Monster Vice

by George P. Saunders

  “Die, cocksucker,” a gentle mewling oath floats over the evening air, and I recognize the voice as my own.

  The Beretta sings its familiar song, a one note kind of song at that, but I will have few complaints if the bullet does not sing true. I close my eyes, wondering vaguely if there is Jack Daniels in heaven or hell.

  “And what is really coming, worse than the monsters?” I asked Bill just last week.

  He smiled at me. “Promise of salvation,” he said softly. “It will come in the night and bear a false name. Look to it, brother. And kill it, if you can.”

  “Ah, a false prophet,” I surmised.

  “A false something,” Bill said.

  Always walk away from a losing proposition.

  My brother is right — and I hope I have the opportunity to tell him so one day. I realize that the chances are slim to none of this happening, and prepare for the inevitable flesh rending to come.

  Silence.

  Something tells me, miraculously, that my bullet has found its mark. Yet I am surprised. There is no scream, no snarl of shocked agony. I open my eyes and see an amazing sight. The cocksucking wolf in question lies in a heap, just ten feet in front of me. Blood pools around its motionless form, telling me the shot must have ruptured the aorta. I am shaking with joy, my mouth an arid desert of desiccated, smacking flesh, searching for anything remotely resembling saliva. I blubber some nameless thanks to whatever gods may be and my eyes are probably big old teapots of astonishment.

  Predictably (and sadly), the werewolf begins to transform in front of me.

  I wait for the inevitable, the insidious transformation from snarling beast to ravaged human. I feel remorse and horror for the metamorphosised victim before me — some poor bastard buggered by the fates, subjected to an unholy end by someone like me. Someone’s father, someone’s son, probably, who was in the wrong place, wrong time when another wolf somewhere had hit him and hit him hard.

  Fur turns to flesh, paws to hands, haunch to human thigh.

  The victim is male, Caucasian.

  I stare at the face.

  In recognition.

  My brother.

  I swallow hard and look at my watch, a carryover from my days in homicide. T.O.D. (Time of Death), 10:42 p.m. I put my call into Monster Vice.

  “MV, this is Pitts, 106, On Station,” I say dully. “I’m in Echo Park, south-southwest corner, Alvarado and Union. I need a meat wagon, ASAP.”

  “Roger, that, 106,” Dispatch responds dispassionately. “On its way, Dick.”

  I nod, then drop to my knees and begin to sob.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The ME wagon comes and goes. I stand alone now, looking up into the night. Bill is gone. I will see him no more. The thought leaves me indescribably empty.

  My dispatch pager suddenly goes off: “We have Fangs, 209-niner, downtown, Sector B. All Points.”

  I hate Fang Detail.

  We call your basic vampire a Tuti -- (a truncated pseudonym from the arguably Romanian etymological origin Nosferatu or the Greek alternative nosophorus meaning “not breathing”). More than one Tuti and we here in Monster Vice ascribe the term “Multiples.” Fang Detail means going out into the world and Staking a herd of MVIs (Multiple Vampire Infestations) before they become a threat to the general public.

  Multiples are the worst. One Bloodsucker is bad enough -- by definition, a pissed off, degenerate slab of undead cocksuckery with no sense of humor, homicidal to the extreme, with zero latitude for reasonable negotiation. More than one Tuti and you knew the night was going to turn butt-ugly fast. I mention this because Dispatch called in five minutes earlier with the dreaded “Fang-Detail 209” designation. Somewhere nearby, a bunch of bloodsuckers were up to no good.

  I put my recent personal tragedy behind me. There is work to be done. I call my partner, Hanson, who picks me up within two minutes. I do not tell him about my brother.

  I hate Fang Detail. Not so, my partner. Mel “the Plug” Hanson, kind of digs FDs. They call him the Plug because he has a registered Stake (or Plug) kill ratio for the Fangs of fifty-four. Not bad, considering that LAPD’s Monster Vice division has only been in existence for a few years – about the time when the dead walked and the world turned topsy-turvy bug-shit insane. By way of a little background, the vampires are the worst, mainly because they’re the smartest. They’re also organized, and they’re mean. The Lyckers (werewolves) are next on the shit-list, followed by a close and loving third, the collective Everything Else contingent, which include, but are not limited to, incubi, succubae, spooks, goblins, ghosts, ghouls, and zombies -- things that go bump in the night, but are not necessarily lethal on every encounter … and some of which are downright benevolent. PDs in New York, Chicago, Miami and Houston have it almost as bad, but LA is still King of Crap when it comes to Monster Infestation. I blame it on Hollywood, a completely irrational prejudice, but what the hell. There has to be a reason why we’re statistically more plagued than any other city on the planet. Probably all those movies -- Frankenstein, Dracula, etc. ... harmless by comparison, when you think about it ... when you think about the fact that the real McCoys are god awful nightmares a thousand times worse than any celluloid version of your mythical monster. Scratch that. A million times.

  Anyway, Hanson has fifty-four kills to my fifty-three. It’s been a running gag down at Rampart MV who would win the Christmas pool, only one week away. Hanson is the favorite, for obvious reasons, his score a horse-nose better than mine. That, and he really loves the whole Stake and Bake process. He’ll sing a Christmas carol while drilling a Tuti, the thought of sending the wretched bloodsucker to hell in a heartbeat almost sexually arousing for him. I like Hanson, mind you, but when it comes to nailing Tutis, the guy is a veritable Prince of Darkness With A Hard-On for vampire butchery. I’ve always been a believer in Love Your Work, but Hanson takes it to the extreme. Me, I’m just happy to be breathing and have 6 quarts of good old American hemoglobin still racing through my veins after a Fang Detail. That being said, tonight could be the night for me to catch up to and/or surpass Hanson’s lead in the Plug Department. Fun, in theory, to contemplate ... but not when you realize that you might end up dead trying to leap-frog the competition.

  Notwithstanding Hanson’s love of the hunt, and my own ambivalent, yet obsessively professional commitment to duty, Fang Detail is historically the most dangerous call you can get. More good Blues and P-Clothes have ended up paws up and Staked themselves after a vampire rumble. Hanson and I are the oldest vets in Monster Vice. Most of the guys who signed on some 27 months ago are now dead, staked and buried, not necessarily in that order.

  We’re three minutes into the call when I remember that my life is in danger. That, and my immortal soul.

  The location of the alert is downtown, near Grand, in some warehouse between Olympic and 7th. Dark part of the city, not good, no sir, not good at all. Backup has been called in from Central, and we are told two SWAT divisions are on the way with choppers. Excellent. We’ll need every edge we can get; it’s a Full Moon, and that means the Tutis will be meaner than usual, and famished. I wonder vaguely who made the call — who had survived long enough to dial 666 — the direct Emergency Line for Monster Vice. I wonder if that poor party is still alive — or munched by a group of savage Multiples.

  Two minutes until we’re On Station, racing south on the Hollywood 101 Freeway, about to turn off on the 110 Harbor going south. I have a bad feeling about this call, don’t ask me why. My weaponry has changed. The Beretta is gone. I now check my Stakes, hanging from either chest-strap; my Holy Water is easily accessible on my standard-issue PD waist belt and every bullet in my customized .357 Magnum is silver, mercury tipped, with the “Jesus Loves Me” logo embossed across the base. A sentimental touch. The Little Carpenter may or may not be My Personal Savior, but I take no chances. The Tutis hate the cross, per legend, and this officer of the law is comforted by that fact nevertheless.

  I’m ready for bear, or mor
e accurately (and this is a reflection of the world we live in today), I am ready for the Creatures of the Night.

  Oh ... perhaps I should back up a bit and explain that part about losing my life and soul. Seeing as I have a bit of time before I face a multiple colony of unholy impossibilities, thirsting for human blood, all minus a heartbeat. Fine. The night is clear, the moon is full, and in case I haven’t mentioned it for the third time ...

  I hate Fang Detail.

  ***

  So, trekking down memory lane, what I’m about to tell you happened about a year back.

  I was jumped by a Fang just outside of Ralph’s on Sunset. It was a stray Fresh Kill - some poor gal who had already been Sucked, and left for dead by a Feeder, i.e., a full fledged, hands-down, no-bullshit, vampire. She was drained nearly dry. When she awoke, she was technically undead. The Change had occurred within the hour, but the pathogenic effect within the FK (That’s Fresh Kill, to those in the technish know) was at ninety percent, thus the contamination she could pass on to a prospective victim was equally toxic. If she Hit and Bit someone, anyone, they’d Go Over within an hour, unless immediate treatment was administered. As for the girl herself ... she was Dead Meat at the end of the day, poor dear. Nada that anyone could do for her. End of story, life’s a bitch and then you’re Staked.

  It just so happened, however, that Mrs. Nelson Pitts’ dumbest eldest son, Richard Bartholomew Pitts (that’s me) had been that Someone/Anyone that the Fresh Kill would hit that night.

  I didn’t even see her coming. Usually, I’m on guard, even after the shift. Old habit from my days in Homicide when all we had to worry about were human monsters. Before the new century, before a time when the planet decided to support fun and feisty new forms of life, like Nosferatus, Lyckenthropes and Demonicus Smellicus. So, there I was, tired and looking forward to home and hearth after a hellish day of a Staker down in Compton, a Lycker collar outside of Cantor’s deli on Fairfax, and a flying Homunculus decapitation (which, as you can imagine, really takes the wind out of you. I had wing-burn after that one, and believe you me, that kind of thing smarts.)

  In retrospect, the girl wasn’t that fast — I was just careless. Must be getting old. She had been lurking near the telephone booths, near the south alley; if memory serves me, she looked to me like an average young woman of twenty-one, probably doing some late night, if ill advised, shopping. I had just punched out of MV, tired, my mind on milk for the cat, as well as some much needed Jack Daniels to take the edge off the day. There had been other shoppers, mainly single guys like me -- guys with no wife at home, no respectable profession by the light of day, no other better thing to be doing at almost two a.m. in the morning. As an MV Inspector to the Rampart Division, I qualified as the aforementioned kind of late night, wandering Mug With No Life. I assumed this was the case with the girl, albeit she was female, unlike the majority of other Ralph’s patrons that night. I assumed she was an anomaly, a nice gal by herself, picking up a few things at the local grocer, perhaps a little too late if prudence had its way. In other words, I assumed nothing strange.

  More fool I.

  She was on me within seconds, biting hard, sucking, wolfing down my blood like a puppy going for a chew-toy. It all took less than a minute. She was strong (they all were after the “Suck and Screw” festivities generously dispensed by your basic vampire -- a term we came up with at PD that was perfectly accurate. Let’s face it, after you were Sucked, you were generally Screwed thereafter, permanently, end of story, go sweetly into the night, you poor bastard) and I was tired. Not only that, but a Fresh Kill is imbued with ten times normal strength once dead and awakened.

  At the end of the S&S, I was lying face down in a pool of my own red, feeling like the Undead proper. Lucky for me that a few off-duty Blues found me; the FK snarled at them, warning them away. Mistake. And typical of an FK’s lack of practical experience once reanimated. Not her lucky night in general, because one of the Blues, a big guy by the name of Winston Mustafa Delecroix had gone through MV training six months earlier, and thus was Stake Qualified. He nailed her fast with a blessed two-by-four standing upright in a nearby trasher.

  Lucky he had his pocketsize St. James version on hand.

  The Feeder, once impaled, steamed, screamed, then melted in a few seconds — typical catalytic response to a Two Points, Slam Dunk, Stake-In Plug. I owed Winston. The FK was about to come back for seconds just as Delacroix and the others arrived. Had that happened, my blood wasn’t the only thing she would have sucked...

  Anyway, I was transported to Vermont Presbyterian, examined and assessed — it was too late for conventional treatment, an injection of Holy Water and 1000 ccs of Bioxypenicillan. Thus, I was what they euphemistically referred to as a Trooper Gone Home. In other words, I was a virtual Changeover, and would probably have to be terminated within twelve hours. Rampart was notified, along with my partner, Hanson, who shed a bitter tear. I was lying there on the hospital gurney, contemplating eating Stake, when suddenly my final blood specs came back with some very favorable numbers.

  I was eligible for the Tungsten Maneuver. Treatment would be lifelong in terms of administration and if I missed a day, I would probably go into Change-Mode, posthaste, within the hour.

  Which brings me to my current dilemma, the one about being in dire jeopardy of losing my life and immortal soul.

  See, the Tungsten Maneuver was not really anything more than a discovery by the brilliant biochemist, DeLion Tungsten, three months into the monster infestation. He learned that the only way to stop the Tuti-toxic effects of vampiric transformation, in immediate victims, i.e., those “just sucked” was to generate a massive flow of brain neurochemical responses involving something called prolactin. Through flushing the entire endocrinal system with prolactin, which gives rise to a chain reaction of other meaningful brain activity, a good dose of this biochemical manna from heaven neutralizes for a 24 hour duration, the Tuti-toxic cellular bite-factor infection. Alright, you ask: How do you generate sufficient levels of prolactin to ensure you don’t turn into a vampire?

  Answer, sports fans, and don’t touch that bat channel, lest you miss the magic: The only sufficient biochemical response to Tuti-Transformation is by induced sexual ejaculation (women don’t clearly need to ejaculate, but orgasmic climax guarantees prolactin intervention, and this is a very fortunate thing for the gentle sex, believe you me). [1]

  That’s right. The “P Response” can only be activated by sexual stimulation, originating of course in the brain, and concluding, naturally, in one’s nether regions, explosively and with predictable short-term finality. Let me translate that another way: for the rest of my life, it will be necessary for me to have at least one orgasm a day. Kind of like the need for you to have an apple, just to keep the doctor away. If I miss my Wad Moment, I’m as good as Stake Food for anyone of my associates at Monster Vice.[2]

  Since my girl left six months ago, I take care of this basic need myself. Even when I don’t feel like it. I turn 43 in a week ... I hope my desire doesn’t diminish with middle age. I’d be in trouble then.

  Which brings me back to my current dilemma.

  I’ve gone the whole day without Spanking Monkey Meat. Okay, fine, laugh — to your average teen-age kid with a four-inch boner, it’s damn amusing. But for me, it’s a daily necessity. Strike that — it’s a spiritual and physical imperative.

  As we head off of the 4th Street exit, making the slow semi-circle into the deserted downtown area, my mind wanders on a most critical question: When will I have time to Bat the Baby and get that Prolactin flushed through my system. I was already two hours late — I try and initiate my Beat-Off ritual at precisely the same time, day in and day out. I like to stay regular, so to speak.

  I chide myself for my delinquency today. Now, going into a 209 Multiple Fang Detail, I am in danger of possibly joining the opposition if I don’t shoot my requisite load at least before midnight.

  I hate Fang Detail.

  A
s I contemplate the issue of my mandatory Choke The Chicken session (don’t ask when, don’t ask where!), we arrive to the Call In All Alerts Location. Three black and whites are already there, minus driver and partner. So far, it’s just Hanson and myself. Not good.

  We look miserably at the warehouse before us. The SWAT choppers are nowhere to be seen as yet. The heretofore mentioned backup was ominously absent. The bad feeling tingling on the short hairs of my gonads is palpable, visceral. I look to Hanson, the back of my mind spinning with images of sugarplums and last month’s issue of Playboy’s Lingerie Teen-Tigress Special. The impelling urge, you see, to Whack Winkie has still not diminished, and forget about the fact that we may very well be fodder for Nosferatu in the next few moments.

  “We should go in,” he says, about as enthusiastic as a cobra contemplating swing dancing with a herd of mongooses.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” I mutter, glancing at my K-Mart Rolex look-alike watch that tells me the time in Zaire and the theoretical surface temperature on Venus.

  “Back-up should be here any minute,” Hanson says, stalling for time.

  “Yeah, but the Call was a Distress, and it’s five minutes old. There’s a chance someone is still alive in there,” I say ruefully. Not strictly true — I lay better odds of Jerking Off using the Force, with no hands, then seeing anyone still breathing and un-Bit. Still, that’s what we do: We’re the few, the proud, Fang Cops of Monster Vice.

  “Okay, we go in,” Hanson says, reaching for his stakes and pump-action .48 repeater.

  We exit our ‘99 Mercury Sedan — a piece-o’-shit hand me down from Homicide that we’re forced to use due to cutbacks on every departmental level. We hear no screams, no howls, no characteristic and anticipated preternatural hiss from any Tutis, either from high above, or street level. For this relief, much thanks. It tells us one thing certain: The Bloodsuckers have opted to remain inside, versus take to the streets. They realize that Monster Vice will converge on this spot shortly, in its damn near entirety; better odds at conducting tactical maneuvers from within the dark, nefarious interior than deal with an army on the outside. Better for us, too. If we keep the Tutis contained, here, now, there’s a chance we can wipe out this multiple infestation in one fell swoop.