Thursday, March 28, 2013

Fiction Thursday: Fast Food

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Let me show you a life you have never imagined.” He looked her right in her eye. His sharp, aqua marine orbs fixed on hers with what he knew to be an intensely erotic stare, a commanding visual grip.

“Like... in a good way? Because I’m pretty sure there’s some shitty stuff out there that I haven’t thought about. Like, it’s gotta suck to get VD. And I bet that Pull-Po guy in China was all kinds of gross.” She went back to chewing the straw stuck in her empty glass. She returned his gaze with a malleable stare of her own, her brown iris’ like mud puddles.

Goddamnit. “It’s Pol Pot,” he said under his breath, looking away. “ Cambodia. And most VD are curable.” He ran his hand through his thick, perfectly disheveled, auburn hair. He looked around the bar. At 1:45 AM, they were included among a handful of stragglers: old men falling asleep on table tops, a young couple making out with drunk desperation, his companion making similar advances on a much more cooperative woman. This conquest seemed easier 4 drinks ago.

Indeed, four drinks ago, she seemed ideal. His new, much younger companion,pointed her out to him. She was alone and blithely nursing a vodka and cranberry. She had a lonesome, wistful stare that implied a kind of tragically gained wisdom--his favorite prey. Nothing satisfied quite like guilt and years of abused self-esteem.

He had never hunted at a modern bar before. “Low class and trash,” he called it. But his companion insisted he try it. “You won’t believe how easy it is,” the companion insisted. “Much less work than those stuffy bitches you spend weeks wooing.”

True, he had a pattern: he’d find an ostensibly pure girl, and would spend extraordinary amounts of time and effort to foster within her an overwhelming longing, and then he’d strike. The unequalled taste of crazed love was worth the weeks of starving. If this prey tasted just as good with less effort, then he would be converted.

And so, with a palpable air of confidence, he sidled up beside this girl and offered to refresh her drink. She smiled and agreed. She asked him to join her. Their conversation flowed. She was melting right into his hands. He mistook her flightiness for nerves. Afterall, he was a striking creature, and women were paralyzed in his presence. But time proved she was different. Immune to his seduction, and in complete and total ignorance of absolutely everything going on around her. It should have been easy.

But now, he shook his head, bemoaning his bad judgement. Why is this taking so long? I’m a goddamn vampire.

It was far too late to turn back now. Once he set his sight on prey, he’d be sieged with torment. The only way to alleviate said torment was to capture his prey, make her his.

“What’d you say? Geez, your hair is soooo long and pretty. I can’t believe you’re a guy!” She reached up and grabbed a handful of the shoulder length fibers and cooed over the texture. He jerked forward awkwardly as she grabbed and admired. “What conditioner do you use?”

With a  well-practiced, stern patience, he gently untangled her sticky fingers from his tresses. And as he held her hand in his, gently massaging her palm with his long, cool thumb, he once again fixed his stare on her.

“This secret and more, I can show  you. Please, my sweet, come with me,” his voice was  smooth caramel melting on the cookie crust that was her. His throat was aching. His want for her was unrelenting, as vast and grand as his utter repulsion for her. He cursed himself again. Never offer more than 1 drink. 1 and done. 2 with smart girls. 2 and thru, his companion had warned him. Why did I forget this?

“Come with you where? Salon Co.? Cuz that place is like, way too expensive for me,” she winked at him and flagged down the bartender.

He sneered to himself. Why did she follow that up with a wink? I’m not taking you to Salon Co. With a move as smooth as satin, he lowered her hand and shook his head at the bartender. He met her glare with a gentle caress of her cheek. Her spirit-induced flush felt hot under his touch. And his face slowly softened as he kept up with her criss-crossing sight holes. I know how to get this done.

“My pet,” he tenderly brushed her hair back, frowning slightly at the unwashed texture. “This bar is dead. Let’s go back to my place. I have vodka.” The smile on her face emerged, growing ear to ear. He smirked.

“OOoOoOo, I like the sound of thaaaat,” she winked again, this time using all of her face. He stifled a laugh. She leaned forward to put her hand on his leg, gruffly rubbing his thigh and attempting to bite her lower lip, which resulted in her biting almost her entire chin. Her messy cleavage was almost spilling out of her tube top. He sighed as he forced a pleased smile across his face. Inwardly, he cringed. “Call me that again... sweetheart... you’re so hot,” she slurred, trying to keep eye contact.

Way to let her get sloppy, you douche, he heard from his companion. He turned around and saw him exiting with his escort. His companion nodded his head and laughed. Silence, he thought back at him. The young ones are always the most vulgar. He looked at her, hand in her tube top, adjusting her bra. Vampire and human alike, he thought as he placed a $50 bill on the bar surface.

“You ready to go, baby?” he asked her, locking her glassy eyes with his calculated stare and a rub of her shoulder. She grinned wildly and clumsily reached for her purse.

As he walked her out of the bar, his hand gently massaging the small of her back, he could feel her increasing heart beat. Her blood starting to coarse. Finally, it’s happening. He smiled his first genuine smile of the evening. Suddenly she turned to the almost empty bar and shouted, “HE’S NOT GAY HE’S GOING HOME WITH ME, BITCHES!” His smile faded, abruptly. Mortified, he grabbed her by the waist and, once outside, moved her with lightning fast speed to around to the side of the bar. Another practiced move, designed to get his prey’s adrenaline pumping. She was shaking in his arms, grinning like a madwoman, her chest heaving up and down. Worked like a charm.

With a sense of quiet, intimate urgency, he cupped her face and leaned in for a kiss. He could feel her veins practically burst with excitement. His throat was on fire. He bypassed her lips, moving instead to her neck, glistening with sweat, coated in whatever designer knock off perfume was popular that month. She was already moaning loudly, and he wasn’t touching her. Yes, yes.

As her lifeless body avalanched to the ground, he felt the growing satisfaction of satiated hunger, of a taste so compelling and delicious, like nothing he’d felt before. But he also felt something else, something sickening inside him. What is this?

He bent down and examined her now pallid, waxy face. He felt the presence of his companion, who, in an instant was kneeling beside him, staring down at the body.

“Oh man, dude. That sucks,” his companion noted, pointing at her face.

“Whatever do you mean?” he examined closer, and still couldn’t see.

“There on her lip--that discolored thing?” His companion ripped a fleshy piece of latex off the corner of her lip.
"It's one of those cold sore cover-ups. Ew."

His face dropped, fallen with discovery. He instantly longed for his human days and the ability to vomit.

“Yeah, that’s herpes. Congrats, dude. Explains why you’re so sick. Probably shoulda warned you about that. That’s too bad.”

He spat out whatever blood was left in his mouth. He could feel insides shrinking. His skin withering. His hair turning grey, the ravages of the venereal disease spreading rapidly, the hot blade of irony ripping through him. In his hundreds of years of living, this was like nothing he had imagined.  

Fucking low class and trash.

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