(Each week in October as a “treat” I post a segment of this four-part “fictional” short story. Happy Halloween!)
Christine L. McKellar
Following my disastrous tryst at a Vegas nightclub last week, wherein I allowed myself to be seduced into immortality by a beguiling younger man, an entire plethora of issues quickly evolved. For one thing, I’m a tad bit more than mildly claustrophobic–to say the least. As my new unreality began to sink in, the first thing 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!
The poor metro-sexual bloodsucker certainly had his hands full those first few hours following my un-death. Even after Greg assured me sleeping in coffins was truly another misbegotten vampire myth (I could sleep anywhere I wanted as long as I was secure and had blackout drapes or the equivalent thereof), he still had to endure a series of serious meltdowns on my part. What Greg had failed to take into consideration is that he had created a menopausal (climacteric) vampire. Talk about the making of a MONSTER!
Modestly speaking, I guess in the subdued lighting of the lounge I actually did look ten years younger. Greg swears he had no idea when he zeroed in on me in the frenzied crowd that he was condemning me to a very, very, very (did I say VERY?) long death indeed of hot flashes and mood swings. There was also no way he could have been privy to the fact that I had scrimped and saved and finally scheduled a series of enhancement surgeries; eyelid lift, a mini-face lift, and some serious Botox. All those plans are shelved now, unless I can find a vampire plastic surgeon who is willing to operate on me on a daily, no—make that a nightly— basis.
As if being cursed with eternal menopause isn’t bad enough, there are a few other inherit traits of mine that my menopausal-monster-maker hadn’t bothered to investigate. I have food allergies. Yep. Particularly to peanuts or any peanut related products. A severe peanut allergy, I might add: My throat closes and I damn near suffocate to death (whatever). Greg has repeatedly assured me that epinephrine should work just fine even in my transmogrified system. I, however, being of a more cautious nature and with no desire to suffer through the terrifying act of choking to death even if it won’t kill me, have scripted a small speech to present to my potential meals-on-heels: “Have you recently, say in the past twelve hours or so, eaten any peanuts, peanut products, or items that were manufactured in the same facility as peanuts?”
I’m still practicing my delivery nightly. Hey, I’ve only been a murderous stalker and drainer of blood for over a week now. What does amaze me, though, is how truly gullible humans are. Everyone I’ve approached has unhesitatingly given me the nutritional info I need. What a bunch of (non) suckers!
My perpetual liquid diet isn’t damn near killing me to state the obvious. But, it is boring. Anne Rice’s vampires got a vicarious thrill from each victim’s blood: Tastes of the person’s life experiences coursed in a torrent of hot rushes throughout their dead cold veins as they drew the very essence of being out of hapless souls. I must be picking the wrong persons. They all taste the same. They seem to share an equal abundance of sins, vices, and lack of virtues. Maybe it’s the city I’m in? Could it be a syndrome? “What happens in Vegas is simply the same old, same old?”
I’m actually having second thoughts about relocating. After all, Las Vegas is a 24-hour city filled with throngs of tourists in the summer that can easily go missing. Alaska would be good for the winter months with its 24/7 midnight. Forgeddabout Seattle. Too damp. I don’t want to mold during the day and the moisture would be hell on my now eternally frizzy hair.
Being stuck in my mid-forties for eternity is even worse than it sounds. At least in real life I could have looked forward to eventually getting over hot flashes and mood swings with a little help from my gynecologist. And with a little help from my cosmetic surgeon I could have dropped ten grand and ten years without batting (yah, yah) an eye.
I’m seriously on a mission to find a plastic surgeon and make him mine: all mine. I know that during my sleep I’ll revert to how I was when Greg-the-batman bit me. But, I really need a magic man for those special occasions like the upcoming “Thanksgiving Hunt n’ Harvest A Feast Gala”, and especially the “New Year’s Midnight ‘til Dawn Smorgasbord”. The one that features warm and cold buffets.
I’m not exactly sure what “cold” buffets entail. Greg’s not talking. He wants to surprise me…
A Vampire in Vegas: Part III
It’s Lonely Out There
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.