Monster Vice is not going to enjoy my report tomorrow. No, sir. Vampires can now hang out in churches and with complete impunity and beyond that, turn human beings into werewolves. Hell, this Grand Master could probably take First Communion and mix Holy Water with J&B and then invite dancing girls, for all that danger that apparently was keenly missing in your basic vampire’s terror of churches, missions and hallowed ground.
And he was coming after me.
I had also inferred that the Grand Master was probably just as powerful, if not more so, than mere Masters. Masters could control the females, and shape-shift … this Top Dog in the vampire community obviously was capable of much more – like letting a werewolf acquire speech and parlez the Francaise.
The ramifications of all this was just too shitty to dwell on. I decided to head for home, lock myself in my apartment, and watch reruns of Mr. Ed.
Sure, I say that now …
Ah, to be that cavalier about the whole thing…
Instead, I feel tempted to speed my way toward Monster Vice at Rampart, head back for the house near my brother’s church, waste the Talking Wolf, then track down this Grand Master with a vengeance.
But I realize with increasing fatigue that these are all pretty dumb options. Best thing to do is get some sleep and be sharp and frosty by tomorrow morning early.
Of course, I have just now come to the conclusion that the Grand Master could easily pop over to my place and snuff me out in my sleep. However, I put this pretty low on the probability scale – this King of the Hill Bloodsucker wants to nail me big time, but real slow. No, I suspect he’ll wait for some theatrical moment.
I live in a walk-up, rattrap just off of Melrose Blvd. and Vine, about two blocks west of Paramount Studios. The neighborhood has that gentle ambient quality of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, replete with unconscious transients, and the usual suspect lot of bottom dwellers one might expect to find in a post-Millennium ghetto. I am one of the few gainfully employed residences of this urban Mecca; in fact, I am one of the few residences, period, in this part of town, given the close proximity to Hollywood Cemetery just a short distance south. The cemetery is a constant source of problems, inasmuch as it is a traditional haunt for the Lyckers, Tutis and unburied dead hanging out ready to reanimate into something flesh-eating and generally unpleasant. Though Monster Vice has a special “Cleansing Unit” that does regular drive-buys to clean out whatever vermin ensconces itself there, no amount of diligent housekeeping gets ride of the pests one hundred percent. Monsters are like houseflies in L.A. — plenty of them, hard to kill them all, and they seem to replicate by fission or through spontaneous generation.
Really, I should move one of these days. I got a raise last December and could easily afford the more plush, and infinitely more attractive digs in West Hollywood or even Beverly Hills adjacent. Why do I stay, then? Up until two nights ago, I told myself it was because my brother lived nearby. His church, like my apartment, was literally situated in No-Man’s land part of Hollywood. We always used to go back and forth, mutually urging one another to relocate, to find a safer place to live. His reasoning for staying was wholly epistemological in nature: his sheep, his congregation lived here, and thus he would remain until a clearer vision for his future was offered.
My reason was more prosaic in nature: I liked to stay close to the shit, on the off chance that every day I terminated a vampire or werewolf in this neck of the woods, someone’s grandmother was safe for another day, someone’s daughter need not fear walking the family dog just around the corner come nightfall. Even off-duty, I was still “on.”
So here I am. It’s late, I’m tired, and with a terrible thirst for Jack Daniels in my soul. I turn the corner and am about to enter my apartment.
That’s when I see her.
Mirabelle. She’s there most nights – a vaporous vision that never fails.
“Hey, big guy,” she says to me, smiling. As she always does, I should add.
“Hi, Mirabelle.”
“Now you always blow me off, but can I persuade you into some action tonight?” she asks me … as she always does.
Mirabelle, by the way, is a ghost. I have on every occasion thus far declined her kind invitation to ectoplasmic sex – whatever that may entail, however that may be accomplished. I somehow imagined the whole experience on a theoretical level to be somewhat … unsatisfying … from a very corporeal point of view. I could not even imagine what the experience would be like for her, given the clear lack of friction for either party.
Thus, no, no, no, was my courteous litany and response to her invite.
But tonight, I don’t say no.
“Sure, come on up,” I say.
Mirabelle was a murdered prostitute 15 months ago, around age 30, and drop dead gorgeous. Since the Popov Meteor Shower, she can’t find much rest, like so many others – like the beneficent vision today in the Wolf’s lair. She hangs in this part of the hood because I was the guy who arrested and then subsequently shot her pimp (who had killed her one week earlier). It’s all pretty sordid, but the bottom line is that she likes me … and can’t escape this part of the universe.
So, she hangs near my door, just about this time every night. Always very cordial … always offering me “a little slice of joy” as she puts it. Don’t have a clue how she could possibly make me happy, being dead and all, and have never had the curiosity or inclination to ask her – but tonight, I’m lonely. I’m single, so is she (albeit dead), and I decide to have a date.
She follows me up the stairs, though I cannot see, hear or smell her (because, again, she’s dead), but I know she’s there.
“How was your day?” she asks.
Without turning, I shrug. “Same old. Met a talking werewolf.”
“Oh, no. Those are nasty.”
“You have no idea,” I say, meaning it.
“I float around town a lot, and I gotta tell you, there’s a lot of wolves. And vampires.”
“No, really?” I am flip with her and don’t mean to be.
“Yeah. And they hate you.”
“Yep, right”
“Not you, personally. Just … you know …”
“Ah, the living?” I say at last.
She shrugs and nods.
“It’s a strange world,” she says.
I couldn’t agree more, as I pull out my key and open the door.
“This is the first time you’ve invited me up, Dick,” Mirabelle says.
“You don’t mind, I hope.”
She smiles at me and winks – and it is a sweet, sincere wink, not the least bit filled with lasciviousness.
“No, I’m glad.”
I smile at her, and leave the door open, though I know she could pass through it, no problema.
She watches me as I go to the kitchen, and take out the Jack, first things first. I don’t bother to reach for a glass, I simply take off the cap, and … well, drink. Yeah, right from the bottle, sports fans. The liquor goes down hard and fast, and I close my eyes.
Little Prick, my mutt of a cat, yowls at me, rubbing himself against my calf. His message is clear: I’m fucking hungry, where have you been? The cat hisses very quietly at Mirabelle, but Little Prick’s more culinary priorities outweigh his need to protest the pretty spook’s presence.
I tear open some kitti-vittles, pour them onto a plate, and let Little Prick go mad. He dives into the food, purring all the while, as I continue to chug down Jack.
Mirabelle watches me without judgment. When I open my eyes, she is still there, hovering, waiting for me to do something.
“Please, sit,” I say, as she floats more or less at the entrance of my kitchen.
“Thanks,” she says, and manages to coax herself down to the nearest sofa. She is actually not so transparent anymore, and has even acquired a kind of corporeal appearance – flesh tones, a rather fetching aroma, and even detail in her hair. I find it quite becoming.
Ghosts, you see, after the Popov Meteor Event (
as they call it), are able to sometimes mimic or, temporarily at least, assume tangible form … don’t ask me how or why (that’s for the scientists at the CDC), but it happens. Trans-something or other, coupled with the discorporate effect of life to death –as they call it.
“Any idea when you’ll be moving on?” I ask her. Moving on, meaning, of course, that she doesn’t have to stay in this cesspool of a world any longer – that she can move to the next level, or dimension, or whatever other shithole/heaven might exist after life on planet Earth.
“Don’t know,” she shrugs. “I don’t mind, really.”
I’m surprised to hear this. “Why”
“Because I love you. And I get to be near you every day.”
I’m a bit flummoxed. I’ve always been fond of Mirabelle (as much as one can be fond of a ghost), and she’s always been very sweet … but to hear a declaration like this … well, my breath is taken away.
“Honey – ” I begin to say.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know you don’t love me. That’s not part of the deal. But you helped me when I was in trouble, and you saved my life. Before Ernie killed me, that is. I can’t help but love you. Please say you don’t mind…”
I am both touched and saddened. I think I could have fallen in love with Mirabelle when she was alive; it’s cliché, I know – the whore with a golden heart, but in her case, the sentiment and virtue was genuine.
“I don’t mind, dear. In fact … you don’t know how much I needed to hear that after today.”
She is momentarily silent, and then a grim expression crosses over her face.
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
I look up at her, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
“He passed my way, very quickly, the other night,” she says solemnly. She then gives me a gentle smile. “But he was able to move on.”
A tear stings my eye. So my brother is okay, not to be trapped here by the supernatural magnetic that keeps so many souls, like Mirabelle, in a perpetual state of limbo. On to whatever may come hereafter. The thought momentarily fills me with a feeling of euphoria – that perhaps, after all, there is nothing to fear about anything whatsoever. I hope I can call upon these fuzzy feelings when I sooner or later meet the Grand Fucking Master.
“Thank you, Mirabelle,” I croak, then turn away, and again imbibe from the bottle of Jack.
Mirabelle rises off of the couch and approaches me. Very slowly, she takes my hand – and I feel flesh, substance. She is not as cold as I imagine, in fact … not cold at all.
She leads me into my bedroom. She takes off my jacket, no hurriedly, but with great care – as if I were a patient with a painful wound that needed special, gentle treatment in undressing. I allow her this intimacy, as I am suddenly exhausted to the bone, almost unable to move.
She unbuttons my shirt, slips it off my shoulders, then urges me to sit on the bed, which I do. She then takes off my Reebocks, socks to follow. She begins to rub my feet, and that is when I begin to feel Mr. Stick-Boy has sudden interest in things to come.
She unzips my pants, and I assist her in the taking-off process. At this point, Mirabelle removes her own light skirt and blouse – the very clothes she was murdered in, and slips next to me. She reaches for the blankets and covers us both.
She is unbelievably warm – either that, or my imagination has taken a turn for the wholly creative.
I kiss her and do not much time spend on foreplay – though I suspect that Mirabelle doesn’t mind. I slip into her easily and am momentarily aghast at how human she feels. And she responds in kind, until our passion is spent after five furious minutes of sweat, scratch and scream.
We lay there afterwards in each other’s arms, not saying a word. She even mimics breath – and her breath is warm, delicious. I am morbidly curious as to how she is able to replicate being human again so effectively, but decide not to ask this question on the nose. Instead, I take a roundabout approach to things in general.
“What was it like?” I ask, nuzzling her ear.
“What was what like?” she kisses me back.
“Dying.”
She stops kissing me, and looks off distantly, then rests her head on the pillow, thinking sincerely about the question … remembering.
“Strange,” she says quietly. “Not as painful as you would expect. I was shot –“
“Yes, I know,” I say sympathetically.
“I remember a burst of pain in my chest … and then blackness. Like a blanket had been put over my head. That lasted a few seconds, and then suddenly …”
“Go on.”
“I was outside of your apartment,” she says, looking to me, touching my cheek.
“Where do you go when you’re not here?” I am truly curious. Do ghosts sleep? Do they hang out at ghost-bars? Shoot ghost-pool? Drink ghost-whiskey?
“I tend to just wander around,” Mirabelle says cheerfully. “I like looking at the people. I talk with other … you know –“
“Ghosts.”
“Yeah, them. Best part of my day is in the park, watching the children playing.”
“What’s the worse thing?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “When I run into a vampire or a wolf. The wolves don’t like ghosts, but the vampires tend to snarl at us. It’s a bad feeling. They’re just plain mean.”
“Tell me about it.”
She then rolls on top of me in a surprising burst of spontaneity. “Know what I miss most about being alive?”
“Tell me.”
She closes her eyes and sighs. “Eating and drinking. We don’t have to do that, you know.”
“I kinda guessed.”
“Wine, pasta, hamburgers, chili. Boy, oh boy. You eat that kind of stuff?”
“All the time,” I respond, and I hope my voice is not too pinched with sadness for her.
“And I miss my daughter,” she says with a sense of finality.
I am again caught by surprise. “You had a daughter?”
She nods, and I can tell she’s fighting off tears. “About two years before I died. I gave her up to the an orphanage downtown because I couldn’t afford to care for her.”
“What was her name?”
Mirabelle takes a moment to get control of her emotions. “Jennifer.”
I am familiar with the orphanage. I collared and killed a Lycker a block from there about six months ago. Furry bastard was actually chasing one of the nurses and some children when I arrived on the scene, teasing them, terrorizing them. I took him out with a silver bullet through the throat. Best part of my day, that one.
“Have you been by there since?” I ask.
Mirabelle nods. “Every time I try to go to the orphanage, I suddenly find myself back here. It’s as if there’s some kind of wall keeping me from her. I don’t understand it.”
I actually do, from my limited understanding of ghostly lore. Hauntings (which Mirabelle technically constitutes) are unable to revisit certain locations due to guilt or trauma, thus are forever consigned to occupy one spot as a kind of homeroom to the afterlife, in this case, outside my apartment. She is permitted to roam locally, but for the most part, not beyond a 10 block radius. In essence, she will be mostly trapped here in the building until some burden is lifted off of her earthbound spirit, that burden as yet still beyond her scope of understanding.
I make an uncharacteristic offer.
“Mirabelle. If you’d like, I’ll go down there and see if your daughter is okay. Sometime this week, alright?”
“No, I couldn’t ask that of you,” she protests, more out of embarrassment than anything else.
“It’s not a big deal. I’d really like to help. And who knows, maybe this is an issue which is keeping you trapped in this place.”
Mirabelle considers this for a moment – perhaps she had already deduced as much already. She looks at me, then touches my face.
“Thank you.”
I kiss her again, and find myself aroused once more. As
I make love to her, there is a place in the back of my mind that asks: how did I arrive here? Having sex with a dead woman … and liking it.
I assume that life is simply too bizarre for definition and continue to fuck my ghostly companion without further ado.
CHAPTER SIX
When I awaken, it is three a.m. in the morning, pitch black out, and Mirabelle is gone. This is not surprising, given the nature of ghosts – she is off on her daily travels, probably compelled to make them by some higher power. I make a mental note to check on the orphanage where her daughter may still be residing. I decide I’ll go into Monster Vice early, before the light of day hurts me with its of-late intensity and my increased consumption of alcohol.
I shower quickly, and find myself again crying, thinking of my brother and Hansen. There is still half a bottle of Jack Daniels left, and before I leave, I make myself a stiff bracer. And because I am too lazy to cook, I open one of Little Prick’s kitti-vittles bags and begin to munch. Little Prick is still asleep under my sofa, commencing his day, as usual, with non-stop napping. The night is hot, humid, smoggy. I would prefer to dip my dick into acid right now, rather than go into Monster Vice, but again, duty compels me forward.
Los Angeles Rampart Division, home to Monster Vice, is not unlike Las Vegas - it is a place that never sleeps, perpetually active. In fact, since the monster epidemic, it has remained open and ready for business twenty-four hours a day, including Christmas and New Years. The crime rate in L.A. at the end of the century had gone down to an impressive 7 percent, and violent crime down to five percent. With the arrival of the vampires, werewolves and other crawling hobgoblins after the Popov Meteor Storm, the city now enjoyed an 87 percent jump in violent crime. Rape was down, sure ... but wholesale murder, assault and battery and dismemberment had skyrocketed. Consequently, there was always a small contingent of officers on duty at any given point in the day or night.
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