Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (9 page)

Sad. The patron saint of fraternity row was reduced to direct marketing sales and from the look of things, tanking. I swished to the front of the room and handed Bacchus a business card, “We could work on a new marketing plan.”

Bernard Krups’s mouth hung open. He flipped the card over twice and then shook his head yes.

I let the doors slam on my way out.

Outside a raggedy woman trudged across the parking lot pushing a grocery store cart loaded with cans and bottles.

I took one whiff, winced, and went deeper, past the stench of homelessness, to the meat of the matter. I didn’t drift as much this time. It still held the feeling of a dream sequence, like I was eating the woman in a big bowl of marshmallow fluff. I crunched on bones, and slurped up loose tendons. Despite the actions, it was a surprisingly comfortable experience.

The cart went rolling into the side of a red Tempo, leaving a dent the size of a cake plate. I threw the pile of leftover shredded clothes behind a holly bush and got in the Volvo.

I had become an expert at directing gore and splatter away from my expensive designer clothes; who would’ve guessed? I also used to eat butter-slathered corn on the cob without a single slobbery drip. But there’s always some smoosh in the corners of your mouth. After a quick wet nap and a cosmetic pick-me-up, I hightailed it out of the business park. I was ready to hit the town and Wendy.

Two blondes stuck to the ice bar like wet tongues, their hipbones jutting as if in an attempt to escape their skin. They ground their respective pelvises against a pair of horny ghouls, one of whom being only slightly more hideous than the other. The girls were human and under some kind of trance, drunk, or just not at all particular.

“Thank God for necrophilia,” I said. “Those rotting corpses wouldn’t stand a chance of getting laid without it.”

Gil nodded, adding, “Here’s to celebrity blood donors.” He raised his glass for the toast and took a deep slug of warm blood from the Riedel Syrah glass in his hand. “This, for instance.” Another swallow. “…is a lovely
Square Pegs
–era Jami Gertz. It’s Jami-licious.”

“Sounds yummy.” Come to think of it, it probably was a good year.
Square Pegs
was fabulous and Ms. Gertz’s Muffy Tepperman was a spot-on caricature of the preppy bitch. Brings back memories.

Wendy arrived with flourish
49
, tossing her purse into the booth and flopping down with a bounce. “Cheers to mortuaries with fully-stocked cosmetics inventory.” She spoke with the ease of indifference, as is apparently common among the dead. She slathered crimson stained lips with a fresh coat of gloss. Snapped a gold compact shut with a click like a castanet.

“Hear, hear!” I yelled. “Oh, and by the way, thanks a lot for the fucking infomercial.”

“No prob.” She shielded a laugh like a Japanese schoolgirl.

“Such a cooze. This is Gil.”

He stretched his arm across the table and pumped Wendy’s hand, lightly. “I think we’ve met before.”

“Yeah, totally! Armani trunk show.”

“That’s right.”

I motioned for Ricardo; he trotted from the bar, a white towel bouncing against—what were those—oh my God,
black
jeans. Only Ricardo could pull off black jeans without leather chaps, and to think, so far downhill of the gay ghetto.

“How are the beautiful people tonight?” he asked, scooting in next to Wendy, who had moved on to jiggling and blinking like anime.

“Perfect,” I said, nudging Wendy and raising my vodkatini (’cause anything else is just garnish). “This flirt right here, is Wendy, I met her at a cosmetics convention. On your way to the line dance?” I pointed at his jeans. “Could you hook the bitch up with something strong yet pretty?”

“You were probably much more cute when you were still alive,” he said. His face had gone all smirky-flirty.

“Mmm. But oddly enough not so sweet.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Ricardo said, leaning in to Wendy. He may have sniffed her hair.

“Isn’t it just?” Wendy said.

I got the impression they’d met before. Sliding in close to Wendy, I put my face in his line of sight. “Hey Ricardo, did you get my message?”

“Yeah, yeah. I meant to call you and just got bogged down. You remembered something?”

“There was a guy in the elevator before the garage. He got up way too close to me. I could smell the flesh coming off of him.”

“That’s right, we knew you’d received the breath, otherwise you’d be stumbling around mumbling about brains.”

“Brains!” Gil yelled, his arms stretching out toward Wendy.

“Shut up,” she said, but giggled.

“They really say ‘brains’ like on the movies?”

“No.” Ricardo pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “Not at all. What’d the guy look like?”

“Black guy, gray hair…he’d seen better days.”

“I think I know him, comes in here every once in a while, I’ll speak with him when he shows up. Arrange an introduction.” Ricardo patted Wendy’s shoulder. “I’ll get that drink right now.”

With a disturbingly broad smile for Wendy’s benefit, Ricardo bounded off for the bar. Wendy wore a similar grin. I wondered what was up between them.

“So have you sated your curiosity?” Gil asked, interrupting my Nancy Drewness.

“For now. But how about you?”

“How about me what?

“How did you become such a sexy vamp?”

Gil sipped at his Gertz, the blood shot straight into his cheeks. “I’d rather not say.”

“Oh, come on,” Wendy begged.

“It’s really embarrassing.”

“You’re among friends.” I winked at Wendy. She chased a plastic monkey around the rim of an empty glass, grinning.

“Alright.”

I expected a paragraph, not a hijacking.

Hanging Out at the Flat

 

Inconsiderate Interlude of the Bitter & Pathetic
Part One: Gil

“Let me paint you a picture.” Gil wrapped his arm over the back of the seat, shifted his ass into a comfortable spot, and set off on his self-indulgence.

“It was the seventies and Tacoma. Grey skies filled with pulp steam and the distinct stench of dirty diapers from the stacked mills in the tide flats. A scent that—I think, you’ll agree—lingers today. The grey stubs of buildings that composed the city’s skyline appeared to have risen from an ashtray. Completely utilitarian.

“But that’s too much history lesson.

“Okay.

“So, needless to say, I looked hot—’cause, well just look at me—and not all Castro mustachioed with short-short Levis cutoffs. I’m talking Sergio Valente hotness, and that needs to be clarified when we’re talking about the age of polyester. I was twenty-six and trolling for the unspeakable: love. I know, I know, it’s hard enough nowadays with all the six-packed gym sluts, but back then, forget it. No one was looking for long-term relationships. They were considered the plague; that is before the real one showed up.

“My best friend’s name was Howard, and we’d known each other since grade school. His girlfriend was Bethany Brindle—I just loved her name, it reminded me of jodhpurs and shooting parties, still does. They had an unnatural interest in my romantic life, prodding for information, showering me with empathy, and oftentimes setting me up on blind dates.

“In those days Tacoma gays only frequented bars with sailor themes, or the back room at Lucky Wang’s; I met my blind date at The Rusty Bucket. The place reeked of poorly wiped butt, a heady blend of musky sweat and Old Spice cologne, like a mediocre Cabernet gone to vinegar under Grandma Pearl’s sink. The bar seemed repurposed from a defunct bordello, its ceiling, once covered in a carved crimson velvet, hung loose like the felt roof lining of a shaggy Saab hardtop. Despite the grunge, The Rusty Bucket was a much more desirable locale than the Poop Deck, which a week prior had seen Dayton’s first gay riot, Deckwall—Poopwall seemed too irreverent considering that nasty business in New York.

“Chase was his name. Chase Hollingsworth. Three hundred pounds and a fake British accent that went in and out like pirate cable. Chase snorted Vicks from those old dispensers that looked like little dildos. He kept reaching across the table for me with these greasy sausage fingers. I cringed and flattened myself on my side of the booth. There was only one thing to do. Drink.

“Over several pitchers, Chase regaled me with his love of all things British, particularly fish and chips with lots of malt vinegar in the newspaper cone and never on a plate, from the stands and not a restaurant, although, he let on, he’d never been to England. I was trapped in Hell. I poured another beer.

“I noticed a man ordering something from the bar, a tall sexy thing with sandy blond hair, a strong square jaw, and most importantly, not three hundred pounds and wrapped in the Union Jack. His drink was coffee, and lucky me, he carried it to the table next to ours, so I could ogle him easily while pretending to listen to Chase. He met my gaze a couple of times, seemed to be interested and then resumed his preferred activity: smelling his coffee.

“It was about the time when Chase started in on the importance of Benny Hill, that my memory started to fuzz. I calculated my beer consumption at or about a pitcher and a half, maybe three quarters. I kind of remember being helped into a cab and landing on a foreign sofa, before passing out entirely.

“When I woke up I was in someone else’s apartment. The coffee table in front of me was draped in crocheted doilies and stacks of dog-eared and bookmarked
Hello
magazines, the top one splashed with Prince Andrew’s youthful face and a headline that read: Andrew Snogs Porn Strumpet. There was a picture of Queen Elizabeth on the wall, but I didn’t need that clue to realize I was at Chase’s house. Chills coursed through me, and over me like permanent goose bumps.

“Particularly, around my nether regions.

“I glanced down at my crotch to find my dick hanging out of my open jeans—I’d taken to going commando, so it was all the more garishly displayed. I hugged myself and rocked, imagining Chase’s melon head bobbing up and down on me as I slept, the hot-dog pack of his neck rising and falling. I gagged. The beer was coming up. I got up and frantically scoured the room for a trash can, my jeans sliding down to my ankles in the process. My spew ended up flooding an adorable bluebell and vines china teapot, each of its six surrounding cups and saucers, and a bit on the TV tray where they were all displayed.

“I vowed never to drink again.

“I was a mess. I picked myself up, pulled up my pants and went in search of a bathroom. I thought I heard Chase snoring from deep in the house. Past the doilied parlor, a short hall led to the front door in one direction and three closed doors. The first was an empty space with a sewing machine in the corner and bolts of fabric strewn about. A shade was drawn over the window. The next room was the bathroom. I rinsed the spatter from my face, snatched a towel and wandered back into the hall.

“A slurping sound issued from behind the final door, as though a dog were going at a bone. I knocked softly. ‘Chase?’ The lapping ceased. ‘Chase, I’m going to head home.’ No response.

“I turned to dart out the front, and as I did the door behind me opened.

“‘Do you have to go so soon?’ a throaty voice asked, decidedly free of British inflection.

“It was the coffee-snorting guy from the bar, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was smirking, lean and tan—like I like them. My thighs shook. I thought my legs would give out. I managed, ‘Well I guess I could—’

“And, then he was on me pressing his lips to mine, parting them with his tongue. A smell of Jovan Musk drifted from his throat, musk and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Something like rust, iron, pungent. But he was too good a kisser to allow myself to drift into critique. His mouth moved to my throat, sucking at the skin there, scraping his teeth against the taut flesh.

“That’s when I saw Chase. The man had left the bedroom door open. Inside, Chase lay on the bed, his head bent back over the foot of it, upside down, eyes wide but vacant, a huge smile on his pudgy dead face. He did look thinner, though.

“At some point, the man’s interest in my neck had become less sexual and more epicurean. The lapping sound returned and I blacked out for the second time, and when I woke up, I was a vampire.”

“That’s it? How did you turn?” Wendy asked, for my benefit.

“I didn’t know then, the specifics of it. But it’s kind of simple. Just drain out the old blood and blow in the new. Like this.” Gil bit his cheek and blew a bit of spray into the air, where it kept traveling across the room, finally coming to rest in a scatter of spots on some guy’s cream linen jacket. Frankly, it improved the look. Really, linen?

“Well?”

Wendy and I just looked at each other, then back at him.

“Well what?” I shrugged.

“Don’t you have anything to say, a comment, anything?” His face reddened, no small feat for a bloodless creature, but the Gertz was creeping in, and he did seem to be channeling some of the snotty prep of Ms. Muffy. I wondered if that was a real side effect. If so, the practical joke possibilities would be endless.

“You probably should have kept that to yourself, chubby chaser.” I almost couldn’t get the words out. They were followed by a rolling explosion of laughter that quickly enveloped Wendy, who pointed at Gil, convulsing in fits of hilarity.

“He didn’t blow me!”

“Then how was your dick out? Do you have a habit of airing it?” I asked.

“Shut up!”

“Oooh, defensive.” Wendy blew him a kiss.

“I guess we’ll never know, unless…was there any clotted cream around?” I asked in my best British accent.

“Yeah! Did you check around your bangers and beans?” Wendy had to one-up me with a spot-on cockney.

“Jesus! I’m not telling you guys anything, anymore.”

From then on it was chatty barb slinging.

Wendy to me: “Do you always talk like a drag queen?”

Me to Gil: “You really should take Ricardo out to gay boot camp for a refresher. He’s working it
so
last year.”

Gil to Wendy: “Don’t mind the Princess. She’s just jealous. Ricardo is straight as a coffin nail.”

Wendy to me: “Good to know.”

We sat in silence after the exchange and drained our drinks. At the banquette directly across from ours, a woman sulked, nursing what looked like a strawberry margarita. Her face was doll smooth and ebony; large brown eyes wandered the crowd like runaways. I envied her sugar intake, but wondered what it meant. A zombie would be shitting their bowels out; vampires only drink blood—Gil says the response to other stuff is total projectile vomit; and I didn’t make her for a shapeshifter. So what did that make her? I nudged Gil.

“What’s up with Strawberry Margarita, over there?”

Gil followed my gaze to the pixie-haired black woman, a crazy straw dangling from her pouty lips. “Hard to say, from here. Could be a hemoglobin smoothie.”

Wendy executed a weak spit take that dribbled down her chin like baby formula. I handed her my napkin.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You’re right, I made it up. Maybe she’s a witch, or a switch,” he said.

“Could be some kind of demon,” Wendy proposed.

I just wouldn’t be satisfied with speculation. I scooted out of the booth; behind me Wendy yelled, “Fifty says demon!” She dug in her purse for the bet.

I ferried my glass and joined the mystery woman, passing several gyrating bodies far too early to be on the dance floor. A geeky-looking zombie in broken glasses taped at the bridge flicked his tongue at me like he had a shot. She spotted me and seemed to study my progress toward her. I stuck out my hand.