The Blind Vampire Hunter (2 page)

While placing the glass on the table without
taking my eyes from my meal, I began moving in for my dining
pleasure; he was plenty ready, but just to add a little extra spice
to my meal I slowly slipped my lips up to his and gave his eagerly
waiting lips a gentle kiss. I could feel him shiver with ecstasy
and anticipation. Allowing my lips to glide ever so gently to his
throbbing neck I lovingly eased my real fangs into this phony
Vampire’s neck.

He groaned peacefully into my ear, and went
totally limp in my powerful arms. It was now my turn to go near
orgasmic from anticipation of this so nicely seasoned meal.

With this meal’s life in my hands I had to
make conscious effort to remember this festive day, this day of
many such meals, this day where no one had to die. Reluctantly, I
drew back from my meal, allowing this phony Vampire to continue his
living and his vulgar pursuit of the next woman to bed.

After cleaning up the bite wounds I placed
the phony Vampire on his bed earmarked for nonsleeping, undressed
him of all but his phony Vampire cape, then covered his vulgar
nakedness with said cape. While enthralling him, I had emplaced the
feelings within him that he had had his way with me, and it had
been a mutually enjoyable experience for both partakers, in
particular for him. Feeling a little sluggish from my fine dining I
went back to my seat at the table and enjoyed the festivities
below, temporarily enjoying the peace from above the
festivities.

Later, back within the celebratory mob, as I
was just taking in the sights and sounds, hands came down on my
Vampire cape and a female voice from behind remarked, “You know
what they say; no one knows how to do a woman better than another
woman.”

I turned to look into a pair of cosmetic-free
eyes of a woman in yet another biker outfit.
Biker costumes must
be the big thing this year.
She smelled unhealthy, even though
she looked very healthy. Worried about biting someone with AIDS, I
replied, “Sorry, you’re not my type.” I really had not heard of any
Vampire being infected with AIDS, but who needs to take the chance.
AIDS was never an issue back in the old country.

“Your loss,” she called out while working
back into the crowd. Not feeling any of her flippant loss, I
continued my festive evening.

Later that evening, I had just walked away
from a fine meal I had enjoyed—a most delicious young cowboy,
really a banker in a cowboy costume—when a strong hand came down on
my shoulder and with authority announced, “Excuse me.”

That voice of authority sounded like a
constable, if so no worries. If he saw me with the cowboy, I would
just enthrall him into believing he witnessed me playing kissy face
(and neck) with the cowboy, not feeding on him. I turned and found
a fiftyish suit studying me. No uniform, but he still looked like a
constable. He had locked his gaze on me, looking into my eyes while
taking in the whole me. I decided he had to be a constable.

He continued, “I’m detective Short...”

Funny, he didn’t look like a “Short”
standing about six foot–seven
.

“I have been watching you for some time.”

Great, he witnessed me dining on the cowboy
and figures he’s going to perform some legalisms on me.

I was about to do my voodoo on him when he
surprised me with, “I believe I know your mother.”

Momentarily shocked, I stammered, “What?”

“You are the dead ringer of your mother.
About twenty, yes, about twenty-three years ago I met this
delightful young lady who looked just like you do today. In fact, I
met her not far from here at a Halloween party. She was wearing a
Vampire outfit. Well, when I saw you I was almost sure you had to
be this female Vampire’s, daughter. But when I saw you kissing that
cowboy on the neck, just like your mother kissed me, well I just
had to come up to you and introduce myself.”

I gave him a good looking over and tried to
picture him about twenty-some years younger, but just could not
place him.

“Your name, again?” I asked him.

“Oh, we never shared names. Just tell her
that her Roman Officer of old says ‘hello’.”

NOW I REMEMBER HIM. Yes, he was such a
convincing Roman Officer. He had my mind wandering back to how it
had been back in the days when Caesar just about ruled it all, and
the pomp and pageant of those days.

That night, like tonight, I was in a party
mood and I was going to dine often without the need to kill any of
my meals. Yes, I remember that Roman Officer very well. I wondered
if he would be as tasty today as he was back then?

As I mused on memories of dining on this
detective, he said, “Well, I have taken up enough of your time.
Enjoy the evening and remember to say ‘hello’ to your mother for
me.”

“I will, I surely will.”

I walked off thinking that perhaps it’s time
to relocate and start over, running into old meals like that. Her
thought drifted, thinking of that detective as a Roman officer, got
her thinking back to how easy it had been to dine in Rome during
the times of Caesar.
Rome back when it was the world’s capital.
The world’s capital...Hmmm, maybe I should consider moving to a new
world’s capital, like Washington D.C. perhaps.

Well that decision can wait another night.
Tonight is for partying Vampire style, consuming to my heart’s
desire.

Chapter
One

The Blind is Born...or is
he?

Meanwhile, on the east coast a future vampire
hunter is born.

I was born with very poor eyesight, but then
what baby isn’t?

But in my case, my eyesight was developing so
slowly that when my parents took me to an eye doctor, he examined
my eyes and pronounced me blind. Observing this blind child playing
with his toys so close to his eyes, he sometimes bumped them into
his nose. My parents took this supposedly blind child to another
eye doctor who, after examining me, announced, “He does have some
eyesight. His eyesight is so deteriorated that he is basically
blind. He’s blind and will always be blind.”

Fortunately for me, my parents didn’t give up
that easily. When they heard of a child specialist for eye
treatment, they literally went miles out of their way to have me
see this doctor. He examined me and like the second doctor he
announced, “He does have some eyesight,” but to this he added
information that the second doctor did not, “While his eyesight is
developing very slowly, it is showing some signs of developing. I
would like to continue seeing him, but I feel I must warn you, at
some point we may have to talk eye surgery to get the job
done.”

Providentially for me, my eyesight continued
to develop just enough to keep the surgeon’s knife at bay. At three
years old, I received my first pair of glasses. The lenses truly
looked like they had come off the bottom of two Coke bottles, but
there was an immediate effect; once they were put on me, I saw my
father for the first time. He was standing, and I ran to my mother
who was sitting near me and proclaimed, “Daddy big.”

When it was time to go to school, the Board
of Education proclaimed that I had too much eyesight to go to a
school for the blind, but not enough eyesight to go to a school for
the sighted. In fact, one member of the board of education went so
far as to tell my father, “He’ll never survive the system. Your boy
will just fall through the cracks, never to graduate.” My parents
were fighters and, as the apple does not fall far from the tree, it
turned out that I was also.

After years of being held out of school, my
eyesight finally developed enough that I was visually ready to
attend school for the sighted, so it was decided to put me in
“Special Education” where I could learn at my own pace and feasibly
enter high school somewhere near my age group...

Years later, I entered junior high just one
year behind where I should have been if I had normal eyesight, but
the real education fight was just beginning. The Board of Education
had this rule of putting graduates of “Special Education” in lower
level classes. Makes some sense when you consider the usual
graduate of “Special Education” has some degree of mental challenge
or as my peers would say was...A RETARD.

For the next six years, I fought the school
system to get into classes I should have been in according to my
mental apptitude, instead of low-level classes for the mentally- or
morally-challenged student.

I had to fight this good fight on two
fronts.

Front One: I had to fight to get into higher
education classes that I should have been placed in instead of
classes the system said I should be in, simplistic classes because
I came out of “Special Education.”

A perfect example was this one English class.
It started with a test on Basic English structure, grammar,
spelling and more. I most likely did not do as well as I could have
since I was as busy trying to ignore the student beside me who was
taunting me into fighting the student sitting behind me, who was
just as busily banging my chair to provoke me into fighting him.
Why did he want to fight me? Because it would be more interesting
than taking the test.

The rest of the class was in utter mayhem,
with students climbing the walls to see if they could fit into some
square grooves high up the wall while other students were throwing
schoolbooks out the window to watch them crash on the sidewalk
below. The teacher of this class lasted a week before she needed
hospital rest. (Meaning: We put her in a mental hospital.)
Replacing her was a series of substitutes, not any of which was
stupid enough to return a second day.

One day, this little old lady walked in, who
was replacing an ex-city cop from the day before, and she was fresh
meat for the animals that made up the class. Eventually failing to
tame the class, she just lost it. She grabbed her purse from a desk
drawer, pulled out a picture, and announced, “
I am not a nobody.
This is a picture of me receiving an award from the President of
the United States. This award was for the Teacher of the
Year
.”

A student, sitting near as he was in the
first row of student desks feigning interest in the picture asked
if he could see it. The little old lady in her fragile condition
unthinkingly walked over and gave the famed picture to this
student, saying, “Please pass it around.” As I expected, he tore
the picture into pieces, with the effect of tearing the little old
lady to pieces at the same time. She just stood there crying before
a class of laughing hyenas. I guess you can say I also lost it.
From the middle of the class, I walked up to the crying mess of a
little old lady, handed her purse to her and ordered, “Go see the
school nurse.” She took her purse and walked out. Wild animals
don’t like having fresh meat taken away from them, so I had no
choice but to fight my way out of the classroom.

I worked my way out of a class of shouting,
screaming, wild animals by shoving the closest animals off me and
into school desks, adding confusion to my escape plan. Eventually,
I was able to move the rumble out into the hallway where the
loud-mouthed mayhem was distractingly destructive enough to send
other teachers out from their classrooms.. These teachers, all men,
went into crowd control mode to bring order back to their
classrooms. As the animals were herded back into the classroom by
four male teachers turned cattle ranchers, I started walking down
the hallway, deliberately retreating from the battlefield. One
teacher observing my escape called out, “Get back here or I’ll send
you to the principal’s office.”

I called back, “Don’t bother, that’s where
I’m headed.”

Without any more incidents, I marched into
the principal’s outer office and found his secretary with her hands
full with the terrorized, screaming little old lady. The secretary
looked totally out of her depth in dealing with this hysterical
“teacher”. It did not help that this little old lady noticeably was
trying, unsuccessfully, to communicate and wail in her misery at
the same time.

I ordered, “Where’s Principal Jones?”

“He’s in his office, there.” Pointing to his
closed door, totally untrained for this situation, she asked, “What
happened to her?”

Ignoring the secretary’s question and nearly
kicking in the principal’s door, I marched into Principal Jones’
office and seeing him behind his desk, I angrily asked, “What the
hell were you thinking sending that little old lady into that class
of deranged animals?”

Ignoring my disrespectful attitude, as I was
clearly in the right, he asked in a calm defeated tone, “What
happened?”

“Those animals ate her alive, THAT’S WHAT
HAPPENED.”

“Please Jack, calm down, sit down, and tell
me what happened.”

I did. After giving him all the grubby
details I added, “No way in hell am I going back in there. If you
can’t put me in another English class, I’ll go to the library and
teach myself.” [And yes, I have had past experience teaching myself
in the library because I did not belong in the class to which I was
assigned, and the principal knew it. More than once the principal
(here and in junior high), not having any other place to put me,
put me in the library to teach myself.]

“I understand. Tomorrow I’m teaching the
class...”

Interrupting him boldly, I snapped, “I don’t
care if you talk God himself into teaching that class,
I...am...not...going...back.” I emphasized each word with
feeling.

He tried to stare me down, but failed. He
finally said, “Right. There is another English class during this
time period, but, it’s an advanced class. I don’t think you can
handle it.” I started to argue but he cut me off before I could get
it out. “Also the class is full. I don’t think Miss Masters will
have room for you.