Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01

by Happy Hour of the Damned

  I broke off from her jerky handshake. “Just this brochure.” I extracted it from my purse and held it in front of me like a used Kleenex. It was a poorly produced tri-fold of the kind I could have manufactured at age seven. “I’m Amanda Feral. I’m supposed to meet my friend Wendy. Has she checked in?” I knew the answer, but one could hope.

  Gerilyn scanned the names on a brief list and returned a pert, “Nope, not yet.” She handed over a stapled stack of lightweight bond printed with the title of the seminar in slipshod blurriness. Under Bernard Krups’s name, I saw that the workshop was subtitled, A Field Guide to the Supernatureal. I hadn’t caught that the first time. The sloppy creators loved their plays on words. Me? Not wowed.

  The woman wrote out my name on a “Hello my name is…” sticker and passed it to me, along with a pen that pronounced, “You’re a winner.” Duh46!

  Gerilyn pointed to double doors to my right. “The seminar is through there. There are snacks if you’d like, depending on…well, you know.” I didn’t pick up on her meaning until I saw the buffet.

  I slapped the Balenciaga and paperwork down at a table near the back of the room, the kind you don’t cross your legs under for fear of becoming attached to it by a wad of moldy gum.

  There were two others in the room, one held a bottle of red liquid and slurped at it, occasionally gnawing on the spiral threading the top, with a fine-pointed canine. She was a woman, vampire, clearly, and bored. Her head rested in her palm. She stared at the wall, window and then the other person in the room, a man wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, a beige polka-dot oxymoron. Gag! My eyes followed hers, from the man’s laptop, to its connected projector. Oh shit, I thought. The woman turned her gaze to me and mouthed, “PowerPoint.” Her head rolled back on her shoulders as though she was near death and she shoved a pretend stake through her heart.

  The man was average height and weight—you’d never pick him out of a crowd, except for one oddity. Grey hairs sprouted from above his ears like wings on either side of his bald head. Was this Bernie Krups? If it was, we were in trouble, in real danger of being bored to death. Or else, we had been dropped in the middle of a pyramid scheme. I feared I would be forced into selling knives or participating in a Ponzi.

  Where the hell was Wendy and how did I let myself get roped into this?

  The food was interesting; I’ll have to admit. Eight bottles of a red liquid, surely blood, in plastic bottles, were kept warm in a chafing dish of water. A tray of appetizers displayed cracker-sized spinal cord segments, each dotted with a spherical glob of jaundiced fat; if we were at a French restaurant, it would be called an amuse bouche. Severed fingers protruded from a crystal bowl of ice—the fingernails had been removed47. The blood and body parts shared space with humdrum turkey subs and bags of Doritos48. I snapped up one of the vertebrae and cracked through the bone like a carrot.

  I scanned the room for reading materials, a Vogue or an Entertainment Weekly, some bit of glossy gossip—you know, news. Nothing but laminate covered in the greasy fingerprints of past attendees. I popped another nibble down my craw, this time a tasty finger—and not bad, probably Gerilyn’s specialty. I took my seat.

  As I was fumbling for my phone to text Wendy, a pair of regular flesh-toned humans strode in chatting about the weather, traffic and other sundry blah, blah. Their name tags—which reminded me that mine was mixed in with the papers on the table—read Tim Torgerson and Shanna Tate. They looked exactly how you’d expect them to, blond-haired, blue-eyed, Ken and Barbie fresh from Malibu. Suhnore. They sat at the table in front of me, but didn’t offer a greeting. So, screw ’em.

  I thumbed a quick message out to Wendy:

  Where the fuck r u bitch?

  The doors behind me banged open, slamming against either side of their frame. A squatty shirtless creature appeared, with the streaky bronzed skin of a last-minute invite. Despite its hairy-pitted maleness and smirking Buddha head, the beast wore C-cups like a pinup, and the muscled legs of a goat. The pink hot pants were the clincher. He was fabulous.

  “Welcome!” he bellowed, spreading short arms as wide as possible. “Oh…so few attendees. That is too bad. I’m Bernard Krups the Third. I guess you could say I’m a benevolent gift to the malevolent. A real helper.”

  Gerilyn trailed behind him, her lips spread in a giddy smile. She clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of a game show contestant. Bernard marched to the front of the room and shooed the tech geek away, with two quick flicks of a wrist. He hopped onto the table there and spread across it like a centerfold, dragging a stubby finger up his side, circling the thick aura of skin around his nipple. I could imagine him crowned with grape leaves and carrying a diamond crusted pimp cup, but his origins escaped me. I was thinking Roman, but it could have been Greek. God of parties, or something.

  “Bacchus?” the little thing offered, plucking the question from inside my head. Was he reading me like a goddamned book? Am I that transparent? “But that was so very long ago, what makes you go there? Miss? Miss?” he asked, searching for my name.

  I looked around to see if he were talking to someone else but his bloodshot eyes were trained on me. “Amanda, Amanda Feral.”

  “Mmm, feral, makes me want to come over there and tangle with you, you feisty little pussycat.” Bernard was on his hands and knees and reached out with a curling movement and clawed at the air. It would have been sexy if he was remotely pleasant to look at, or I was completely drunk.

  “That can be remedied,” he said, growling.

  The woman in the front of the room was heaving. Tim and Shanna’s mouths hung open, wide enough to attract flies.

  I didn’t respond. Bacchus started his song and dance.

  “Getting the most from our afterlife. Isn’t that why we’re all here?” He spread his fingers and fluffed an imaginary pillow in front of him. “This afterlife can be so boring, really. Eating people, sucking blood…” He gestured to Tim and Shanna. “Seemingly pointless attacks under the full moon, or…whenever. Isn’t there more?”

  Of course, there is, I thought.

  “Exactly, Amanda.”

  “I—”

  Tim, Shanna, and the bored vampire looked back at me with questioning eyes. I had a question. How the hell did a vampire get to a daylight seminar? I wondered about the dark tinting on the car outside. Was it dark enough?

  “There is more to this life than pretense. An entire world is available to you, if you’ll just open your eyes.”

  “Duh,” Shanna said. “Preach to the choir much?”

  He waved off her comment, with a shudder that rolled through him like that first bite of lemon.

  My cell began to vibrate on the table. I snatched it up and quieted it, maintaining eye contact with Bacchus in the process.

  The little troll pressed a key on the laptop; the screen lit up with a slide show of undead hot spots: The Well of Souls, Convent, and other clubs, but also retail stores, dry cleaners and restaurants that catered to our kind, all open twenty-four hours per day. Shiny-skinned zombies with white eyes danced together, silly vampires laughed at tables with friends. Same old crap.

  “And none of this we share with our living cousins. They cannot see them, as you are probably aware. How many of you have been to a supernatural bar since you were turned?”

  We all raised our hands, like some pathetic AA meeting. We all know those people are quitters.

  “Good, a wicked fun time to be sure, but there is so much more.” He flicked another key, and a book flashed onto the screen. A thick hardback with the title: The Bacchus Guide to the Supernatural World.

  Here it comes, I thought. He caught my thought and winked. Was I the only one thinking—they all looked pretty vacant—or could he only read zombie thoughts?

  “‘Here it comes,’ is right, ladies and gentlemen. The Bacchus Guide is the premiere…” His voice trailed off along with my interest. Wendy had sent me to a sales pitch.

  I glared at the message on my phone.

&
nbsp; Ha ha ha luv wend c u.

  I responded with,

  U bitch the well 7

  I reached for my purse. The last words I heard from the sales pitch were, “…and hundreds of dollars’ value in coupons, all for $79.99. You can’t beat it…”

  Sad. The patron saint of fraternity row was reduced to direct marketing sales and from the look of things, tanking. I swished to the front of the room and handed Bacchus a business card, “We could work on a new marketing plan.”

  Bernard Krups’s mouth hung open. He flipped the card over twice and then shook his head yes.

  I let the doors slam on my way out.

  Outside a raggedy woman trudged across the parking lot pushing a grocery store cart loaded with cans and bottles.

  I took one whiff, winced, and went deeper, past the stench of homelessness, to the meat of the matter. I didn’t drift as much this time. It still held the feeling of a dream sequence, like I was eating the woman in a big bowl of marshmallow fluff. I crunched on bones, and slurped up loose tendons. Despite the actions, it was a surprisingly comfortable experience.

  The cart went rolling into the side of a red Tempo, leaving a dent the size of a cake plate. I threw the pile of leftover shredded clothes behind a holly bush and got in the Volvo.

  I had become an expert at directing gore and splatter away from my expensive designer clothes; who would’ve guessed? I also used to eat butter-slathered corn on the cob without a single slobbery drip. But there’s always some smoosh in the corners of your mouth. After a quick wet nap and a cosmetic pick-me-up, I hightailed it out of the business park. I was ready to hit the town and Wendy.

  Chapter 9

  Way Too Much Information

  The history of the supernatural settlement is intriguing, to say the least. Back in 1902, Jeremiah Barrelman was the first creature to happen upon Seattle, and instantly took a liking to it…

  —The Secret Lives of Dead People

  Two blondes stuck to the ice bar like wet tongues, their hipbones jutting as if in an attempt to escape their skin. They ground their respective pelvises against a pair of horny ghouls, one of whom being only slightly more hideous than the other. The girls were human and under some kind of trance, drunk, or just not at all particular.

  “Thank God for necrophilia,” I said. “Those rotting corpses wouldn’t stand a chance of getting laid without it.”

  Gil nodded, adding, “Here’s to celebrity blood donors.” He raised his glass for the toast and took a deep slug of warm blood from the Riedel Syrah glass in his hand. “This, for instance.” Another swallow. “…is a lovely Square Pegs–era Jami Gertz. It’s Jami-licious.”

  “Sounds yummy.” Come to think of it, it probably was a good year. Square Pegs was fabulous and Ms. Gertz’s Muffy Tepperman was a spot-on caricature of the preppy bitch. Brings back memories.

  Wendy arrived with flourish49, tossing her purse into the booth and flopping down with a bounce. “Cheers to mortuaries with fully-stocked cosmetics inventory.” She spoke with the ease of indifference, as is apparently common among the dead. She slathered crimson stained lips with a fresh coat of gloss. Snapped a gold compact shut with a click like a castanet.

  “Hear, hear!” I yelled. “Oh, and by the way, thanks a lot for the fucking infomercial.”

  “No prob.” She shielded a laugh like a Japanese schoolgirl.

  “Such a cooze. This is Gil.”

  He stretched his arm across the table and pumped Wendy’s hand, lightly. “I think we’ve met before.”

  “Yeah, totally! Armani trunk show.”

  “That’s right.”

  I motioned for Ricardo; he trotted from the bar, a white towel bouncing against—what were those—oh my God, black jeans. Only Ricardo could pull off black jeans without leather chaps, and to think, so far downhill of the gay ghetto.

  “How are the beautiful people tonight?” he asked, scooting in next to Wendy, who had moved on to jiggling and blinking like anime.

  “Perfect,” I said, nudging Wendy and raising my vodkatini (’cause anything else is just garnish). “This flirt right here, is Wendy, I met her at a cosmetics convention. On your way to the line dance?” I pointed at his jeans. “Could you hook the bitch up with something strong yet pretty?”

  “You were probably much more cute when you were still alive,” he said. His face had gone all smirky-flirty.

  “Mmm. But oddly enough not so sweet.”

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” Ricardo said, leaning in to Wendy. He may have sniffed her hair.

  “Isn’t it just?” Wendy said.

  I got the impression they’d met before. Sliding in close to Wendy, I put my face in his line of sight. “Hey Ricardo, did you get my message?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I meant to call you and just got bogged down. You remembered something?”

  “There was a guy in the elevator before the garage. He got up way too close to me. I could smell the flesh coming off of him.”

  “That’s right, we knew you’d received the breath, otherwise you’d be stumbling around mumbling about brains.”

  “Brains!” Gil yelled, his arms stretching out toward Wendy.

  “Shut up,” she said, but giggled.

  “They really say ‘brains’ like on the movies?”

  “No.” Ricardo pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “Not at all. What’d the guy look like?”

  “Black guy, gray hair…he’d seen better days.”

  “I think I know him, comes in here every once in a while, I’ll speak with him when he shows up. Arrange an introduction.” Ricardo patted Wendy’s shoulder. “I’ll get that drink right now.”

  With a disturbingly broad smile for Wendy’s benefit, Ricardo bounded off for the bar. Wendy wore a similar grin. I wondered what was up between them.

  “So have you sated your curiosity?” Gil asked, interrupting my Nancy Drewness.

  “For now. But how about you?”

  “How about me what?

  “How did you become such a sexy vamp?”

  Gil sipped at his Gertz, the blood shot straight into his cheeks. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Oh, come on,” Wendy begged.

  “It’s really embarrassing.”

  “You’re among friends.” I winked at Wendy. She chased a plastic monkey around the rim of an empty glass, grinning.

  “Alright.”

  I expected a paragraph, not a hijacking.

  * * *

  Hanging Out at the Flat

  Inconsiderate Interlude of the Bitter & Pathetic

  Part One: Gil

  * * *

  “Let me paint you a picture.” Gil wrapped his arm over the back of the seat, shifted his ass into a comfortable spot, and set off on his self-indulgence.

  “It was the seventies and Tacoma. Grey skies filled with pulp steam and the distinct stench of dirty diapers from the stacked mills in the tide flats. A scent that—I think, you’ll agree—lingers today. The grey stubs of buildings that composed the city’s skyline appeared to have risen from an ashtray. Completely utilitarian.

  “But that’s too much history lesson.

  “Okay.

  “So, needless to say, I looked hot—’cause, well just look at me—and not all Castro mustachioed with short-short Levis cutoffs. I’m talking Sergio Valente hotness, and that needs to be clarified when we’re talking about the age of polyester. I was twenty-six and trolling for the unspeakable: love. I know, I know, it’s hard enough nowadays with all the six-packed gym sluts, but back then, forget it. No one was looking for long-term relationships. They were considered the plague; that is before the real one showed up.

  “My best friend’s name was Howard, and we’d known each other since grade school. His girlfriend was Bethany Brindle—I just loved her name, it reminded me of jodhpurs and shooting parties, still does. They had an unnatural interest in my romantic life, prodding for information, showering me with empathy, and oftentimes setting me up on blind dates.

 
“In those days Tacoma gays only frequented bars with sailor themes, or the back room at Lucky Wang’s; I met my blind date at The Rusty Bucket. The place reeked of poorly wiped butt, a heady blend of musky sweat and Old Spice cologne, like a mediocre Cabernet gone to vinegar under Grandma Pearl’s sink. The bar seemed repurposed from a defunct bordello, its ceiling, once covered in a carved crimson velvet, hung loose like the felt roof lining of a shaggy Saab hardtop. Despite the grunge, The Rusty Bucket was a much more desirable locale than the Poop Deck, which a week prior had seen Dayton’s first gay riot, Deckwall—Poopwall seemed too irreverent considering that nasty business in New York.

  “Chase was his name. Chase Hollingsworth. Three hundred pounds and a fake British accent that went in and out like pirate cable. Chase snorted Vicks from those old dispensers that looked like little dildos. He kept reaching across the table for me with these greasy sausage fingers. I cringed and flattened myself on my side of the booth. There was only one thing to do. Drink.

  “Over several pitchers, Chase regaled me with his love of all things British, particularly fish and chips with lots of malt vinegar in the newspaper cone and never on a plate, from the stands and not a restaurant, although, he let on, he’d never been to England. I was trapped in Hell. I poured another beer.

  “I noticed a man ordering something from the bar, a tall sexy thing with sandy blond hair, a strong square jaw, and most importantly, not three hundred pounds and wrapped in the Union Jack. His drink was coffee, and lucky me, he carried it to the table next to ours, so I could ogle him easily while pretending to listen to Chase. He met my gaze a couple of times, seemed to be interested and then resumed his preferred activity: smelling his coffee.

  “It was about the time when Chase started in on the importance of Benny Hill, that my memory started to fuzz. I calculated my beer consumption at or about a pitcher and a half, maybe three quarters. I kind of remember being helped into a cab and landing on a foreign sofa, before passing out entirely.