5 out of 5 stars: A deadly and dashing vampire
This American city was a modern postcard of Christmas, so far removed from the ancient ones Talan had frequented in his native Europe during this time of year. It was picture perfect with fallen snow and Christmas splashed across everything. Each person he saw had arm loads of presents packed tight into cradling arms, last-minute shoppers rounding up what they could before the stores closed for the evening.
He stood there a moment and took it all in, sack growing heavy on his arms. He hated to leave this scene, hated to do what he had to do next, because Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better picture than the one he was witnessing. But, he had to feed. He had to eat. The hunger was consuming him now, and the smell of the blood in these happy mortals was almost more than he could resist.
He found a dark alley, looked around, and seeing no one watching, leaped straight up, landing on top of a roof covered in three to four inches of fresh snow. His boots treaded lightly across this white ground, as he found a corner and stashed the sack. He then walked over to the door that led onto the roof. He pried it open, and slipped inside. Down a few sets of stairs, he found what he was looking for. It was an electrical outlet. He plugged in his IPod, looked around for a moment. He walked down to the door that opened onto this set of stairs. It was an emergency door, complete with siren and all, so he knew his IPod would be safe until he got back. He walked back up, onto the roof, and over to the edge of the building. He peered down. Seeing no one about, he stepped over the edge, and gently dropped back onto the snow-covered asphalt below.
He pulled up the collar of his black coat, and made his way down to the docks. The sea breeze was strong off the ocean, cold and salty, as he turned on his predator instincts. He had feasted often in this area while he surveyed the city for those in need, but he rotated his hunting ground. Among the bars, strip joints, and desolate streets he moved each and every night, finding his victim or victims among the dregs of society. It was a great area to hunt and feed, because most of the people who frequented here had no one at home that would miss them.
The first victim was rather easy to spot. The guy was about sixty with a real white beard, and straggly unkempt white hair. He was dressed like Santa Claus from his boots to his stocking cap, but he sure wasn’t acting like the jolly old elf. This guy was trying to find a pro for the night, someone cheaply paid to take the edge off.
“Just go away mister. I don’t do cheap,” the hooker replied, as she tried desperately to get away from Santa.
“Come on. It’s Christmas. Five bucks has got to get me something,” Santa replied turning up the bottle inside the brown bag. He drank down a big gulp, burped, wiped his mouth, and tried to advance on her, get a cheap fill if you will.
“Please, just go away.”
He grabbed her by the hair, and pushed her against the wall. “Listen! I’ve been stuck in this suit for a month. Letting snotty little bitches and bastards sit on my lap so they can tell me all they want for Christmas. I’ve been snotted on, pissed on, and shit on. I need this, and you’re going to give it to me. And I’m not going to pay a dime. You got that bitch!”
The woman started to cry. She had gone into this line of work to pay a few bills, and was warned by so many that this part of town was no place even for a prostitute. She hadn’t listened, of course, and now she was going to pay for her arrogance . . . to be continued next Sunday at 6 A.M. Did you miss a post? Check out the Category “Tales from the Blog” in order to catch up. Have a great Sunday.
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