have an inherent excuse to offer family, friends, and cohorts as I withdraw from the life I once knew. To wit: I’ve 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 to my three weekly tennis matches? The claim of a “sports injury” has temporarily fixed 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 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 could plead poverty and a need to relocate so I can downsize. Thanks to the Internet, I could still stay in touch with those close 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 other issues to deal with first.


(Next week )

A Vampire Satire 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!…

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 2008 Christine L. McKellar. All rights reserved.
First published October 2009.
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.