F U C K I N '
H A R D C O R E
A 'Vampire Red' short story by
Alex Severin.
ORLANDO, FL - 1.25am - NOVEMBER
24th
Paul heard the throb of the music
coming from inside the Death Row club. It was like a heartbeat, strong,
steady, exciting.
He sat alone in the diner across
the street, his nose buried in a well-worn book. His copy of Bloody Love
by Lily Transyl was already tattered, the spine rubbed and cracked, the
cover creased, and some pages dog-eared from folding them over to keep
his place.
Certain paragraphs in the book had
been marked with luminous yellow highlighter pen. But now, after reading
Bloody Love so many times, Paul barely needed to consult the text any more
- he could recite page after page without faltering and swore that he knew
the entire book by heart. And he was sure that Lily Transyl could read
his mind, he was sure that Lily had written Bloody Love just for him. It
was the book he had always wanted, the book he would have loved to write
and the book that he would treasure forever. And tonight, he would do what
he'd always wanted to do, inspired by Lily's words, sure beyond a shadow
of a doubt that she was telling him to carry out his will.
Paul's body seemed to vibrate with
excitement, anticipation tightening each muscle with deliciously painful
little knots.
God, please let her be there.
Please let her be there. I need this.
He waited patiently.
Each time the music swelled as the
front door of the club was opened, Paul would feel a shock of electricity
running through him as he searched the throng of bodies for her.
She called herself Belladonna.
He tapped his foot rapidly on the
floor, on edge with anticipation, as he read and chewed on his black-lacquered
thumb nail. He tutted at himself, worried in case a chip of nail polish
was wedged in his teeth. It would absolutely ruin the look of his custom
fangs if they were covered in flakes of bitten off nail varnish.
Paul's heart almost shot into his
throat as he saw her curvaceous, killer body strut out into the night air
as if she owned it, as if the very street she walked on belonged to her.
Dozens of people outside spoke to
her as she passed by. She said nothing, but threw them a smile and carried
on her way down the street.
Her skin glowed in the moonlight
and the humid night air made her body shimmer with a touch of sweat. Her
clothes, black shining rubber, looked fluid. Paul imagined smearing black
liquid latex over her body, smoothing his hands over her curves, the swell
of her breasts and the tight buds of her nipples.
"Gothic flesh," he whispered, and
licked his lips.
As he stepped out into the night
he began to perspire profusely, his clothes wet through in moments. He
trembled as adrenaline raced through his system.
Tonight's the night.
Tonight they will come.
Belladonna took the same route from
the club every time. She was always alone. Paul had often wondered why
she was always on her own - such a stunning, fuckable chick would surely
have her pick of men or women, or both.
He picked up his pace as she reached
the dark alley she always took. Paul had the notion that she was inviting
an attacker, practically goading him to do his worst.
He was mesmerized by her form, bathed
in alternate flashing red and darkness from a buzzing neon sign that read
Live Sex! and entranced by the gentle sway of her ample ass as she sashayed
down the alley. He imagined taking a bite out of it as if it were a huge,
fleshy peach, and instead of sweet, sticky juices running over his face,
there would be the piquant taste of her blood.
The degradation of his surrounding
aroused him - he knew what went on in this alley, day and night. Blood
crushed into his cock and he adjusted himself as his skin-tight leather
jeans became uncomfortable.
He inhaled deeply and smelled the
scent of piss, old and new, and his eyes rolled as the thick soles of his
black boots squelched onto a spent condom. A discarded hypodermic smashed
beneath his feet and he wondered if there was death in the blood residue
on the needle.
He looked down a dark side street,
just off the rancid alley and saw bodies writhing together among piles
of festering trash. His lip curled in disgust but all the while his cock
grew steadily harder.
Belladonna half-turned her head and
slowed her pace - she knew somebody was following her, somebody who was
breathing heavily, breath baited in anticipation of something. She rolled
her eyes.
Paul was sure she was allowing him
to catch up with her after he'd been distracted by the side show in the
garbage.
Ever-so-slowly, she turned around.
Paul stumbled backward against the
slick alley wall as his knees buckled and all the strength drained out
of his body.
Her eyes were wild, the irises black
and shining. But there was something behind her eyes, something feral,
something ancient, that shone, iridescent like illuminated amber - the
glint in a cat's eyes catching the light.
She grinned at him as she reached
out and grabbed him by the throat, effortlessly raised him clear off the
ground and slammed him into the wall. As his mouth opened in a vain attempt
to scream, she could see his custom fangs glistening with his excited saliva.
As she spoke, he could see the gleaming
white tips of two pin-sharp incisors.
"What you gonna do, badass, bite
me?"
Paul tried to scream but she was
squeezing the air from his throat, crushing his larynx and his vocal cords.
"All you fucking wannabe vampires
- you're giving us a bad rep."
The vampire stabbed her sharpened
black nails into the flesh of his throat, tearing away skin and flesh and
fat. She put her mouth to the pissing red wound and drank.
Belladonna rubbed his cock through
his leathers as she fed on him, and laughed as he reached out, desperately
trying to grab her right tit. His body spasmed then stiffened in the throes
of orgasm even though he knew he was dying.
Paul's moans of pain and pleasure
were an eerie gargle that rushed from the gaping hole in his throat.
"Damn, you're fuckin' hardcore!"
Belladonna laughed uproariously at
him, her face painted with an expression that was close to admiration.
She shook her head, grinning as she hooked two fingers into his mouth and
under his tongue and yanked down hard.
She let go of him and his shocked
body slid down the wall and landed on the piss-stinking alley floor.
As the vampire looked at her latest
victim, she felt a fleeting stab of pity for him - an old habit she had
not quite lost. He was so young and she wondered, momentarily, what he
was like, what he did for a living, if he had a lover who would mourn him.
Then she spat on him. He was meat.
Cattle to be herded for her sustenance. He was no more to her than a cheeseburger
was to him. Food. Nothing more.
She walked away without a backward
glance at the sack of skin-covered bones she left behind. He was all but
dead now, drained of blood, no more than a pile of bones and ripped flesh.
The poetic irony of his demise did
not escape him as death began to shroud him.
He had spent his whole life longing
for his belief, his strongest faith, to be proven beyond any doubt - that
vampires - real vampires, immortal vampires - existed.
His plan to draw himself to the attention
of a real vampire was that if he drank human blood, slept in a coffin,
lived a nocturnal existence, and showed dedication and respect for such
a life, that his wish for immortality would be granted by them.
Paul smiled at the cutting irony
of his murder, but the sensation didn't feel right. He reached up a shaking
hand and touched his face; his brow knotted as he felt for his chin, only
to touch his upper teeth and feel his tongue lying against his opened throat.
Belladonna had ripped off his lower jaw and now all that hung from his
face were strips of torn skin and ragged flesh. He choked out a gargled
laugh, an unnatural sound that made his own skin crawl. The sound was wet
sucking and dry blowing as blood and air escaped straight from his lungs
and our through the hole in his neck, and out into the night air.
I did it. I did it! I'm gonna
be a real vampire now . I'm gonna live forever.
Paul reached out and grabbed hold
of his discarded jaw bone. He was certain, that if he held it in place
before he died, it would miraculously reattach itself and be good as new
when he woke to his new life as an immortal vampire.
The last drop of life ran out from
the torn artery in Paul's neck; he slumped, dead, face down in a pile of
human shit. The last thing he heard was the rattle of his jaw bone hitting
the ground beside him.
© Alex
Severin 2004
