Richard Dansky

October is for scary stories, or so I’ve been told. Happy Halloween, folks. Enjoy.

*****

“When Even The Vampires Don’t Want You”

There comes a point in time when even the vampires don’t want you. I know. I’m there.

Now don’t you go telling me there’s no such thing as vampires. They’re real. I’ve seen them. And they’re all over this damn bar.

It’s why I started coming here, really. To find them. To meet them. To give myself to one of them. No, not like some dumbass teenager who wants a million years of moonlight and roses, and hasn’t quite figured out that to the pretty vampire boy over there, you’re not a love interest, you’re lunch. I knew what I was getting into. I knew what I wanted to get into. And I wanted one of them to kill me.

I mean, it makes sense, right? Most people spend their whole lives just taking up space and using stuff. And then, when they die, they do it some more. An expensive funeral, a plot of land, a wooden box and a shiny rock planted on top of you – all that costs money. All that uses stuff. All that’s just a damn waste. And I didn’t want – I don’t want – any part of it.

I ask the bartender for another beer. Keystone. It’s crap, but it makes my money go further. One of the vampires walks past me, a girl in a black dress buttoned up to her neck and ruffled down to the floor. I’ve seen her here before. Seen her circle around damn fool boys who don’t know any better, make them fall in love in between two heartbeats and then lead them off to God knows where. They think they’re getting a little taste of goth hanky panky. She’s taking one from column B.

I’ve never seen one come back yet, but round midnight she’s here again. Alone.

I smile at her as she goes by. She pretends not to notice. I’m not pretty enough for her. Or she doesn’t like cheap beer. Or maybe she just likes to chase her food a little. The hell if I know. All I do know is that I’ve been coming here for weeks and I’m still here.

It was the plan, you see. Find a vampire, get killed by a vampire, get eaten by a vampire, don’t come back as a vampire. Simple stuff. I figure if I’m going to die – and I want to die, make no mistake about that – someone might as well get some use out of it. I don’t want some funeral home scooping out my guts and throwing them in the trash. I don’t want someone pumping me full of preservatives so I’m a pickle a thousand years after I’m dead. I just want my death to be useful for something, even if that something’s just one meal for a monster. I mean, monsters gotta eat too, right?

That’s what I thought when I found them. I didn’t judge. I still don’t. I just tracked them to the bar, and showed up, and waited. That was days back. Weeks. Maybe a month. I lost track of time. As long as the beer money holds out, I’m fine. The bartender occasionally brings me a sandwich. It’s nice of him. I guess I’m his best customer. It’s not like the vampires drink, after all.

That’s how I spot them here, after all. They don’t want beer. They just want blood. Not just any blood, either. They want it from pretty girls and handsome boys. Sad poets and lost souls looking for shining knights. How this place keeps bringing them in is beyond me. It’s dark and it’s dingy and half the crap in the jukebox won’t play. It’s in the wrong part of town and it’s hard to find and the beer selection sucks.

They’ve got red wine, though. Lots and lots of red wine. I don’t drink it. Maybe that’s my problem.

Then again, I’m not a poet. Never have been. I used to be a project manager. Software. Nothing too exciting, but it was work, and it was with people, and we produced something. It was useful. People liked the product. And that was something. It made me feel good.

But then I got sick. And then I got fired, because I got sick and in this damn state they can fire you for any damn thing they want. And  when you’ve got six months to live and not a whole hell of a lot of cash saved up, you don’t have a lot of options. You can spend it all – the time and the money – suing the bastards in hopes of getting your job back, so you can get the bennies just in time to die, broke. Or you can try to pay for the treatment yourself, and die, broke anyway. Or you can say the hell with it and spend it all on beer, and go out on your own terms.

Generally, that doesn’t involve vampires. Generally, people don’t die of what I’m dying of, either.

Another vampire walks past me. He’s a little older, a little less human looking. Doesn’t blink enough, like he’s forgotten he’s supposed to do that. Sharp dresser, though. They’re all sharp dressers. I used to be a sharp dresser.

He looks at me. That’s new. I stare back. “Can I buy you a drink?” I say, and wave my Keystone at him. Wrong thing to say. Stupid.

He shakes his head. Doesn’t walk away. That’s new.

“You should find another bar,” he says, and points at the door.

“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I’ve got just as much right to drink here as you do.”

I’m half-expecting some long-winded speech about how rights don’t apply to them, or maybe how when he talked to Cicero about human rights legislations and hate crimes against vampires, or God knows what else.

I don’t get that. I get a shrug and a sigh. Then I get a finger, pointed, at the door. “Seriously. You should go.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I tell him. “If you want me out of here, you’ll have to take me out yourself.”

The bar gets quiet. Maybe the jukebox picked a good time to break down. Maybe everyone’s hushed to hear what’s happening. Maybe I’m just stupid and melodramatic and dying, and I want this to be big. Important, even.

The bartender steps forward to intervene, and the vampire raises a hand. It’s the universal sign for “I’ll take care of this.” The bartender stops. He blinks. Then he turns away and starts washing glasses with a dirty rag. He knows. Everyone here knows. I’m an idiot. The sad poets know. The lost girls know. It’s why they come here.

And they still won’t take me.

“Please,” I say. The bar stays quiet.

“No,” the vampire says.

My guts churn. My vision blurs. The beer bottle slips out of my fingers. It falls to the floor and breaks. A little beer spills. A lot of glass shatters.

“Why not?” I finally croak out.

“Does it matter?” He stares at me and doesn’t blink.

“Yes,” I say, while my mind races. I’m too old. I’m too ugly. I drink the wrong beer. I don’t dress right. I like the wrong music. I’m not a sad poet. I’m not a poet at all. There’s no poetry in me, just blood and meat and sadness and-

“You’d taste bad,” he says, and walks away. Over his shoulder, I hear him add, “Now you should go.”

Around him, the bar comes back to life. The music starts again, or it seems to. People talk. Vampires talk. Vampires talk to people. I feel alone. I feel sick. Whatever’s in my gut is trying to get out.

A shadow falls over me. I look up. It’s the bartender. “I’m sorry,” he says, and hands me another beer, some domestic brand I don’t recognize. Probably trying to get rid of it because he can’t sell it. I don’t care. “One for the road. You’ll be leaving, right?”

I take a swig. My mouth tastes like bile and sour milk. The beer is too sharp and on the edge of skunked. Together the tastes are indescribable. Disgusting. Horrible.

Maybe it’s an acquired taste. Maybe there are other acquired tastes. Maybe I’ll wait a little longer.

“Not yet,” I say, and reach for the beer again. “Not just yet.”