Demons and Other Inconveniences

by Dan Dillard

A special nod to all those who take vampires seriously, even if I don’t. Monsters are important, as they show us what it is to be human.

  V------V

  On the door there is a plaque, brass with black letters, which reads Dr. Ellen Francis. I am more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life.

  Her face is drawn up into an expression that can only come from years of practiced condescension.

  “Mr. Barton, or can I call you David?”

  “David is fine.”

  She writes that down. Great. For this amount of money I could finance a car, or I can apparently pay some shrink to remember my name. Not that money matters anymore. At least I guess it doesn’t.

  “Can I call you Ellen?” I ask.

  “Let’s remain professional, shall we?” she says.

  She crosses her hands on the desk and smiles at me. It’s another rehearsed look, and strikes me the wrong way. The door is inches away and nothing is forcing me to be here. She interrupts my thoughts of escape.

  “So, tell me why you are here today?”

  As I look around the office I realize I don’t belong. Everything is dusted and placed according to some cosmic code of perfection only achieved in magazines. It makes the reason behind my visit sound that much more asinine.

  I’ll just say it. “I’m a vampire.”

  Not a flinch, not even a blink from the pudgy Ellen Francis, super shrink to the undead.

  “Interesting, and how long has this been going on?”

  This is my li—er—death now. Three weeks ago I got jumped by some hippie in the park and he bit me and sucked on my neck. Who knew undead was an STD? Insensitive prick.

  It’s not like wishing for death because you farted on a date…or because your job sucks…or just to give sweet relief from the difficulties of life. Being undead sucks (no pun intended). There’s not even a death option anymore. I mean, who commits suicide by driving a stake through their own heart? Who could do that? It’s an awkward angle to swing the mallet, and well, the logistics are too much to consider. Back to that hippie asshole…

  There are simpler reasons I take issue with my new found state:

  1. I love garlic.

  All the wonderful ethnic foods that are out there and I’m stuck with blood. It tastes like sticky metal. Nasty. I won’t even suck on a paper cut. Anyway, I took a bite of pizza from my fridge that next morning and the garlic burned my tongue. It was cold…Fuck.

  2. I’m a morning person.

  I liked to get up early for Christ’s sake…which leads me to

  3. I like coffee.

  This just sucks (still no pun intended).

  There are other things as well. For instance, I’m glad I’m not female, because the no reflection thing is weird. Putting on makeup must be a bitch.

  Well, I still have a partial reflection, but I can see through me. That’s a trip in itself. If it gets any worse, I’ll have to guess if my hair is right, assume my skin is clear, and the beard will just have to grow. So I’m not only doomed to suck blood, but I’ll have to do it with bad hair. Screw it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a vampire with a beard, although Dracula had a ‘stache in one of those movies. How does one take the time to wash the blood out of his facial hair after a meal?

  That brings me to my final point, and this is a tad embarrassing. I pass out at the sight of blood. Can’t handle it. Don’t like red jelly. Even red paint makes me swoon. So here I sit with a therapist who thinks I’m one nut short of a testicle sack and I just want help. 

  She’s round enough to fill her leather chair and her nose has red marks where her cheap, reading glasses normally sit. They’ve slid down, and she is staring at me over top of them.

  “A few weeks,” I reply.

  She scribbles something in her notepad. I’d bet it’s a shopping list. She brings the sarcasm out in me.

  “Is that why you requested such a late appointment? You are my last of the day.”

  “Yup, sunscreen wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped,” I say.

  She looks up over her reading glasses but is not amused. It was true. I put on sunscreen after I figured out I was undead. SPF 60. It was the strongest stuff I could find at the drug store. The next morning I rolled out of bed and wandered outside just to sizzle like a piece of bacon. God I miss bacon.

  “Where did you become a vampire?” she asks in her droning clinical tone.

  Where? That’s an odd question. What does that matter?

  “Walking home. I cut through the park like always, and one bit me,” I answer.

  “Oh,” she says.

  “Yep.”

  “How did you know he was a vampire?” She stops writing and crosses her fingers on the desk. Her cocked head and one raised eyebrow tell me she’s dying to hear this.

  “He gave me his business card,” I say.

  She frowns.

  “Honestly, he had fangs and bit me on the neck and drank my blood. Don’t you read books? I mean, you are a doctor.” I guess I’m letting some frustration show.

  “Yes, and I rather enjoy vampire stories.” She crosses her legs under the desk and contemplates my face. I look away, uncomfortable.

  “Shouldn’t I be afraid you will kill me?”

  She should. I would love to kill her. I could strangle her with her own dyed red hair, or stick that Cross pen in her eye, except for my phobia, which I need to tell her about. It’s just so embarrassing. She’s staring at me, one pudgy finger tapping on her desk blotter. Tap, tap, tap. Fine, you asked for it.

  “I can’t.”

  She’s still staring at me over those reading glasses.

  “I’m afraid of the sight of blood. I…faint.”

  That gets a laugh that’s clipped, politely, for my benefit.

  “I see your predicament,” she says, scribbling again.

  “How did you think I could help?”

  “I’m not sure you can. You were just the first shrink in the book who had an open appointment slot.” Another frown. Did she think I’d heard through a mutual vampire friend that she was a whiz with creatures of the night? I hate this woman.

  “Well there’s no cure that I’m aware of for vampires, but we might be able to work something out.”

  She smiles as she writes.

  “Are there any other creatures of the night I should be aware of?” she says.

  I knew talking to anyone was a bad idea and my face now shows it. Did I mention I’m paying her for this abuse?

  “How the hell should I know? This is all new to me.”

  Now I’m lying on the couch. I’m surprised to see an actual couch, just like in films. What do you call this thing anyway? Crazy couch works. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

  Psycho sofa.

  I stifle a chuckle when she speaks.

  “Where are your fangs? You do have fangs, right?”

  I don’t. Not yet anyway. I guess they’ll come in eventually. How long does it take to grow teeth? In books and movies you get bit and BANG! You got beautiful, white, pointy choppers. Me? I had nothing but regular teeth, although my gums have been aching. Holy shit, I’m thirty-seven years old and I’m teething.

  “Not yet. I know that sounds bat-shit crazy. I guess they haven’t grown in.”

  “I don’t use the term crazy, but it is definitely out of the scope of normal.”

  No shit. Vampire is the new normal…and I’ve learned this for the nominal price of only $210.00 an hour. She puts the pen down again and takes her glasses off to make a point.

  “Have you confronted this man that bit you? Maybe he has the answers.”

  I hadn’t considered that. Why should I? He attacked me. I guess, being a vampire, and already undead, I have nothing to fear. What could be worse, right? “So your advice is for me to go back and talk to a vampire that has attacked me once already?”

  “I’m still on the fence about the vampire thing,” she says.

  Bitch.

  “Fine, sa
y he’s not a vampire, but he still attacked me. You’re advising me to go find the guy who attacked me, and ask him to have a chat?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Fear. Anger. He might not be there. It’s Tuesday. Purple. I could think of a hundred reasons why this was a bad idea.

  “Hadn’t considered it. Right after the session is over, I’ll go talk to him,” I say.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” she says as if she just solved everything.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Many times our differences can be solved with communication.”

  “I thought that’s what I was doing here,” I say. The irony was apparently lost on her.

  Dr. Ellen ignored my statement. Man, I wish I had my fangs. The holes in my neck healed within a day so I have no proof. I could show her the mirror thing, but I don’t see one handy. If I looked like her, I wouldn’t have one either. It’s not worth it anyway, she’d explain it away.

  “What if he attacks me again?”

  “If you’re a vampire, it shouldn’t matter, right?”

  “Right.”

  Logical bitch.

  This is stupid. She’s not even treating me as a crazy person. I feel more like a kid that needs to stand up to the school bully. I don’t want to talk to her anymore. Maybe silence is a better option.

  “Do you sleep in a coffin?” she says.

  She doesn’t subscribe to my silence idea. “No, a waterbed, but I did have to black out my windows. Like I said, the sun is not my friend.”

  “Ah. So the legends are all true in your experience?”

  “So far. I haven’t been staked yet, but when that happens, you’ll be the first person I call. And there’s the blood thing.”

  I’d tell her my garlic story, but I don’t like her, and it’s a funny story, and it might bring her some joy. Fuck this quack. I’m ready to roll and thankfully our time is over.

  “Will I see you next week?” she asks.

  “Yep, maybe I’ll have proof by then,” I say and jump up to leave. She’s probably a werewolf. Bitch.

  V------V

  It’s very dark outside, which is a relief. I’m self-conscious when I run into people. I don’t look good in pale, and I’m worried someone might call an ambulance if they see me. I feel weak, and my hands are a nice shade of corpse. The sidewalk ends and I wait for the walk light, which is silly. It’s a small town.

  Headline: Vampire Jaywalks. News at Nine.

  On the way to the park, I catch a whiff of the little Italian restaurant on the corner. Heaven. Garlic heaven. Fuck.

  That hippie better be there because I need answers. There is a patch of open grass with a fountain in the center. It is surrounded by trees which help block the noise from the street. During the day, people sit and read, kids play, dogs catch Frisbees. Who would think, in that same peaceful spot each night, a loathsome, hippie-dickbag churns out an army of bloodsuckers?

  I can see the clearing, the fountain, the benches, and my maker. He is lying on the same park bench, head in his hands, watching the sky. I can see his dreadlocked hair and rainbow colored, tie-dyed shirt. His skin looks unhealthy, like mine. His eyes are closed.

  I kick his legs off the bench and he says, “What the what, dude?”

  It’s an appropriate response. He blinks and sits up, his eyebrows forming an angry V. “You don’t know who you’re screwin’ with,” he says.

  He sounds stoned. He smells stoned. How long does that stench linger?

  “I do actually. You bit me a few weeks back.”

  He already pisses me off. His brow softens and he holds a hand up to shield his eyes from the street lamp behind me and smiles. Still smiling and nodding his head, he breaks into a laugh.

  “Oh yeah, man, I remember you. Sweet.”

  Huh? Is this guy…

  He interrupts my thought with, “Say, what’s up bro?”

  What’s up bro? Really? It’s not worth the stupid conversation. I skip right to the point.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask.

  His face turns solemn and he pats the bench next to him. “Have a seat, man,” he says.

  Great, a polite demon. He’s like an attorney.

  “I don’t kill people, man. I just take what I need and move on.”

  “Take what you…? I’m not a Goodwill. Am I supposed to find this comforting?”

  “Chill, dude.”

  “Chill. You want me to chill? Of course you would.” I look to the stars, hoping there’s an answer up there, or maybe an asteroid aimed at my face. “This is hell. I’m in hell. It’s your fault. I can’t eat garlic or bacon or drink coffee. Do you understand that?”

  “Um, no, dude. Not really. I was a vegan before it happened to me and I don’t like coffee—it affects the brain, man. As you can imagine, it was quite a challenge to learn the vampire thing. I’ve been at it for a while though, biting people, drinking the juice. Good times.”

  “A while? You’re tellin’ me that you’ve created others?”

  “Oh, yeah, man. Let’s see. I feed, like, twice a week, and I’m goin’ on six months of the night life now. That’s like fifty bat-people, I guess.”

  Bat people. Against all odds, I’m starting to like this guy. “Six months? Fifty vampires, you say.”

  He pauses, checking the math again.

  “Yup. That sounds about right.”

  He has no regrets. He’s actually comfortable with the whole scenario.

  “Hey, I’m sorry I turned you, man. Did you need something?” he asks.

  “A lotta good sorry does me.”

  “Yeah. Right,” he says, shaking his shaggy head.

  “Look. I can’t drink blood. I don’t even have fangs. Can I change back?”

  “Ha ha, no dude. This is fairly permanent. Your fangs will grow. I had mine in a few weeks. You gotta feed, bro. That speeds up the whole process.”

  “You don’t understand. I faint at the sight of blood.”

  “Whoa.” He scratches his arm and stares into space. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

  “Yes it is,” I say.

  He is still staring at nothing when I shake my head, discouraged, and get up to leave. He grabs my arm and I catch a glimpse of his long dirty fingernails. I draw back a fist, ready to swing when I realize he isn’t attacking, but looking up with concern in his face.

  “Dude, I think I can help. Like I said, I used to be vegan. Blood was never my choice of grub either. I’m working on a fix for that.”

  I sit back down.

  “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “You said two weeks?” he asks.

  “Two weeks tomorrow.”

  “Wow. You gotta be starving, man.” He looks over me.

  “Not really. I feel weak, but not...”

  “Yeah, you look like ass, too. You gotta eat.”

  “How? I pass out at the…” I shudder. “Thought.”

  He inhales deeply through his nose, waving his head around slowly as if he was sampling a fine wine, which is something I imagine he’s never done. He looks at me.

  “Can’t you smell it? There’s blood everywhere.” He waves his arms around dramatically. “Like everywhere,” he says, repeating himself for impact.

  I smell spaghetti marinara and piss-stained bum. I smell sweet, rotting grass clippings from that afternoon. People walk all around us on the bustling streets and watching them makes me nervous, as if I might at once become unable to control an impulse I haven’t yet had.

  “Focus, man. Think of it as something else. I call it the juice,” he says hypnotically.

  “The juice?”

  “Yeah, bro. The juice of life.” He smiles, proud of himself.

  “That is fucking corny.”

  “Let it ride man. Trust me.”

  Trust is something I’m fresh out of, but what’s it gonna do, kill me?

  I take a deep breath as I close my eyes, ready to give it the ol’ college try. I feel sufficiently
focused and open my eyes. I take another breath. There it is. I can smell it. I can hear the heartbeats, thumping like hundreds of marching soldiers. I’m salivating. I’m starving. I’m nauseated. I’m seeing twinkly little sparks of light.

  I’m fainting.

  V------V

  “Dude?”

  What the hell is that noise? I’m so clammy. My tongue feels like a dry sponge.

  “Hey, dude? You ok?”

  It’s the hippie vampire. This is so surreal. So stupid. “I’m fine,” I say and sit back up from my slump.

  “Man, you really are a pussy, aren’t you?”

  He’s smiling at me, the points of his fangs tucked behind his lower lip.

  “I told you, although I’m not sure pussy is the term.”

  “Oh yeah, you passed out at the thought of blood. You’re a total pussy.”

  He has a point. I’m a dreaded monster, a thing of nightmares that lives on the stuff, but I can’t even think about it. I am a total pussy.

  He stands up and claps his grubby hands. “I have another idea that might work.”

  I’m not ready for more experimenting. Can I starve to death? I’m already dead-ish. What choice do I have? “Look. Could you tell me your name first? I feel like we should be introduced, you know, since you killed me.”

  He straightens, a surprised look on his face, then extends his hand for me to shake.

  “Totally. I’m Bob.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. Bob.”

  “Bob the hippie vampire? Dracula-Bob?”

  “Nope, just Bob. And I’m no hippie, man. I’m a surfer.”

  But of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? “Surfer? What the hell are you doing in the Midwest?” I say, agitated.

  He nods.

  “I was visiting my parents, got bit, and now here I sit.” Bob chuckles at his rhyme.

  “Well, Bob, I’m David.”

  “It is cool to make your acquaintance,” he says and hands me a joint.

  Now, I haven’t smoked weed in almost twenty years, but at the moment, it doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. I grab it and look at it, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger.

  “What do you expect me to do with this?”

  Bob laughs. “Smoke the shit out of it, sir,” he says.

  “What’s that gonna do?”

  “Mellow you out. It’ll center you mind. Best of all, it’ll give you the mad munchies. High people eat anything. Just take a hit, man.”

  He smiles while he pats the pockets of his dingy gray cargo pants. “I got a match around here somewhere.”

  I’m confused. “I don’t understand, you mean I can smoke?” I ask.

  “Why not?” he says.

  “Well, it’s illegal for one thing.”

  Bob looks discouraged. “You’re dead, dude. Crap all over the law.”

  He has a point. We drink blood against people’s will. That’s probably a minor infraction. “You’re right. So I’ll smoke some weed,” I say.

  Bob smiles again. “Smoke the shit outta that weed,” he says. His smile fades and he looks up, trying to remember something, focusing on me. “I wouldn’t suggest eating regular food though. I tried a salad right after I got turned. It wasn’t pretty, dude.”

  “Thanks. I don’t want any details,” I say.

  “No. No you don’t. Just stick with the juice.” He finds the matchbook he was looking for and holds his hand out. I give him back the tightly rolled little gadget, and he lights it, taking a drag and offering it to me again. I take it from him and suck in some smoke. It tickles my throat but tastes nice. I cough a series of deep and painful explosions of thick smoke. My chest aches and Bob laughs.

  “Again, dude. Ain’t gonna kill ya.”

  I go again with the same results. The third pull is smoother, and the fourth even better.

  My skin starts to tingle with warmth and I can feel my black vampire soul relax. After the fifth hit, I’m sufficiently high. So much so, that I don’t even realize Bob has in his clutches another bum, and has popped his teeth into the bum’s neck like a juice box. He wipes the blood from his mouth, smearing it on his lips. The bum lays slumped in a heap next to the bench. Strangely, it doesn’t bother me.

  “Now, dude. Try again,” Dracula-Bob says.

  I close my eyes and start giggling. He joins me for a minute. “You ate that guy,” I say, chuckling.

  “He was tasty.”

  “Will he be a bat-people?” I ask.

  Bob snorts, and it takes him a minute to stop giggling.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  He chuckles some more. “You said he be a people.”

  I did. He’s right.

  “Well will he?”

  Bob feels for the bum’s pulse, then grins.

  “In a couple days. Man, I just hope he’s smarter than you,” Bob says.

  The insult doesn’t bother me. Best of all, the blood on his lips doesn’t bother me. Nothing bothers me. Bob places a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are dark and his cheeks ruddy; he almost looks alive.

  “Control, man, you need control. Try it again.”

  Eyes closed, I relax and take a few deep breaths. I can hear everything. I can hear the heartbeats. I can smell hot flowing blood, the juice of life, and my stomach isn’t turning. I can distinguish one pulse from another. I can picture their faces, young or old, male or female. I can smell their life force and zone in on one in particular. My gums ache as the fangs throb underneath, but it’s a sweet feeling, like longing for a lover you haven’t seen in weeks.

  “You’re a flippin’ genius, Bob,” I say as I open my eyes.

  “Wow. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me,” he says, staring blankly.

  “I don’t doubt that.” I stand to find my snack.

  “You go get ‘em, dude,” I hear Bob say as I leave. “Follow the juice, dude!”

  V------V

  My first kill is younger than me and she is quite beautiful. I can smell her above all others, tuned in like a radio. There’s a faint hint of sweat laced with alcohol. She wears a blue dress, cut high on the legs and low on the chest. Sexy. I’ve wanted to eat women before, but this is different. Strangely, I feel a sick sort of revenge against all the beautiful ones who ignored me during high school…and since high school. The feeling continues as I grab her and shove her into the back seat of her tiny import and pull the door shut. I don’t remember her screaming or any sort of struggle. It was all one fluid, orgasmic, splatter of beautiful red paint. Kinky sex without the walk of shame.

  I don’t have the restraint Bob has and I drain her until she turns cold. I wonder if he killed a few until he got the hang of things, before he found the juice of life. If I could bottle it, I’d call it, “Dracula-Bob’s Life Juice.” No question.

  Blood tastes different after the body dies, stale and thick. I guess that’s how you know when to stop. It rushes through me like a wildfire and fills my whole being with vitality. The worry is gone, the stress is gone and the hunger is gone. It’s four thirty in the morning and I need to get safely tucked away from the sun.

  Bob is not on his bench when I pass back through the park. I stagger back to my apartment using the alleyways so I won’t be seen and head to the bathroom to wash my face. When I turn the light on I can see the buds of my new fangs poking through the gums in my nearly see-through face. Crimson smears cover my cheeks, hands and clothes. I feel a sudden wave of remorse for the dead girl in the car and then I faint again.

  V------V

  The painful pulsing in my head is interrupting this wonderful dream where I’m suckling this giant breast. I feel like a newborn baby, only, when the pounding starts, I see it isn’t milk I’m drinking. Gross. Actually, either way it’s gross. God, I need to go scrub my brain or something. And that awful smell, can that be my breath? It’s like rot mixed with that morning cat-shit smell and stale weed. Throbbing. Banging.

  It feels like someone pounding on a
drum, or pounding on a–on a door. My front door is getting its metal-clad-foam-cored ass kicked.

  “Who the…”

  According to my clock, it should be dusk outside. I’m not expecting anyone. What I am doing is holding my pillow in a pseudo-sexual way which could explain the giant tit-sucking dream I was just having.

  My gums ache. My fangs have pushed through, sitting between my canines and their neighboring incisors. There’s a headache involved that I don’t want to talk about. That, plus I’m not sure that girl wasn’t completely obliterated drunk, and now I’m probably hung over. And I don’t remember–wait–I do remember feeling faint. I remember staring at my face in the mirror, it was semi-transparent, but there was blood smeared all over it. I looked like a kid on his first birthday, covered in red cake icing. I remember the world swimming and–ouch! I must have smacked my chin on the sink on the way down.

  Chin is tender. Stepping into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I see the blood smeared, dried chocolate brown, on the sink, the mirror—which now shows no trace of me. I close my eyes before I fall out and fumble for the faucet handles, spinning the hot side on full blast and grabbing for the hand towel to wipe the gore away. Then I fold the towel, wipe off the mirror and toss the towel in the trash.

  “Hello?” I hear from the door. A voice. Female. Young. Pissed.

  “Give me a damn minute!” I shout. I look at my watch and see something I hadn’t noticed before, it’s Friday. I came home early Wednesday morning. I’ve been asleep for three days. Shit. That makes sixteen days I’ve been a vampire. I should have called the parents by now, to let them know I’m, well, that I’m on vacation or something.

  I open the mirror cabinet and start to brush my teeth. Thankfully, the sink is clean enough, and the towel in the trash looks dirty in the dim lighting. When I close the mirror-door, no one is looking back at me, but I like watching the toothbrush move around on its own.

  Still more knocking. Louder.

  “Hello?” she says, her voice irritated and rough, and then, “Open the fucking door!”

  Like that’s going to make me rush. Eat a plate of shit, random person. Who the hell are you anyway? Bills are paid.

  I should let her in and eat her. That’d shut her mouth. But I don’t smell anything. I don’t hear a pulse. I wander through the kitchen and see my favorite coffee mug sitting in the sink. I’m going to try and drink coffee, damn the consequences. Filling the carafe, and then the reservoir with water, I put a single serve pack in the slot and push the button, coffee pours out and smells like Christmas presents and a no-strings hand job. Between that smell and knowing that rude bitch is still waiting outside, it’s turning out to be a glorious day.

  More banging. More whining–and I think she might be crying now. Oh well. I pick up the coffee mug and move it to my mouth for a drink.

  Clink! Pain. “Shit,” I say.

  When I set the cup down to grab my mouth, there are two triangle shaped chips missing from the rim. Glorious feeling gone.

  “Shit.” More banging. “Shit,” I say one more time.

  I glance around to make sure there aren’t any more blood soaked clothes or smudges in sight and I open the door.

  “What the hell do you want?” I ask.

  My face would be red, if I had that capability.

  “Fucker,” says a young girl. Blue dress, big cleavage, pale. Shit. It’s her.

  “I thought you were dead,” I say.

  “Really?”

  Her eyes burn through me.

  “How’d you find me, um, who are you? I mean, what’s your name?”

  “Britney, asshole. I can smell you is how I found you. I woke up in my car and couldn’t smell anything but you. You know you left me there for three days?” The name was fitting, almost amusing.

  “Let me in,” she says and shoves past me.

  “I’m David, and I don’t need a pet,” I say.

  She leers at me, tears streaming black makeup down her pale face, blood caked on her neck and shoulder. I try to glare back, but the blood is making me weak and I look away.

  “How is it no one found you?”

  “Luck. My stupid luck, I guess.”

  I close the door and lock it. “I’d offer you something, but it’s like, there isn’t anything I can offer you.”

  The blood on her is making me sick, light in the head. I turn away, moving to the kitchen where I pull a wad of paper towels off the roll and moisten them in the sink. I hand them to her.

  “Can you take care of that? You’re a mess.”

  “Fuck you. Look at it. You did it.”

  “Seriously, fix it, or I’ll finish the job.” There was nothing to my threat. So far, my undead state had proven to be no advantage at all but my remorse for the girl is subsiding. I’d like to help her, but fuck her if she’s going to be rude. There might have been a bit of guilt there, but now it’s equally matched by my desire to stick my tongue out and laugh because now she’s like me. That and the fact that she’s being really bitchy.

  She wipes reluctantly at her neck.

  “You got a bathroom?” she says.

  I motion to my left and she walks into the room and screams. “You get used to it,” I say.

  It could be the truth, I don’t know. When she comes back, the blood is gone and her bite wound is healed. Her eyes are still dark with makeup, but the tears have stopped staining her cheeks.

  “I’m hideous,” she says.

  Now she’s pitiful and the look on her face is familiar. In fact, I’d woken up with it a couple weeks back. I suddenly feel like a watermelon sized turd. She is so young and I have deprived her of any chance at a normal life.

  “Sit down,” I say.

  I sit on my small leather couch and pat the cushion next to me like Bob had done on the park bench. She sits, sobbing, and falls into my shoulder. Reluctantly, I put my arm around her. Feeling her naked shoulder, I pull on the fabric of her dress to cover the skin, and then replace my hand.

  “Worst night ever,” she says, sobbing.

  “I know.”

  “No you don’t,” she says.

  “Okay, I don’t.” I’d love for this conversation to end, and start looking for something to stake her with, or stake me with.

  “He left me there,” she says.

  Dear sweet Jesus, she’s going to tell me the whole story anyway.

  “Bastard,” she says and sits up, pulling away from me.

  “I’m sorry. It’s an impulse that I haven’t learned to control yet.”

  She looks at me like I just failed at some hip new lingo. “Not you. Well, you’re a bastard too, but this is a different bastard. Len.”

  “Right,” I say. “Len the bastard, not me the bastard. Of course.”

  “He called me to come see him. I go to State, and he’s here, and he called me to come see him and like an idiot, I did.”

  How long can she continue talking, I wonder?

  “And?” I say with immediate regret, but I’m not doing anything else, so why not listen. I mean, I killed her. I owe her that.

  “And when I got here, he took me to that bar. He introduced me to some of his friends, and then told me I should find someone else. Like I was supposed to pick from his selection.”

  That’s cold hearted. Funny, but cold hearted. “What did you do?”

  “I broke my beer mug on his face and kicked him in his tiny little prick.”

  Okay, maybe she isn’t all bad.

  “Then I ordered several shots of tequila and I dared anyone else to come near me. I was so drunk when I left, I didn’t even know you were there. I couldn’t have fought back if I wanted to.”

  Tequila. Yep, that’s the taste in my mouth.

  Her face is like steel, no more tears, no more shaking in her voice. She looks in the distance while a minute passes. I have nothing to say in comfort, or in anything else for that matter. Finally, she looks back at me, ending my agony.

  “How does it
work?” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “The vampire thing. How does it work?”

  “Who says I’m a vampire?”

  She looks at the coffee mug with the chips out of it, then back at me. I feel my mouth hanging open and know my new pointies are showing.

  “I dunno. The reflection thing. The fact that the sun cooks me and the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m dead, but I’m here talking to a guy with fangs who I tracked through my new sense of smell.”

  “Weird,” I say.

  “It is that,” she replies.

  “The truth is, I don’t really know. I can take you to see someone. He’s sort of teaching me. That is, if I can find him.”

  “If you can find him?”

  “Yeah, well. He’s a bum. A surfer that hangs out in the park at night.”

  Britney laughs, a burst of beautiful, spontaneous laughter. I feel worse now, for taking her life. She would’ve brought someone a lot of joy.

  “Fine,” she says. “Let’s go see your surfer- bum-vampire friend.”

  It’s the best idea I can think of, although I need to see someone else first. There’s someone I need to thank. Can I trust this woman in my apartment? I don’t really have much choice.

  “We’ll see him later. I need you to wait here. Find some clothes in my room. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “Screw you, David. I’m coming with you.”

  “I’m going to see my psychiatrist.”

  Her face softens and she nods. “Oh. Can she help with … this?”

  “No. But she gave me some bad advice, and I need to tell her all about it.”

  Britney nods, seeming satisfied for the moment. I point toward my bedroom and she disappears from sight. The sun should be set by now. I pick up the phone and thankfully, Dr. Francis has her evening appointment open. Of course she does. Condescending bitch.

  V------V

  When I enter the office, Dr. Francis glances up and I’d swear she is smirking. Hatred. Like, rooting for her to get hit by a truck hatred.

  “Nice to see you back,” she says.

  Her glasses are back in place at the end of her pointed nose and she’s scribbling again.

  “So good to be here,” I say.

  “Did you talk to your assailant?” she asks sarcastically.

  “I did. His name’s Bob. We got high and then I made my first kill. Nice guy.”

  She continues to write with a disinterested nod. “Is this a hypothetical kill?”

  She wouldn’t turn me in. She didn’t believe I was attacked, why would she assume I could attack someone? Fuck it, I’ll give her the details.

  “No. Her name was Britney. She was legal, but still way too young for me. Quite the looker. I caught her getting into her car behind Lucy’s over on Fifth Street and thought I had sucked her dry, but she showed up at my apartment about an hour ago looking for answers, just like me when I came to you.”

  Dr. Francis nods. “And marijuana helped your fear of blood?”

  “I guess so. The problem is now I have to find weed and blood. I haven’t smoked in years. I’m not sure how to go about scoring some. I hear you can get prescriptions for that nowadays.”

  “This is true, but you don’t have cancer or glaucoma,” she sighs as if she’s bored with the banter.

  “Right. I guess I’ll just try the local elementary school.”

  She frowns.

  “Truth hurts,” I say.

  Ignoring me, she asks, “What about Bob? Where is he now?”

  “Gone back to the coast, maybe. Turns out he wasn’t a hippie, but a surfer. I haven’t seen him since the night of our last session.”

  “Oh.”

  She still doesn’t believe me. It doesn’t really matter. She looks up at me.

  “Tell me, David. You had no fangs, how did you kill this…” She stops to check her notes, “Britney, was it?” She looks back up at me, over her glasses. I smile, licking the tip of one fang, then the other inside my mouth. She smiles, and then I smile, showing her my new pointies.

  “I see,” she says, and goes back to her scribbling.

  Probably something about how the patient has delusions to the point that he may have altered his own appearance and blah, blah, blah, I hate this woman.

  “Not impressed?” I ask.

  “Anyone can buy fake teeth, David.”

  She’s right. I should’ve thought about that before my first visit. Maybe I wouldn’t be a killer now.

  “I blame you,” I say.

  “Me? For what?” she asks.

  I pull a lighter and joint from my front shirt pocket and take a drag. She catches the scent a looks at me. “You can’t do that in here.”

  I ignore her. “You sent me back to see my attacker. He showed me how to overcome my fear. He turned me into a killer. You could’ve put me on meds, or stuck me in a psych-ward for observation, but you’re too smart, aren’t you, doc?”

  “Put that out. It’s illegal to smoke marijuana.”

  I smile at her discomfort. I’m starting to see her recognition, her realization that all is not well. When my eyes go black, she gasps.

  “Crap all over the law,” I say.

  Her pulse quickens, and before she can touch the phone or move to escape, I’m on her, holding her throat so there will be no scream, slashing her carotid and sucking down the fresh, hot juice of life. It isn’t as vital as the young girl. There’s an underlying bitterness that comes as no surprise. Out of frustration, or hatred, I drink well past the stale taste, pulling the thick, dead substance from her artery until I have a full mouthful, then spit it back on her face. It feels good to be bad. I pick up the joint and take a drag to get the dead flavor out of my mouth. I’m starting to like this gig.

  V------V

  It is a real drag that there’s no extra strength involved with my condition. Hauling that fat bitch out to the dumpster was more work than I usually care to do. I know they’ll find the mess in her office, but by then, she’ll be in a landfill somewhere, half rotten and rat-chewed.

  I scoot past the park, glad to see Dracula-Bob lazily slung across his bench like a lure waiting for the moment to set its foul hooks into a curious fish.

  Opening my door, I see Britney kicked back on my couch, watching a show I’d never seen on a channel I would normally skip. Her face is pale, blue-green veins show through the paper thin skin. Still, she’s attractive, a vision that is unexpected in my home. I wonder if vampires can have sex, and if I could play up the uniqueness of our situation to win an evening of monster nookie. Of course, afterwards I’d have to talk to her, and that is too excruciating.

  “Ready?” I say.

  She looks up from my couch and turns off the television.

  “Yes.”

  I hold the door for her, and take note of her outfit. Somehow she’s managed to fit into a pair of my sweatpants and a t-shirt that barely covers my belly. On her, it’s tied, and the sleeves, folded over, still reach the crooks of her elbows. She sees me checking her out.

  “Ew. Wasn’t killing me enough? You’ve gotta perv on me too?”

  “I was just admiring my wardrobe.”

  “Right.”

  I’m silent for the rest of the walk, and thankfully, so is Britney. Finding our way back to the park, Bob recognizes me and waves.

  “Dude, good to see ya. Hey, I’ve got somethin’ to show you later.”

  I shake his hand, although he doesn’t get off the park bench. “Really?” I ask.

  “Yup.”

  He points at Britney, but looks at me. “Who’s that?”

  “Hello,” she says.

  I look at her and she smiles at both of us. “This is Britney. She was… my first kill.”

  Bob’s eyes round out and he starts to chuckle.

  “Why’s that funny?” Britney asks.

  Bob holds his hand up, laughing even harder.

  “Cause he brought leftovers to the party. That’s funny.”

&nb
sp; Britney steps up and smacks Bob on the arm.

  “Ow, hey!” He chuckles again, rubbing his arm where she smacked. “Welcome to the night life,” Bob says. “You eat yet?”

  “No, I’m not drinking blood.”

  Bob laughs again and looks at me, “Ha ha, ok. Is she medicated?”

  “Not that I know of. Should she be? I mean after the transformation and all?”

  Bob looks puzzled. “Transformation?”

  “You know what I mean. The vampire thing.”

  Bob makes an O shape with his mouth and rocks his head up and down. “Oh, I get it. You still think you get bit and then you’re all suave and powerful and educated like the movies? It ain’t so, dude.”

  “No?”

  “Do you feel all suave and educated?”

  He has a point. Other than the weird thirst for blood, I feel like the same confused guy I was over two weeks ago. Two weeks. Holy shit, I haven’t been to work in ten days.

  “How am I gonna pay my rent, Bob? I haven’t been to work in ten days. And what am I supposed to do with her?”

  Bob shakes his head. “I live on a park bench, bro.”

  Britney waves her hands, “Hello? I thought we were here to help me.”

  I figured it wouldn’t be long before she chimed in. Look at me. What about me. Help me. Poor me. Fuck.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You helped him. He said you did. We…” she motions between us. “We thought you could help me too.”

  “Oh. Like I’m the Wizard of Undead Oz or something? You think…” Bob trails off momentarily, then surfaces again. “I’m not sure smokin’ weed is gonna help you, lady.”

  Britney smiles.

  “Actually, I think that would help tremendously. I can smoke?”

  “Apparently,” I say.

  “Can I drink alcohol?”

  “Haven’t tried. Don’t drink,” Bob says.

  “He was vegan,” I add.

  She gives us both an odd look.

  “How does that work?”

  “It’s weird. I just think of it as juice, and all is good. Pot helps…and I meditate a lot.”

  He smiles.

  “Meditate about what?” Britney asks.

  “Life. I figure, I’m gonna be around a long time. Life.”

  “But we’re dead,” I say.

  “Are we, dude?” He leans over, his forehead touching my forehead and stares deep into my eyes. “Are we?”

  The three of us exchange looks as the lights start going out in the businesses surrounding the park. The lights in my favorite Italian restaurant go out first. The scent of marinara sauce and oregano lingers. It’s later than the last time I visited my surfer friend, and there are fewer people walking about. A few blocks over, I know it will be busy as the Friday night crowds are in the bars. Lucy’s–where I found Britney–in particular. Something has just occurred to me. I never asked.

  “Bob, who turned you?”

  He looks at me with his head cocked and pulls an epic spliff from his cargo pants pocket.

  “That’s a story, dude. Gertrude is one bad-ass lady.”

  “Gertrude?” Britney asks.

  He pats the bench and she sits down. I do the same, but on the ground in front of them. Bob sparks up and passes it around.

  “Gert is this old hooker that hangs out by the bus stop.”

  “No shit,” I say. “I think I know who you’re talking about.”

  “Totally,” Bob says.

  “She’s a vampire?”

  “She’s the deadest, man.”

  Britney shakes her head. “I’m not from here,” she says.

  Bob nods. “Me either, lady. Listen, though. Gert’s got a place, just for bat-people. We can go there later tonight and I’ll make the introductions. Say, David dude, I have something there that I think you will find interesting.”

  “You mentioned that,” I say.

  “I did?”

  “You did.”

  “Wicked. Hey, it could just be the thing that removes the tampon from your vampire panties.”

  “You just called me a pussy again, didn’t you?”

  “Totally,” he says, nodding. “First things first though, dude, and, uh...ma’am.”

  He holds up the tightly rolled joint and pats himself, looking for fire. I produce a lighter that I have taken to carrying. We smoke the joint, talking of longevity and of the things we miss. Dracula Bob misses surfing. Bob loves the ocean. He rambles on about water and how he’d like to get back to it.

  “I do miss the salty brine,” he says in a bad pirate accent that doesn’t cover his own stoner-speak.

  “Sounds beautiful,” Britney says.

  “Yeah. Night surfing would be tits.”

  She laughs. “Tits?”

  He nods with a grin. “Exactly, ma’am. Tits are all that is good and all that is good is tits.”

  With the moon high in the sky, most of the stragglers have left the bars. The streets are bare and all is quiet. Bob stands up and starts walking without a word. Britney and I share a chuckle and follow him down the street.

  V------V

  Dracula-Bob has an odd strut. It’s a bouncy walk with a little stagger and he looks like he’s always trying to maintain balance. We stick close behind, not knowing where he’s taking us. For my part, I don’t care. If I have to join a coven or a cult or gaggle of vampires, so be it. I can’t go to the office and network people’s computers like this. I wonder if they’ve looked for me or if I’ve just been replaced? And I’ll need a better place than my apartment—and cheaper too. I’m thinking a dungeon might work, something gothic with candles and maybe a pet wolf.

  We pass through a rundown portion of town, door after door of closed businesses. It looks like a place the undead would hang out. If not for the moths buzzing the street lamps, there’d be no life at all.

  “Where the hell are we going?” Britney says.

  Bob stops and turns around. “Whoa,” he says, then laughs. “I totally forgot you guys were following me. Sorry. We’re heading to the bus station. If she’s not out there, I’ll find her at the club.”

  “Club?” I ask.

  Bob nods. “Yup. We call it the Up All Nite. It used to be a pizza place, but now it’s condemned.”

  “And what do we do there?” Britney asks.

  “I hang out there,” Bob says. “You might learn something. There’ll be other bat-people there. I don’t know much about girl talk.”

  “Girl talk?”

  “Yeah, like maybe it affects you different than me and the dude here,” he says.

  I look at her and shrug. She shakes her head. “I’m screwed,” she says.

  “Probably,” I say. “Bob, what is this thing you want to show me?”

  “Huh?” he says.

  “You said you had something there that might interest me?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about dude.”

  “Really?” I say.

  He stares at me for a few minutes. “You said it would help me remove the tampon from my vampire panties?” I repeat, making air quotes—a gesture I can’t stand.

  “Oh. Ha ha. Yeah. That. All in due time, dude. Something I’ve been growing. I think you’ll approve most appreciatively.”

  “Is that a word?” I ask. “Appreciatively?”

  He shrugs and starts walking again.

  In the street ahead, I see the glowing sign for the bus station. There’s a lamp on the corner and its post makes one of the four uprights of the covered bus stop. A figure sits on the bench inside. It’s a familiar sight, one I’d driven by many times in the past. It must be Gertrude.

  “There she blows!” Bob says as we approach. He chuckles, and then squints and chuckles again in his special way. “Um, no shit, dude. She’s blowin’ right now.”

  Britney peers into the darkness as if interested. I cover my eyes and shake my head. The figure peeks out from under the cover of the bus stop. An olde
r woman in a tank top that is stretched out, showing sagging cleavage. Her face is painted and adorned with dangly earrings. She stands up slowly, wiping her mouth and tucking a few bills into her bra. The young man who was with her ducks into the shadows and then runs away, hiding his face from view. Gertrude presents her whole self under the glow of the street lamp.

  “You lookin’ for a date?” she asks.

  Her voice is raspy, ruined by a half –or maybe a whole–century or more of smoking. She does her best to cock one hip to the side in a sexy pose. Her skirt hugs bulging, cellulite-pocked legs. It is short enough to leave nothing to imagination, and more disgusting than I’d ever imagined. The whole scene comes across as pitiful, but somehow charming in a you-go-girl way.

  “Gert, it’s me, Bob.”

  “Who?”

  “Bob. You bit me like…six months ago.”

  She peers into the darkness at him, and as he comes into the same halo of light with her, starts laughing. The three of us join her. She puts a hand on Bob’s shoulder and runs the fingers of her other hand along the wrinkled line of breast meat that’s exposed on her chest.

  “Gert, you do remember me, right?” He smiles a broad, goofy grin. She raises and eyebrow and looks at him with bloodshot eyes. After an uncomfortable minute, she shakes her head.

  “Nope. Don’t know you from Adam.”

  Bob looks back at us and shrugs. I find myself wondering if she actually knew Adam.

  “Gert. You bit me, turned me into a bloodsucker. These are… well, he’s like your grandbat and I guess that’d make her your great grandbat.”

  Gert points her gaze at me, then at Britney. She shakes her head. “Don’t see it. What you say your name was again?” she asks.

  Britney sighs. “What the hell kinda help is she gonna be? She doesn’t even know you, Bob.”

  “Now hold your pretty little titties, girlie. I sucked on a lotta men in a lotta different ways. Takes me a while sometimes to sort out all them danglin’ parts.”

  Bob smiles at her and I stand looking in disbelief at the band of idiots I’ve surrounded myself with. The bus station backdrop and puddled sidewalk complete the image in some alternate universe where I was never meant to tread.

  “Oh there wasn’t any dangling, at least on my part. I asked you where to get weed. Come on, Gert dude. It’s me.”

  The old woman looks at him again, grabbing his shoulders and turning him toward the light. She cocks her head one way and then another.

  “You dead?” she says.

  Bob nods, smiling like an idiot. She sniffs the air. “You all dead?”

  I nod.

  “You the surfer boy who asked me for weed a while back?”

  Bob jumped up and clapped his hands. He actually jumped. It was oddly out of character and is a sight I will not soon forget.

  “Yes, that’s me! I asked you where I could find weed and a vegan restaurant and you laughed and showed me your boobies. When I cringed and shielded my eyes, you got mad and bit me. It was crazy.” He nodded, smiling as if remembering the good ol’ days and then added, “In that alley right there.”

  We all turn and look at the alley. It’s dark and surrounded by brick buildings. The lamp light doesn’t reach inside it. Gert hugs Bob and leaves an arm around him. The flab of her belly pokes out from under the threadbare, glittery top.

  “Sorry folks. My mind ain’t what it used to be.”

  I shake my head, confused. “So being a vampire doesn’t improve anything at all?”

  Gert laughs, a deep belly laugh. “Shit no. Nothin’ but the lifespan. If I had some advice fo’ ya, it’d be this: Make sure you get bit in your prime. Girlie there, she’ll be okay. Not so sure about you. What’s your name?”

  She’s looking at me. It’s not the news I want to hear.

  “David.”

  “Well, David, at least things won’t get no worse.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  V------V

  I have a hard time following Gertrude in that backless, glittery top. The bags of old flabby skin on her back are almost as pronounced as the bags of old flabby breasts on her front. She jiggles as she opens the alley door to the old restaurant. I see the massive, chain-driven pizza oven and a counter where toppings once were slung. Cans and containers of dried spices still live on the shelves but no garlic powder in sight. I hear voices coming from the dining area, and see the soft glow of mood lighting.

  “What’s up bitches and witches?” Gertrude shouts.

  “Hey Gert!” many pale-skinned folks reply in unison. The lot of them, twelve or so, smile and take turns hugging her, then go back to their conversations. She is like their rather disgusting queen. Smoke hangs thick in the air. The whole place smells like Bob, with faint overtones of oregano.

  “Have a seat,” Gert says.

  Britney and I slide into a booth. The seats are dark blue and the tables are veneered with fake butcher block. Empty salt and pepper shakers sit next to moldy cans of parmesan cheese. No one addresses us. Great. I guess travelling with the queen doesn’t give us any advantages either.

  “Friendly fuckers,” I say.

  “Don’t mind them,” Gert says. “They’re just as pissed off as you are. Tryin’ to figure out their new diet and why they didn’t get superpowers.”

  Bob nods and pats me on the shoulder as he slides into the booth. His face is clear for a change and he is looking right at me. “That thing I wanted to show you? It’s here.”

  “Now you remember?”

  “Huh?” Bob says.

  I shake my head and change tactics. “What is it?” I ask.

  He smiles, and claps his hands. “Waiter!” he shouts.

  A thin, withered old man comes to the table dressed in a black suit and bow tie. “Hello Bob,” he says.

  His voice sounds cartoonish, nasal and weak.

  “Stu, guys. Guys, Stu.”

  Britney and I nod and Gert runs her tongue over her lips, trying to be sexy. Stu gags.

  “Bring me some of the latest batch.”

  Stu nods and shuffles off to the back.

  “Bob?” I say. “What batch? What is it?”

  He leans over the table and looks at Britney, then at me like he’s got covert information. “I call it, the Unweed. It is ganja mortis, dude.”

  I’m not impressed. Better weed isn’t going to help me, although it definitely isn’t hurting.

  “So?” I say.

  He sits back and crosses his arms, visibly hurt by my apathy. “So? How can you say…so?”

  “It’s weed. What’s the big deal?”

  Bob laughs. Ho ho ho like a stoned, skeletal Santa Claus. “No, it’s unweed, man. Weed for us. Undead weed…like us.”

  Okay, now he has my interest. If nothing else, than for the pure stupidity in what he’s saying.

  “Unweed?” Britney asks, her face a picture of eighties valley-girl disapproval.

  “Yeah,” Bob says.

  Stu shuffles out of the back holding a tray. On said tray are several different objects. As he approaches, we see some tightly rolled cigarettes, some loose, dried buds, and one huge brownie. The buds are an odd color, red like blood.

  “There’s my girl,” Bob says.

  He looks at it with the love a new mother shows her firstborn. With one hand, he reaches out and grabs a cigarette and drags it across his upper lip like an expensive cigar, breathing in its aroma.

  “Grown in graveyard soil, fertilized with dead flesh… this shit only grows in direct moonlight, and it can only be pollinated or harvested by a bat-person’s hand, dude.”

  “Fertilized with dead flesh? That’s nasty,” Britney says.

  “No. That’s the alternative,” Bob says. “As close to vegan bat-food as it gets, man. Smoke this and there’s no blood required.”

  My ears perk up. “No shit?”

  “Yup. Not a drop. I’ve been testing it for months, but this latest batch actually works. You can still be a total pussy, and
a vampire, dude.”

  I take a pinch from the brownie and chew it up. The consistency is dry and gritty, with a flavor like bitter chocolate dipped in asparagus juice. It smells like rot.

  “This is awful.”

  “I know, man. Isn’t it great? Wait till the buzz kicks in.”

  “Can I smoke it instead?”

  “Sure, but the brownie works way better. It’s my own special recipe.”

  I eat another bite. Britney tastes it as well. Her face crinkles into anguish and she spits it on the floor. Stu rolls his eyes and bops off, my guess is to get a broom. Bob laughs. Gert mingles in the background but she is heading our way.

  “I can’t eat this,” Britney says.

  “Can you drink blood?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. She probably could, she seems the type. Part prom queen, part nightmare, all drama. I feel a slap on my shoulder. It’s Gertrude, smirking.

  “Drink blood?” she says and smiles at Britney. “Girl, if you can suck a dick, you can do anything.”

  Britney laughs.

  “Come on honey, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “Sucking dick or drinking blood?” Britney asks.

  Gert shrugs. “Whatever the night brings us, honey.”

  Britney grabs one of the rolled smokes from the tray and leaves, arm in arm, with Gertrude. I take another bite of the brownie. Strangely, it tastes better, and my skin starts to tingle.

  “Can we turn into bats, Bob?” I ask.

  “I haven’t yet. But if we eat enough of this shit, who knows, bro?”

  ..ooOOoo..

  ROTTEN LUCK

  I don’t like zombies…I think things that are buried should stay that way. It’s just the way it should be.

  LEVI PUTS BODIES in the ground for a living. It’s not as bad a gig as you might think. At least until they start coming back up.