I had noticed earlier that, while I was still capable of eating solid food (thank god!), it didn't quite seem to satisfy me the way it used to. The taste was fine, but it was like eating a giant salad (for me, anyway) in that it seemed to be missing something. While we ate, I mentioned this to Ed in passing.
“Well, it's not surprising,” he said in between mouthfuls.
“No?”
“Not really. Think about it. Your digestive tract is probably all rewired. It’s kind of like this: I used to date this goth chick. She used to keep some cow blood in her fridge to freak out her friends with. Anyway, she was telling me one day after sex (thanks for the extra info, Ed), that she tried drinking it a few times. I guess she was trying to walk the walk or some shit. A sip or two was okay, but anything more than that and she'd wind up puking her guts up. The same would have probably happened to you a few days ago. But now you can safely guzzle it down. In fact, I'd bet that whatever it is that you feel you're missing from that,” he motioned toward my low mien, “you probably get from the blood. Am I right?”
“Yeah. I think so,” I considered. “Like a Snickers, it satisfies.”
“Thanks for forever ruining snickers for me. Anyway, I'm no nutritionist, but my guess would be that you're probably now getting your daily needs from the blood. As for the rest, it's the nutritional equivalent of eating cardboard.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Okay. I guess that makes sense.”
“Yep. So I'd guess that feast before you would probably pack a better punch if you poured some blood on it.”
There was definitely some logic to that. I got up, went to the fridge, and pulled out a liter as Ed watched me. I poured it onto my food and then nuked the concoction for a minute. I sat back down and was about to dig in when a bit of self-consciousness hit me.
“Is this going to gross you out?” I asked.
“Probably. But, then again, is it really any weirder than some of the shit Anthony Bourdain eats on his show?”
“Good point,” I said as I took a bite.
“Well?” he asked expectantly.
“Best Chinese food I've ever eaten,” I confirmed.
“That's probably not saying much.”
“Wanna bite?” I held out a forkful toward him with a grin. “You know you want to.”
He rolled his eyes in response. “Pass. By the way, please tell me that's animal blood.”
“You know, I'm not entirely sure. Kinda forgot to ask on the way out.”
“That's comforting,” he said, oozing sarcasm.
I was about to open my mouth to say more when the front door clicked open and my other roommate, Tom, walked in. He was an inch or so taller than me, of slightly thinner build, had dirty blond hair, close cropped to disguise the fact that it was already starting to thin on top. His suit was disheveled from a full day at work, and he was carrying both his laptop bag and suitcase.
Okay, this was it. I had one non-freaking roommate. Just one more and I'd have a complete set. However, he started talking excitedly before either of us could speak.
“Hey guys!” he said as he tossed his sports jacket onto a nearby chair. “What a weekend. I scored like a mofo! You won't...”
“Scored?” I interrupted. “How is your sister by the way?” Sorry, couldn't help myself.
He casually flipped me the finger, continuing as if I hadn't spoken, “Mom wanted me to stay an extra day to drive her around, because Dad had some shit to do. I hate being her chauffeur, but this time it was worth it.”
Ed chimed in, “Dude, we have to talk.”
“Yeah, in a second. So she wanted to go to this flea market. Fucking things. Normally you couldn't pay me to root around in someone else's shit, but...”
“Tom, it's kind of important,” I interrupted.
“Not as important as this,” he said as he blew off both our entreaties. “I found this stoner selling a bunch of crap and you wouldn't believe what he had.” He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a wad of bubble wrap, which he immediately started to unravel.
“Tom...”
“Check it out, bitches!” he proclaimed as he held up his prize, a small but easily identifiable toy. “Optimus fucking Prime! Is this cool or what!?” he exclaimed.
Ed and I both gave each other a glance. We'd seen this before.
“That's great. Really, it is. But I have something important to tell you. I'm a vam...”
He cut me off again, “Are you two always going to be retards? Don't you get it? I paid ten bucks for this. TEN BUCKS! First generation, mint out of the box with all accessories! Sucker didn't have any idea what it's worth.” I could almost see the manic glee in his eye as he continued, unabated, “Christ, in a couple of years I'll be able to send my kids to college with this thing... no, fuck that… I'll be able to send myself to live on some island where the drinks and the pussy flow freely.”
I stood up and walked over to him, knowing that if I didn't stop him now, we'd be listening to this psycho obsessive crap all night.
“Tom...”
“Sorry, Bill. You're my bro and all, but Prime here is the new priority. I just gotta let you know,” he said, only half kidding. “If this place catches fire, I save him first, myself second, and then maybe you guys, if there's time.”
“Okay, enough of this shit!” I said as I grabbed the action figure from his hands. “We have something that we need to talk... abOUCH! FUCK!” I yelled as there was a searing flash, and suddenly, for the second time that day, my hand was in flames. I dropped the toy and started waving my hand around in pain.
Tom responded with a panicked, “Don't fucking break it...” and then just as quickly stopped as what happened finally started to sink in.
Speaking of sinks, I immediately raced to ours to douse my hand.
For also the second time that day, Ed was nearly speechless. “What the hell just happened?” he asked numbly.
“You tell me,” mumbled Tom, absentmindedly retrieving his toy and cradling it like a mother would a small child.
“Goddamnit! That hurt!” was the best I could offer as way of explanation.
* * *
A few minutes later, we were all seated around the table. After making sure I was alright, Tom went and locked his action figure (complete with real Kung-Fu death grip, apparently) in his room. I had wrapped a wet dishrag around my hand and taken a seat opposite him.
“So you're saying you've gone insane,” Tom said.
“No, I'm saying I'm a vampire,” I replied.
“Uh huh. Prove it.”
“Prove it!? Did you not just see...”. Okay. Deep breath, I reminded myself. Do this calmly. Tom was having one of his clueless asshole moments. “Fine, I'll prove it. How about this?” I asked as I opened my mouth wide to show him my fangs.
He looked nonplussed. “Five bucks will get you a reasonable set of glue-on fangs.”
“They're real!”
“They look fake.”
“They're not! Touch them.”
“I'd prefer to keep my fingers out of your mouth, thanks.”
“I might have something that'll prove it,” Ed chimed in. He stood up and went into his bedroom. The sounds of rummaging could be heard a few moments later.
“What else you got?” asked Tom.
“Well...”
“How about mirrors? Amaze me with your lack of a reflection.”
“That one just works in the movies.”
“How convenient. What about garlic? Does that drive you away screaming into the night?”
“Actually... I'm not sure,” I admitted.
Tom got up and went to one of the cabinets. He pulled out a jar of garlic hot sauce. “Here, Dracula.”
“Um, okay,” I nervously replied. This was really not how I envisioned testing out my vulnerabilities. I dabbed a little on my finger, hesitated for a second, and then licked it off. I waited a second or two to see if I was going to start convulsing, and then, when nothing happened, said,
“Nope. That myth is busted, too, I guess.”
“You're not really helping your case here. Shall I stake you through the heart? Oh, wait, that would kill anyone!”
“Don't be a complete ass,” I shot back. “Hmm, oh yeah! The fridge is full of blood. Explain that!”
He opened the refrigerator and took a quick look. “So? It looked like that last Halloween.”
“Yeah, but this time it's real.”
“If you say so.”
“Found it!” Ed called from his room. I heard his footsteps approaching. As he was just about to pass me, I heard him say, “Sorry Bill, this might sting a bit.” Before I could question what he meant by that, his arm wrapped around my neck in a headlock and I felt him press something cool against my forehead. “BEHOLD! How the beast burns before the might of our savior!” he yelled in a bad southern accent.
“What the fuck, man!” I said as I shoved him off me.
“That's weird. It didn't work,” he said as he showed me what was in his hand. It was a small iron cross on a necklace.
“A little warning next time!” I growled.
“Sorry. Didn't think you'd go for it if you saw it coming.”
“You're probably right. Where did you get that thing from, anyway?”
“Oh. It was a gift from that emo chick I was telling you about.” He stopped and appeared to be considering something, then said, “You know, I should find her phone number for you. If she found out you were a real vampire, she'd have your dick in her mouth faster than you can say 'spit shine'.”
I thought about it for a second. “Has potential. But let's table that one for the moment.”
“Eh hem!” Tom cleared his throat. “Are we done with this idiocy?”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Not yet. I have one more idea,” said Ed as he turned toward the dish drain. He quickly turned back, steak knife in hand.
Before I could even ask what he was planning to do, he plunged the knife into the table. Unfortunately, my uninjured hand also happened to be on the table, if you catch my drift. The pain was so swift and instantaneous that I couldn't even scream.
“Holy shit, Ed!” Tom exclaimed. “Time to switch to decaf, dude!”
“WAIT!” Ed yelled as he pulled the knife free. “Bill, before you completely shit a brick, hold up your hand.”
I was about to hold it up in the form of a fist to his face when I noticed that he was right. I held up my hand and we all watched as the small (but fucking painful!) wound almost immediately closed itself.
“I thought that might work,” Ed said, “especially after I saw how quickly your hand healed earlier. Speaking of which, take off the towel.”
I pulled off the dishrag as I hissed at him, “Thought it might work!?” However, sure enough, he was right about that, too. My twice-burnt hand was once again good as new.
“Okay,” said Tom in a very slow voice. “I'll admit that's maybe a little bit off of normal.”
“It's about time! Another test or two and one of us,” I glared at Ed, “probably wouldn't survive.”
“Very well, I accept that maybe you're a vampire.”
“Maybe?”
“Yeah, maybe. One thing about it still doesn't add up. Since when can vampires touch crosses safely, but old Transformer toys cause them to ignite like rocket fuel? Can you riddle me that, Riddler?” he asked.
Unfortunately, on that one, I had absolutely no clue.
And Now for a Kung-Fu Training Montage
Wednesday night found us at a small gym over on Fourth Avenue. It was a dingy place, but they stayed open late and offered a couple of free trial workouts before charging any membership fees. That was really all we needed to test a few things out.
After the initial weirdness of Monday night had been given a chance to settle, I had brought my roommates up to speed on Sally (they really didn't believe that part), the party, being turned, and my ninety day countdown to a more permanent death. Tom was initially a little wary about me being around.
“So how do we know the bottled stuff is going to keep you sane?” he had asked. “Every vampire movie I've ever seen says you'll eventually be overcome by your need for human flesh and become a rampaging animal until your thirst is quenched.”
I patiently explained to him that, so far, the movies weren't exactly sporting an overly impressive record compared to what wound up being total bullshit. However, he wasn't quite satisfied with that explanation. So, I told him the story of how I was unable to kill the fat, sweaty dude. Ed, being the ever helpful fellow, had to chime in on my side of things, sorta, with,
“A vampire who's too much of a pussy to kill someone? I guess I can live with that.”
“It isn't like that,” I sighed as yet another person just didn't get it. Maybe it's a guy thing, but it annoyed the hell out of me for people to think I was some sort of defanged little girly monster. I'm not a fucking Elmo doll for Christ’s sake!
“So, how is it then?” Ed asked in a humoring tone.
“Okay, how do I explain this?” I rhetorically asked out loud. “I’ve got it! You both like hot dogs, right?” Both of them muttered in the affirmative to this. “Even though you know what they are?” More nods. “Okay, so what if I handed you both a plate of lips and assholes and told you to dive right in because they taste just like hotdogs?”
“I might refrain from partaking,” Ed murmured after a moment or two. Tom agreed.
“Well, that's how it was for me. No matter how good it tasted, I couldn't get it out of my head that I was giving some naked guy a mega-hickey.” At last, I could see the beginnings of understanding in their eyes.
“That which is seen...” Ed said.
“Cannot be unseen,” I finished.
“So, by that logic,” Tom cut in, “wouldn't chowing down on a hot swimsuit model be okay?”
I thought about it for a few seconds. “Yeah, I guess so. Hot chicks would definitely be on the menu.”
Ed shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. That would be a waste of some perfectly good ass. They're too rare (at least in our apartment) to kill. You don't hunt endangered species. Killing a hot chick would be like clubbing a baby seal. Not cool.” Damn, he had me there. Score one for logic.
“What if Bill was drunk and it was a fat chick?” Tom asked.
“Your wisdom is sound, my friend. Nobody loses points for an ugly girl if they're hammered at the time,” Ed agreed.
I concurred, “That's cool. A few shots of tequila and I could see myself getting all up in that shit.”
That important issue being settled, we bullshitted some more until Ed suggested (considering that, so far, we had more questions than answers), taking some time to chart my new powers would probably be a good idea. Damn, why didn't I think of that? Knowing what I was capable of could potentially help me down the line (like, say, a little less than three months down the line). At the very least, it might keep me from doing something stupid, like tossing myself out of another third story window.
Hence where we were now. Tuesday night was spent testing out some stuff we could do without actually leaving the apartment, including trying to figure out my sudden aversion to Optimus Prime. Unfortunately, despite several retries at grasping the toy (much to my protests against doing so), we were no closer to solving any mystery more complex than whether or not Febreze will cover up the scent of burning vampire (pretty well actually).
It was Tom who had suggested the gym. It would give us some hard numbers to gauge my strength against. Even if it didn’t work, it would be better than spending another evening charbroiling my hands.
Fortunately, the place was fairly empty. Aside from the counter girl (who couldn't quite suppress a smirk when we came in and told her we were evaluating workout options), there were only a few middle-aged types moving between the treadmills and stationary bikes. That was good. No use calling extra attention to ourselves.
We gravitated toward an old universal machine off in the corner. It'd be more discrete than load
ing plates much heavier than a person of my stature should be able to lift onto some weight bench. I wasn't too worried about being outed as a vampire, but, if we started doing weird ass shit that got noticed, we might find someone calling the cops, thinking we were on PCP. I was pretty sure meth-heads didn't use their manic drug-induced strength for the purposes of working out, but better safe than sorry.
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