(The last chapter of this four-part “fiction” short story. Happy Halloween!)
Christine L McKellar
Ah, Greg, the handsome, sculpted young man who I had flirted so carelessly (and I’m sure shamelessly) with in the first place (although truth be told, Greg is 125 years my senior–go figure) has pulled through. He’s given me a gift worth keeping. I feel like singing! “Ooooo ooo oooo last night (that would be yesterday), I couldn’t get to sleep at all…no, no, noooooooo!”
We recently went clubbing (a vampire euphemism for hunting) at Mandalay Bay. In the spirit of the holidays, Greg generously gave me the green light to hit on a tall mature gentleman from New York City who could really bust a move on the dance floor. The silver fox was a wily one, I must say. It took some serious convincing to get him to come home with me. Oh, he was interested all right. He just wanted me to go back to his room in the hotel instead of to my
nest home. (Sheesh, tourists!)
I have learned to not get involved with my victims. Once you hear about the kiddies and the dogs, the little woman or man at home, the future goals and aspirations, it kind of kills (snicker) the appetite. Whether it’s the merging of my Aries and Libra selves or just my maturing nature as a vampire, I’m finding it easier and easier to turn a callous ear to the pleadings of my targets.
The debonair New Yorker, Adam, didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell once I learned what his profession is: he just so happens to be a cosmetic surgeon. Death is good again! And just in time for the holidays, which is why I’m salivating to get Adam oriented to his new death. This, however, has proven to be a less than easy task.
The outraged fledgling would barely listen to me as I tried to explain that there are things far worse than becoming a basic soulless, cold and calculating blood-sucking nocturnal stalker. I mean, really? He could be me—trapped for eternity in a forty-something female menopausal body and stalking my victims with the utmost caution because of my peanut allergy.
The look on the handsome surgeon’s face as I attempted to placate him could only be described as fahklumpt. “You think you have problems?” he snarled. “Oy vay! I’ve got the problems!”
And there you have it. While I have to avoid peanut eaters like the plague, Adam has to determine if his prospects keep a Kosher kitchen. “Have you eaten bacon or pork chops or combined any dairy products with beef within the past twenty-four hours?” is hardly an enticing pickup line. We are a match made in Hell if ever there was one.
There are other issues related to Adam’s orthodox upbringing. His Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday so he fasts until Saturday night. Thus, I have to go it alone for part of the weekends. But, hey, as a recovering Catholic, I have issues too! And what about our combined guilt? It will take more than a millennium for the two of us to get over all of it.
Despite all the drawbacks, I have hope for my Hebrew honey. He shares my concern about world affairs. I’ve begun to worry about the proliferation of nuclear nutcases in Asia and the Middle East. The consequences of a nuclear holocaust would be devastating: There goes the entire food chain!
One might wonder what an army of cold-blooded, blood-sucking immortals armed with supernatural strength and the ability to move faster than the most advanced atomic missiles could do for world peace? Aha! Now there’s a worthy project to keep Adam occupied! I’m encouraging him to start a non-profit org among the undead. “Night-stalkers Against Nuclear Advancement” (NANA), has a certain ring to it. Adam can coordinate with those concerned in our cabal of carnivores to create a nonpartisan strike force dedicated to instilling abject fear and total nuclear compliance into the (still beating) hearts of already crazed despots and dictators.
My newly-made mate has so much potential! With his brains and good looks there is no reason why he can’t also study to become a certified gynecologist. I surely can’t be the only undead woman over forty in the worldwide nest suffering from menopause. It’s not like Adam doesn’t have all of eternity to improve upon and better himself, either.
Yes, I picked wisely indeed when I lit upon my cosmetic surgeon. I see no reason why at some point we couldn’t become the absolute Undead Power Couple. With Adam by my side we could drink the blood of kings and queens and rule over the masses!
Sigh, but all those fantasies have to be put on hold unless and until I can coax my sexy silver-haired, well-fanged and forever lover into getting over his needless aversion to crucifixes…
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.