by Ted Minkinow
The saying here is that Germans love dogs and have children. The face of Germany has steadily morphed over the past few years into less the Teutonic and more the international. Where I used to hear only the bold certainty of uniformly loud German voices, the cafés are now salted with the quiet lyrical tones of Turkey and the Middle East, and the seductive resonances of Eastern Europe.
I don’t know the waiter’s name at AusZeit but we know each other well enough that I never have to place an order. I went ahead and spoke for everyone except Sarah Arias. We’d done this thing enough times for me to know who preferred what. I glanced to Sarah Arias as she lit up yet another.
“Whatever he’s having,” she said.
That kind of order tends to make a guy feel ownership. Taking things a step further, that kind of order from a woman on the first night out signals a desire to become more familiar with the guy. Perhaps I was wrong. If so, keep in mind that most guys are only one level or two abstracted from sniffing butts as a form of greeting.
So yes, I sautéed myself in pride when Sarah Arias said, “I’ll take what he’s having.” Right up to the moment I realized the “he” in her statement referred to Bonny Prince McDonald. Not me. How did he rate? The snake. I half snickered as I watched him struggle to pull out a potted plant for her to sit on.
If bouncing back from rejection comes with practice, then consider me a black belt. We took up positions around the table. Sarah Arias sat beside that snake Vince—I refused to call him the Prince for the rest of the evening. Sparky wedged in between Sister Christian and me. I’d be rubbing shins with J-Rod on one side and Sparky on the other. That would cut down on the casual flirting but at least I could keep my mind on Sarah Arias’s sweater—I mean, the conversation.
For the record, Vince—nee the Prince—always ordered a beer so Sarah Arias ended up having the same as me. Ha. I waded through the kiddie pool that was my rejection and emerged on dry enough ground to catch the waiter’s eye and hold up two fingers and a thumb. He nodded…three plates of the tomato and mozzarella salads.
The drinks and salads came and the gang settled into conversation. Even Sparky. Everyone, except Sarah Arias. I watched her for signs of…I didn’t know what. I like it when my brain gives me specifics. I watched her all right. And afterward I could report the number of knots in her sweater’s knitting pattern. Well, only in the chest area, but I made the scientific assumption that the rest of the thing was made the same way. That sort of concentration didn’t get me any closer to discovering what role Sarah Arias played in the Blood Feud, but I thought the old fabric strength versus bulk enigma a healthy way to keep my mind alert and engaged.
At some point during the few hours we all sat together at that table outside Café Aus Zeit, Sparky produced a fully-formed hand poking out of the sleeve he’d tucked into his pants. I had to look twice myself, so I’ll repeat. Sparky had regrown his right hand in just a few hours. Remarkable.
In a day of amazement that one ranked up there somewhere. To be fair to Sparky, growing a major body part so quickly would have taken first place on most days. But that particular day provided so much more to think about. Like Sarah Arias’s sweater, for instance. And other things, too. I’m not just a shallow pig. And it only took three hours for me to rule out the front of Sarah Arias’s sweater as the place I’d find answers. I can be flexible when I need to be.
Anxious to blend an arm and hand into a situation where most of the gang likely thought him an amputee, Sparky used his new hand to reach into the complimentary bowl of peanuts the waiter placed on the table. Nobody said anything, so maybe Sparky pulled it off, though I didn’t see J-Rod eat another peanut for the rest of the evening.
We sat there and talked about nothing for what seemed like forever. I paid for the first four rounds, Sister Christian covered the last two. My friends probably thought I was being pleasantly foolish with my bagging tips. Perfect. I can pull off foolish with the best of them. I didn’t protest when Sister Christian offered to cover her two rounds. Too pleasantly foolish and they’d wonder even more than I thought they already did about the source of my funds.
Earlier I promised you more detail on my bank account. I’ve decided that detail’s not coming. At least not yet. But here’s what I will say. I don’t think I’m one of the fifty richest people in the world. Catch what I’m saying?
One and a half liters of German beer—three glasses filled to the 500ml line—will soften a big man’s brain. You’ve got to watch yourself or you’ll start admitting to all the stuff you’ve ever done. Add a fourth beer and you start admitting to stuff you never did. The guys each consumed at least four. The girls—Sister Christian and Sarah Arias—had one each.
And in case anyone’s wondering, it was an honest single glass for Sarah Arias. I monitored her progress all the way to the bottom. After that, I just attempted to monitor her bottom but I think she noticed and pulled her chair closer to the table. And closer, BTW to Vince who kept reaching for the glass they put the cut flowers in. Vince drinking the table decoration while snuggled next to Sarah Arias. Where was my camera?
Getting back to Sarah Arias and her beer, I almost hoped she wouldn’t touch her glass. It would have confirmed what I suspected about her playing the gang for stupid and me for a fool. How would it confirm those things? Didn’t know, just a feeling. Confirming the Blood Feud roster would have been nice. Well, not nice, nice, but nice as in “Aha. So now I know who I’m facing.”
Sure, I already had Sparky and Soyla. But one’s a hormone on legs and the other a village idiot. I wanted to identify someone further up the food chain. And by the way Sarah Arias rebuffed The Seven I was kind of certain her name sat near, if not at, the top. Again, I didn’t know where the logic came from that convinced me that Sarah Arias refusing a beer would link her to the Blood Feud. Perhaps it was the old saying about never trusting a person who doesn’t like dogs or refuses to have a beer with you.
Once Sarah Arias drained the last sip and after she pulled up tight to the table in deliberate attempt to block my view, I lost interest in the conversation. I mean, I’ve heard a thousand stories about loading cans and vegetables into plastic bags, placing those bags on a cart, rolling carts to somebody’s car in the parking lot, and loading the bags. I returned to my people watching.
You might think it a bad idea for a vampire to pay too much attention to people. Probably is. True enough, I feed on other humans at least four times a year. Doesn’t mean I’m obsessed. Besides, I’ve rarely killed, and I’ve already told you my bite will not pass along my condition. One more thing. I can’t stand the taste of human blood.
Remember the first time you got knee-knocking, commode-hugging drunk? I bet you still can’t get anywhere near the type alcohol that helped you get that way. And if you’ve never been inebriated? Congratulations. Me? I vomited for days after we ate the Roman vampire’s heart. Since then the smell of human blood propels my regards out of both ends. Still, I feed. We all do.
As I said, I don’t usually kill for blood. The part about our canines growing? True. We make neat incisions and suck what we need. Some go a lot further than that. But the good news is that The Seven tends to cull those vampires. Kind of hypocritical when you consider they ate the first few dozen explorers that came their way. But you can afford a little hypocrisy when you possess the muscle to back it up.
For some reason, Friday night isn’t the big deal in Germany that it’s always been in the USA. Oh yeah, there are the same clubs you’ll find in any city, but Bad Homburg is a town, not a city. I spent a few decades in a rural southern town in the USA. Friday nights were always celebrations. In Germany, it’s just another day. We paid up and at Café Aus Zeit and moved a few paces down to the Café Klatsch.
Klatsch means gossip, something the gang lacked by the time we found our new table. Like I said, you only get so much material from a day of rolling groceries and it doesn’t take long to exhaust it. We ordered iron skillets filled with varieties of hot
potato casseroles.
The seating lineup remained mostly the same as before except Sister Christian moved between Sparky and me. The waitress served our casseroles and we ate like people who’ve been into their cups all night tend to do. Complete silence except for J-Rod’s annoying smacking sounds and Dave Smith’s obligatory complaint about “them not having chopsticks here.”
Besides my full order of potatoes and ham, the only interesting thing to report happened when the Prince—I decided to forgive him for Sarah Arias ordering just like him—grabbed the beer off the table next to us and berated the waitress for bringing him a draft instead of bubbly water. That took a few minutes of pure frustration to sort out. Luckily the folks next to us seemed a bit further down beer road than us and never noticed the commotion. We ate. We drank water. We paid. We left.
A left turn off the Louisenstrasse walkway would take us toward my apartment. I guided the gang to the right, toward the Bad Homburg train station. There would be enough time for them to catch the S5 to Frankfurt and then the S9 to Wiesbaden. The entire trip would last about an hour, so though it was about double the time it would take to drive, the price was right. And as far as vehicles went, we only had Sparky’s two-seater Jag. Everyone wouldn’t fit and I was pretty sure it needed a new clutch.
Sarah Arias went her own way and I assumed somebody powerful enough to stare down one of The Seven could probably find a taxi to take her home. She did offer the courtesy of a good night and thank-you. She’d barely spoken a dozen words all night, drank only one beer, and didn’t order a thing at Café Klatsch. A mannequin would make a more interesting date. But then again, it didn’t cost much to entertain her.
Figuring it always helps to have a super-human war machine along for protection, I escorted the crowd to the train station. Sparky tagged along too. We passed a couple of people on the five minute walk. Like I said, Germans aren’t big on Friday nights. They save up their party energy for all the crazy festivals that close stores at the most inopportune times. On the positive side, Germans use any excuse to roll out the portable bratwurst machines and beer stalls. Most Germans save getting drunk in the streets for the times all Germans get drunk in the streets. It’s the way things are done.
We made it to the train station with one noteworthy incident, an unintentionally audible ripper from the Prince. If Sarah Arias could see him now. We crossed the broad courtyard in front of the station. It was there I began feeling that uneasy tension. You know, the feeling you get when it’s too dark to see around the corners and there’s nobody else around to deter most criminals with potential witnesses. But what did I have to be afraid of? I am a vampire, after all.
Temporary construction fencing funneled passengers toward the corridor of stairs leading to the various tracks. The fencing also provided dark nooks out of sight of passersby and cars. Not a problem. I didn’t see any passersby or cars. To reach the train platforms we’d need to traverse another jewel of impermanent German construction: a fifty-yard plywood tunnel.
I usually take the train to work so on most days I walk through the tunnel twice. Occasionally the timing worked out so that I got to the station in the morning as one of the Frankfurt trains offloaded. A lot of people cramming the tunnel. Not now, though. I sensed it was empty as we approached. Perfect. Like the sarcasm?
Worn out from the evening’s social commitments—like a knife through the lungs, a rumble with a hot-bodied full-grown woman in half a birthday suit, and a cannibal pygmy who wanted to ruin my whole day—I looked forward to getting home, turning in, and doing nothing on Saturday. Sure, “the things to think about later” represented a nagging stack of to-dos, but then the word later can mean different things to different people.
The something-is-wrong feeling gnawed at me as we approached the entrance of the plywood tunnel. The gang was mostly silent. Sister Christian gave the Prince the occasional “watch out here” that kept him from falling off curbs or walking into benches. Even J-Rod muzzled his constant commentary.
The gang felt it too, that uneasy feeling of exposure. Dave Smith walked on the balls of his feet. Probably thought it was how a ninja walked through enemy territory. Or maybe that’s how he always walked. Never really noticed. Anyway, as I said earlier, the plywood tunnel led to a corridor that connected the tracks from underneath. There were a couple of machines next to the stairs in case you needed a ticket. And something was foul.
In the air. Like urine, where the drunks relieved themselves rather than using the construction port-o-lets placed everywhere. The odor smacked us in a rolling wave so thick the UN would consider providing aid after it receded. For the love of all that’s holy. I mean, it takes additional effort to go fifty yards into a tunnel to take a whiz when you could have done the same thing by walking ten feet to one of those portable johns. The idiot sots actually had to work to make things offensive for everyone else.
As tidy and orderly as Germans appear about everything else they accept public urination with not so much as a casual frown. Might have something to do with their beer culture. Crazy world. I promised myself a return trip to this spot the next time I needed feeding.
As I said, the tunnel ran about fifty yards. What I didn’t say is that the tunnel curved enough you couldn’t see either exit. I stuck my nose into my t-shirt and willed the cologne and sweat combo to overpower the strong smell of someone else’s ejected beer. That’s how I walked to the midpoint of the plywood tunnel—the place where the curve obstructed both entrances. And nose-in-shirt was my pose when I got ambushed for the fourth time in a single night.
Chapter 16
Six of them. Three from each end of the tunnel. I don’t think the gang understood what was happening until the first blows landed. I knew alright. Four guys and two women. No time for strategy. I attacked.
When it’s me against many I follow one rule of thumb. Always the target most threatening of the group. Stops the others in their tracks while they decide whether they underestimated the fighting skills of their victim—dangerous—or if their intended mark is crazy—more dangerous.
I hoped momentary confusion would give me an edge. In most fights that’s enough. Real life fights are seldom the kind of back and forth rumbles that Hollywood favors. Things usually run their course in a few seconds. Once the big guy goes down the others tend to scatter. But how to pick out the bull elephant in the microsecond it would take for me to cover the distance.
Easy. One of the guys looked like he could dunk a basketball standing flatfooted while chewing a fifty pound barbell like a piece of gum. He’d be my first dance. I didn’t slow my preternatural sprint as I reached Colossus but instead I lowered my head and drove through him like a locomotive drives through dust. I saw the man crash through the plywood wall and disappear into the dark beyond. One down, five to go.
A scream, and I knew my bagger friends were engaged. A fleeting glance identified David Smith as the source of the noise. He stood in full ninja pose and yelled another samurai war-cry. He’d just earned the name Watanabe, at least from me, and if we all made it through this thing. I counted on Sparky to stall the attack and give me an opportunity to return to our group. But Sparky was nowhere in sight. Some people use their abilities to defend, others employ them to save their own skins. Looked like Sparky needed to cut back feeding on French blood.
One vampire versus six—now five—humans. Normally a no-contest slaughter. Dozens of humans stood no chance. So why did Sparky run? There’s never enough time to think in a fight but always enough time to deal with the disadvantages the not thinking causes. That’s a long road to saying I followed my instincts and took the fight to the remaining attackers. Perhaps I should have thought before I acted.
My headlong rush into Titanic-Man may have resulted in the satisfying sound of broken bones, it also served to take me out of the fight for a precious few seconds. Another bit of new information dawned after a quick scan of our attackers. They weren’t human. 411 valuable enough to have gathered before
I acted like the bull in the ring. Oh the guy I tossed through the plywood wall was as human as you or me. The rest? No. Demons. All of them. Kind of makes my previous claim of demon rarity look a bit stupid.
Whether it’s a half-hearted fistfight between brothers or the impact area of a great battle between two large armies, the fog of war settles in to help along the confusion. My enemy controlled the fogging machine and used my own instincts against me. But who was my enemy?
The question sounded familiar. It should have, because the same thing crossed my mind each of the three times I’d been jumped that night. And for the fourth time, I spared no brain cycles for thought. Not thinking proved little challenge for me and I promised myself to work on changing that skill. Maybe they’ll engrave “Here Lies a Man Who Never Thought” on my headstone.
Demons are worthy opponents. They attack in ways you can’t predict, you can’t kill them, they don’t exhibit any measure of rational fear, and you can’t trace a path of logic in their actions. Kind of like a wife after the tenth anniversary.
For all my lack of intentional thought I knew my brain must be struggling to pass messages in the background. Somewhere in our walk through the plywood tunnel the ammonia smell of the second of the two German national liquids transitioned into more a sulfuric odor. My nose-in-shirt fart defense prevented the front part of my brain from processing the subtle change in smell while the rear part detected the demon scent. I’ve already said, I’m no biology savant.
But even without the rear brain engaged I had another clue so certain that even my smaller, alternate thinking cap could process without interrupting its primary mission. The remaining five attackers might have been snappy dressers, but their deformed, grotesque faces made them no competition for the less-prone-to-popularity and often drunk ladies that remained in the bar once the lights came on. Demons are ugly.
I’ve spoken with other vampires who’ve tussled with demons. Victory comes not when you’ve disabled them but rather when you escape without leaving too much of yourself behind. That made my chicken friend Sparky a winner already.