. . . And so it was said unto Brahman, “Thou hast sullied thy noble name by feasting upon the blood of thy fellow, and for that unforgivable sin, insult to the Life created upon this Earth, thou shalt never bask in My glory ever again, and to look upon My face would spell certain death for ye, for I refuse to look upon a bloodthirsty and hateful countenance such as yours.  Henceforth, thy children, thy children’s children, and beyond shall forever roam in the Darkness, walking as dead men, never to share in the beauties and the wonders of the world.  For thy crime, thou shalt drink the Blood of the Living for all eternity, forever suffering in that thy sustenance is derived by the destruction of Life.  Thy torments will indeed be grand as thou must cause suffering of the Innocent every time in which thy must renew thyself, and for the destruction of the Innocent, thy name shall be cursed by the Living and thou shalt find no succor or love amongst them.  You shall be Damned for all eternity.”

            Brahman looked upon the face of his Goddess and begged for mercy, realizing the grievous, terrible error he had committed.  While Her Wrath was considerable, the Goddess also felt compassion for Her fallen child, and She, in Her infinite Greatness, said, “Though thy life and those of thy children shall be forever Damned, thou hast a chance to reap salvation from thy error. 

Thou must treat thy fellows with graciousness and love, and never strike out against them.

Thou must feed from the Blood of the Innocent always, so that thy name shalt be forever cursed.

Thou must avoid all contact with the Living, except under circumstances of renewal, so that their Joy shall be forever kept from thou; likewise, thou must not emulate the ways of the Living, for the Damned are not worthy of their ways.

Thou must sleep within the Earth or in places of the dead, the warmth and comfort of the bed is forever denied to thee.

Thou must remain in the Darkness at all times, never to gaze upon My face ever again.

And now you die, Brahman, so that you may be reborn as the Damned, forever to roam the Earth, cursed and hated by the Living, finding comfort only in the company of thy fellows, never to gaze upon My face again.”  

                                                                                                 --Excerpt from Covenant of Blood

  *     *     *
 

Dear Michelle,

            You have probably heard theory upon theory about what happened in Los Angeles several springs ago.  I’ve heard quite a number myself, picked up while roaming the shadows on the street and listening from shadowy corners in any number of disreputable taverns and bars.  The prevailing answer to the question of “what happened in L.A.?” is that it was gang-related, pure and simple, and seeing as how this particular answer is given to people by smiling politicians, Officer Friendly, and the media, people believe it.  After all, if the TV says so, then it must be true, eh?  So most people accept the notion that the whole shake-up, the shooting, the fires, and the killings was perpetrated by a bunch of gangbangers with chips on their shoulders and guns and knives in their jackets; people like this answer.  It’s safe and convenient because, after all, gangbangers are nothing but trouble to America, mom, apple pie, and baseball, and it’s only natural that gangs would be the cause of all that trouble that went down a few years back.  Besides, urban violence of that sort occurred back in 1992, so why not again, only more organized this time around?  At any rate, the prevailing pointy-heads have decreed that gangs will no longer be tolerated in any way, shape, or form in Los Angeles; a gang affiliation in Los Angeles today is worse than a lifetime membership card in the Communist party back in the 1950’s, and gangs are all but extinct in Los Angeles.  The people in power say that gangs are evil, so be it, and that they must be eradicated, so it was done, and the good people of Los Angeles are safe again in their happy little homes and businesses.  Good has won once more.

            Those of the more “deviant” type have their theories on what happened, and these theories never fail to be interesting, much more so than what the media and Johnny Politician have to say.  I’ve listened to and, at times, actively participated in discussions with these deviant types, many of whom have imaginations that are truly wondrous to behold in action, and I’ve never come away disappointed.  Tales of aliens escaped from Area 51 and forcibly contained within downtown L.A. have been presented, not to mention ideas of a secret government installation beneath the city (sometimes for genetic engineering and other times for more technical and sadistic pursuits, depending upon the person you’re talking to) as well as an uprising of anarchists bent on taking over the city and using it as a starting point for the future Anarchic States of America, and then there were the various theories about there being some sort of cult involvement with all the trouble caused on that night.  Others blame it on drug-crazed hippie-types getting out of control, and still others blame it on “those goddamn Mexicans,” and I’ve talked with a few that had decidedly more Lovecraftian  concepts that I have listened to in rapt fascination.  All of these ideas are interesting, some very humorous, others very thought-provoking, and I enjoy listening to all of them, though nobody has ever really come close to what it really was.  I’ve discovered that the prevailing theory among the deviant and eccentric tends to be the one about the secret government installation beneath the city, as it seems that anyone who goes roaming around in the sewer systems and the subterranean tunnels is never seen again, and there are tales of malformed monsters, results of failed experiments by the government to create super soldiers and living weapons, running loose under L.A., devouring anything that gets near them.  I almost took offense during discussions outlining the idea I have presented above; having been one of those that have had occasion to blot out the life of underground snoopers, I resented the notion that I was a malformed monster, and the government could never create anything even remotely as competent as I am.  Malformed monsters, indeed . . . after listening to one fellow’s particularly vivid descriptions of the underground beasts, I took it upon myself to charm his girlfriend away from him, and though he told a good tale, his girlfriend left the club with me that night.  Word of advice, friend: when you’re in a dimly-lit bar on the wrong side of town, be careful of what you may slight, even malformed monsters, because you never quite know who might be listening.

            I have also heard tales of a colony of vampires running loose under the streets, which had been locked in combat with both its own kind and that of werewolves as well, and every time I have ever encountered stories of that sort, I have been quick to shoot them down and take care that the teller is properly ridiculed so he never spews forth such nonsense again.  After all, there are no vampires in Los Angeles.

            But I digress.

            And then after that I laugh, because I like to digress.

            Ah, Michelle, you didn’t quite know what you were getting into when you asked me to tell you the tale of what happened that spring in Los Angeles, did you?  When you posed the question to me last night, I think that you were expecting the story right then and there, rather than a smile on my part, and then an answer of “I’ll get back to you in two nights on that one.”  I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I present to you the thick sheaf of paper that will be the sum of the story that you wished to know about, seen through the eyes of one of the central players, augmented here and there by the words of his closest friends, though if Stacey has anything to contribute, rest assured it will be shrunken down to something a bit more akin to realism, as he has a tendency to exaggerate to proportions that would have made Paul Bunyon proud.  Therein I will also explain to you more of what it means to be one of us; you have expressed your wish to be one of the Blood, a matter of grave consideration, and perhaps with the words that I am about to set to print, I will help to make your choice easier to make, one way or another.  You have spoken to myself and to Stacey about our existence in Los Angeles, but what you have seen with us hasn’t been a tenth of a tenth of one percent of what there is.  It literally is an entire other world, full of people and things you’ve never seen before.  Regardless of the decision you make, you shall always be a friend of ours, and I hope that you enjoy the story I have to tell, and please indulge me if I become overly-dramatic in spots. 

                                                                                                Yours faithfully,
Steele

From velvet night came forth
Our torch burns eternal
For Time is but a dream
And our mischief be infernal.

Black Angels watch over
Neglecting the living but not the undead,
Blessed are the hallowed and gracious
For their blood shall keep us fed.

Hark the electric thunder
Drawn like moths to a flame
To a place of wicked wonder
. . . and Hollywood be thy name.

                                         --Phil Lewis, 1991

Hollywood Vampires
UNHOLY WAR
Chapter One
The Crucifixion

*     *     *

I

          For the moment, the music was everything.

            Though we were in front of a capacity crowd at the Roxy night club, everything else had ceased to exist for us except for our music.  As I belted out the lyrics to Roxx Gang’s “Scratch My Back,” a favorite of both the band and the crowd, I took a sidelong glance at Stacey, who was wailing away on his guitar and bouncing around the stage like there was no tomorrow, his long black hair whipping about in all directions.  Behind me, I could hear Tommy pulverizing his drums with his usual intensity, and I got the feeling it wouldn’t be long before he needed a couple of new heads . . . again.  Dorian, equipped with mirrored sunglasses and cigarette dangling from his lips, was leaning against an amp stack like he was in a trance, his fingers picking out the notes with his trademark sleazy precision.  As I grabbed my mike stand and spun around on my heel (nearly taking off Stacey’s head, but he was on the ball enough to avoid untimely decapitation) I caught a glance of Wade, who had climbed up onto one of the amp stacks toward the back of the stage and was hammering away on his guitar, thrashing his head of dark brown hair in time with the music.  Our simple setup was little more than amps, a fog machine, and a couple of colored lights that we’d put together, but it was enough to transform the small stage into another world, and we were the undisputed masters of that world.

            The inside of the club was thick with cigarette smoke and machine-generated fog, and in addition to that, there was so much sensuality and sexuality hanging in the air that it was like a living, throbbing thing, wrapping around all of us and dripping from the walls . . . it was the kind of vibe that one could only get at a particularly good rock concert, the kind that picked you up and carried you along with it for a ride on the wild side.  Stacey, feeding off of the vibe and getting even more wound up because of it, pranced up and down the length of the stage, whipping up the fog and grinning at all the pretty women in the front row, turning his unique kooky/dangerous charm up as high as it would go.  The response was very much to his liking: a number of items of female clothing, most notably bras and panties, flew up towards him wherever he slinked on by.  Not to be outdone, Dorian came to life from his position by the amp stack, swaggered up to the front of the stage and gyrated like a dancer, playing to the women of the crowd, letting them know that Stacey wasn’t the only one worth tossing their unmentionables at, and my sharp ears picked up a chuckle from Stacey as he scurried by.  Dorian’s response was even better than Stacey’s, as he was pummeled with a virtual snowstorm of lingerie, and the blonde-haired bassist grinned from ear to ear as one especially enraptured (and totally topless) girl had her friends hold her up on their shoulders so that she could wave her finest assets at Dorian.

However, as I am the frontman of our little band, I decided it was time for me to strut my stuff.  As Stacey and Wade ripped into their solos, I hopped up onto my monitor and swayed in front of the crowd in the hideously suggestive manner that I had perfected a long time ago.  The crowd, the girls in particular, went nuts.  Then to up the stakes, I tore off the rag headband I always wore around my head to keep my raven-black hair in place, twirled it around and around in the air over my head, and after an appropriately long enough pause, winged it into the audience.  I saw a small explosion of frenzied humanity erupt from the spot where my bandanna landed, and I backflipped off of my monitor and onto center stage (neatly shedding my leather jacket in the process), where I grabbed onto my mike stand and started up the home stretch of the song without missing a beat.  I always felt so alive when we were on stage . . . more alive than I had ever felt when I was still mortal.

            It had been a good night.  Our performance, a collection of covers from our favorite glam/hard rock bands, had driven the Roxy’s crowd of rock ‘n roll junkies crazy.  I could see Geno, the Roxy’s owner, leaning against the far wall, his broad arms crossed over his barrel chest and a huge grin on his Italian face.  It had been a very profitable night, as well . . . then again, it was always profitable whenever we played, no matter how much we ended up destroying in the process.

            As I sang my last line of the night, I sprang up into the air and landed on top of my monitor again, dropping down into a low crouch, my face just inches from the closest of our fans’ grasping hands.  I bared my fangs at them, fake blood dripping from them (I’d crushed the blood capsules in my cheeks just moments before), and a chorus of delighted screams welled up from the audience.  Stacey and Dorian exposed their fangs as well, while Wade, seemingly oblivious to everything, roared through the sassy bit of guitar that ended the song.  After the last note had been played and the last line had been sung, a howl flew up from the rear of the stage, and I could hear Tommy explode out from behind his drum kit, tearing it apart in a wild frenzy.  Oh well, we had enough money to get him another one.  Stacey joined in, and smashed his guitar through the bass drum, while Dorian launched himself at the amp stack Wade was still perched on.  As the amps toppled, Wade leaped through the air, his trademark leather trenchcoat billowing out around him, and as he landed, he swung his guitar like a baseball bat and slammed it into the other amp stack.  I stood up on my monitor, raised my arms in the air like a reverend who had seen the Light, and fixed the crowd with my most intense gaze.  “Let’s hear you fucking scream!” I bellowed at them.  They obeyed, and the noise inside the Roxy was thunderous.  “Fucking louder!”

            As the audience volume increased even further, I threw back my head and laughed.  I saw a folding chair go flying through the air, and I flung my mike stand up towards the lighting rig.  Sparks exploded everywhere as the stand hit home, and shards of glass landed on the stage around me as the stage was thrown into near darkness.  As the crowd began applauding, the five of us lined up along the front of the stage and gave our customary stage bow, which we had borrowed from thespian productions.  Even though my stand was gone, I still had hold of my mike, and I yelled, “Thank you all!  You’re the best in the fucking world!  We’ll be back real soon!”

            The praise brought the desired response, and the volume level inside the Roxy went up a couple more notches.  It had indeed been a good night for the Hollywood Vampires.

  *     *     *

            After the show, we sat at one of the tables while the cleanup crew cleared up the mess from the evening’s events, taking a quick breather before venturing out into the night.  Wade and I leaned back in our chairs, propping our booted feet up on the little round table, relaxedly taking it all in, while Stacey wolfed down a hamburger and fries someone had brought him from down the street.

            Allow me to take a quick sidetrip here, Michelle, as you have asked me time and time again as to the how’s and why’s of a vampire’s diet, and I’d like to let you in on a few details concerning them.  Though most, if not all, of the popular fiction on vampires claims that those of the Blood don’t eat, the truth of the matter is that, though we don’t eat much, we still do eat.  The blood of mortals is our main form of sustenance, true, but just as a human can’t subsist entirely on water, many vampires don’t exist entirely on blood.  There are those of us who do, and while they don’t drop in their tracks, they tend to be very lean and usually of ill temperament, much like some of the most vehement vegetarians among mortals.  They also don’t heal as rapidly as those of us who eat do.  Forget the Interview With The Vampire claptrap; when we get hurt, we can’t magickally reknit our flesh from thin air, especially if you’ve been hosed down by a machine gun, which happened to Stacey and myself once.  We need fuel and materials to heal ourselves when we get injured, and those of us who make sure that we’re well-stocked (our bodies store extra nutrients akin to the ways humans store fat, though our bodies’ cutoff limits for excess supplies are much, much lower than humans, so we never get even the slightest bit obese) tend to heal almost as rapidly as those in the movies do.  Not only that, if we cut our nails or hair, they don’t grow back instantaneously.  If we get the right nutrients, and concentrate our internal energies, we can make them grow back at a fairly rapid pace, but it’s nothing like the movies.  We don’t eat or drink very often (almost all of us drink water pretty regularly, however), but when we do, it’s usually something very nutritious and with little waste to it (you could call us “health food junkies,” though I’ve been known to partake in some steak and lobster from time to time), because our bodies dispose of our excess wastes through our mouths (our excretory systems stop working as soon as we Become).  It’s process very much akin to vomiting, though we call it “purging.”  Stacey, ever the one for colorful language, simply refers to it as “puking” or “blowing chunks.”

            When most of us Become, our appetites by and far disappear, which is natural as our need for food is dramatically lessened, though we still like the taste of some foods.  Stacey is an aberration in that sense, as he eats almost as much as a regular human being.  He loves the taste of food and never ceases to indulge in culinary delights, which mostly consist of junk food and items cooked in large amounts of grease.  As one can imagine, that adds up to a lot of waste for Stacey to dispose of, especially when he’s stocked up for the moment, but as he’s been eating like this since he Became, sometime in the early AD’s, purging for him is as natural and routine for him as urination is for humans.  Fortunately, when we purge, we’re not nearly as messy and smelly as mortals are, so Stacey never gets foul-smelling, but Tommy would be sure to inform him if he did.

Speaking of Tommy, he was discussing the matter of finances with Geno, and how much we had made tonight as opposed to how much we had destroyed.  Dorian’s attention was elsewhere, as he was flirting with one of the waitresses who was getting ready to leave for the night.  “Can I buy you a drink sometime?” he asked with a winning smile, automatically using his limited, but tremendously honed, telepathic abilities to help him snag the woman, though with his classic blonde-haired Californian good looks, he didn’t need much help.  The waitress, a blonde dressed in a red, black, and short-skirted outfit, smirked at him and giggled.

            I glanced over at Wade, who was smirking slightly.  “Think she’s going down?” I asked.

            Wade nodded.

            “He’s got her cold,” Stacey said between bites of his food, “She’s been hot for him for ages, and not only that, she’d love to be able to tell her friends that she was able to take the bassist of the Hollywood Vampires to bed with her.”  Stacey, despite his sometimes lack-brained antics, had empathic abilities that put almost everybody to shame, and he could read most humans as easily as he could read a comic book; add to that a shrewd intelligence and you had yourself an excellent judge of character.

            Tommy finished off his conversation with Geno, and the big Italian happily stomped off.  The drummer turned to us and said, “Well, we did pretty well for ourselves tonight.  The amount of money we raked in was quite a bit larger than the money we burned destroying the stage.”  He lit up a cigarette and took a sip from the glass of water in front of him.  “Not bad, not bad at all.”  You’ve often asked me why vampires would be concerned about money when we can simply take anything we want, Michelle, so let me elaborate on the point for you a bit.  Granted, it is true that we can simply grab anything we want to without fear of prosecution by the law, but it’s good to have a large supply of currency around for things that can’t easily be obtained by mere theft, such as houses, conspicuous cars, and items that can only be purchased via mail order.  It also prevents us from always having to run out and grab what we want or need . . . after all, why spend an entire night running all over town looking for a hard-to-find album that contains a song that you want to listen to when you can use your purchasing power to have that album sent to your aboveground residence by a company that specializes in mail-order music?  Not only that, but since we love to play for an audience so much, it’s only natural that we give performances in a club like the Roxy, and I suspect that if we refused pay, it would raise more a few more eyebrows than we’d be comfortable with.

Tommy pulled a ponytail holder out of his denim vest (which was adorned with a dizzying array of band patches), tied his dark blonde hair back, and smiled at us.  “Geno requests us for a return engagement two days from now.”

            “He’s getting pretty quick on the draw when it comes to cleaning up after us,” Wade observed.

            “Hey, why not?” Stacey asked, scarfing his food down as though there were no tomorrow.  “We’re his best attraction.  How many other clubs on the Strip can boast a regular band made up entirely of vampires?  We’re the Kiss of our little corner of the world!”  I tried not to laugh at the way Tommy shuddered at Stacey’s open mouth full of food; some people just aren’t as used to him as I am, I suppose.

            “Except we don’t take off our plastic fangs and stage makeup when we’re done,” said Wade softly.  To add effect to the words of the big vampire, Stacey growled at us melodramatically, baring his fangs and flicking his tongue like Gene Simmons.

            Tommy glanced over to the bar, where Dorian was busily talking up the waitress and convincing her of what a prize he was (even though the Roxy was closed, all employees and performers were allowed afterhours access to the bar until the cleanup crew was done).  “Oh oh, my nose that knows informs me that’s Zinfandel gracing her glass,” Tommy intoned, nodding towards the wine glass the waitress was holding in her hand.  Zinfandel is one of Dorian’s favorite wines and he always makes sure that his prizes have at least a small amount of it in them before he feeds; he claims it gives the blood a nice “tingly” flavor.  “No sherry for this girl, which means that she just may make it through the night in one piece.  But then again, it wouldn’t do for him to kill off one of Geno’s employees.”  Dorian was a fiend for sherry, and when he served that to a girl, she was doomed for sure, as he wouldn’t stop until he’d hit the very last drop.  Though our vampiric metabolisms don’t like straight alcohol (it tends to get purged back up almost immediately if taken straight), they can take alcohol mixed with blood just fine, and the addition of alcohol can even enhance the flavor of a person’s blood greatly, so when one Becomes a vampire, they can still enjoy their favorite drinks, but they have to employ a vessel other than a glass or a bottle to get it into their system.  Wines seem to be most favored among vampires, the finer the better, as they go along with hot blood excellently, much better than beer or whiskey.  Stacey, inexplicably, loves Thunderbird mixed with his blood, however, so don’t go thinking that Becoming instantly makes on a connoisseur.

            “Mr. Ladykiller,” I chortled, absently fingering one of my earrings, a silver hoop adorned with a miniature skull.  “I oughtta go over there and give him some competition.  She’s a fine-looking catch.  Plenty of the good stuff in her, though I doubt she’s as sweet as some of the ‘comely lasses of virtue true’ that I’ve had in the past.”

            “Yeah, but she’s got that hint of spice that’s oh-so-nice,” Stacey leered, “Even if it ain’t Thunderbird.”

            “Speaking of spice, I’ve taken notice of a likely-looking girl in one of the neighborhoods on the edge of the city,” Wade said.  “Says her prayers by her window every night at midnight when she gets home from work, as pious as they get, I swear.  I’ve been taking little nips from her for a while now, and I do believe I’m going to consummate the situation fully tonight . . .”

            “Oh hey yeah!  Go answer her prayers for a tall, dark, and handsome man to come and take her out of her stifled little life . . . literally!” Stacey chuckled, feeling that he was on a roll.  Tommy sighed and I had to laugh at my long-time friend’s irrepressibility.  I had known Stacey for close to two thousand years now (give or take the odd century or two), and his enthusiasm had never let up once.

In fact, just months after I had Become, I got myself into a bit of trouble with some barbarians (I originated in the whereabouts of Wales, and in those days, we had no shortage of Germanic troublemakers running about, pillaging and looting) and it had been Stacey (that wasn’t his name then; we’ve all had various names throughout the ages), who had seen that I was outnumbered a good fifteen to one and had set fire to the barbarians’ camp, aiding my escape.  I may have been a vampire, but I was a pretty weak one for the first year or so, especially since the vampire who had transformed me, Tiresias, had disappeared days after I had Became, so I had no one to teach me about my abilities.  Stacey also had a horse with him, so we were able to put a good distance between ourselves and the barbarians in a relatively short time.

When I had thanked Stacey for his assistance, he insisted that I transform him into a vampire, too.  He had gobbled up the vampire legends from the simple folk that populated most of Europe in those days, and instead of feeling fear, he went out actively looking for vampires so that he could become a member of the Blood and live forever.  I had Become by doing almost exactly what Stacey was doing, except that I had discovered Tiresias’ place of slumber in a cave by my village, and had bound him up while he slept (back in those times, vampires had very little in the way of places to go and things to do during the daylight hours, so most of them opted for resting).  When Tiresias had awoke at sunset, I poked him in the chest with my crude stone blade and told him to either make me a vampire or get chopped up.  He had laughed long and hard at my boldness, and when he broke the ropes holding him in place, I figured I was going to die, but instead, he fulfilled my wish, though he left me to my own devices only days afterwards.  When Stacey had made his demand, I felt a kinship between us, and I granted his desire as Tiresias had granted mine.  We were constant companions from then on, and though there were times we’d amiably part ways for several years at a time (we didn’t want to get sick of one another), we always found one another again.  Stacey made some other smart-alecky remark, and his familiar laughter shook me out of my brief reverie.

            “And piety always tastes sooooooo damn good,” said Wade, referring to the girl, his eyes flickering red for a second.

            At this point, Dorian walked past our table, his arm around the waist of the waitress, who now seemed to be quite enamored of our bassist, and the case holding his “real” bass (when we smashed guitars, they were usually relatively cheap ones that we found at music stores, but we kept good ones around for the serious playing).  Dorian gave us his full grin, fangs and all, which the waitress, of course, didn’t see.  “See ya around guys!” he said.  “Don’t wait up for me!”

            Tommy and I shot each other quick glances, and then said in chorus, “Watch out, he’s got syphilis!  We got it from him!” just as Stacey was opening his mouth to say the same thing.  It was a joke amongst us going back several years when Dorian was doing a good job of wooing a particularly attractive young woman in a club, and Stacey, during the time that it took Dorian to get up to the bar, refill the girl’s sherry then get back to the table, wrecked it by convincing her that Dorian had a scorching case of syphilis.  Stacey had claimed that he knew it for a fact that Dorian had it, because he had gotten it from Dorian.  The look on Dorian’s face when she’d slapped him was particularly memorable . . . Stacey’d gotten himself a bit of a clobbering out of that one, because he was laughing so hard he wasn’t able to get away from Dorian in time.  All in good fun, though.  Dorian flew us the finger and the waitress laughed as they walked out of the Roxy.  The sound of Dorian spinning the wheels on his beloved Mustang hit our ears a few seconds later.

            “You guys are assholes,” Stacey turned and informed us, doing his best to glower at Tommy and I.

            “And you can consider me a hungry asshole,” Wade said, scooting his chair back.  “My little girl’s got a date tonight, and who knows?  Maybe she’ll even see God before it’s all over,”  he said with a somewhat wicked grin.  He picked his fedora off the table, set it atop his head, and gave us a grin similar to Dorian’s from a moment earlier.  “Either see you later on tonight or in the Catacombs during the day.”  He snatched his guitar case from the table behind us and strode out of the Roxy, walking in that peculiar manner of his; when he wore his trenchcoat, Wade didn’t so much walk across the floor as he did glide.  It was a somewhat eerie effect, and one we all had appreciation for.  I’m sure you’ve seen it before, Michelle, and regardless of whether or not you’re immortal, it’s a very nice trick.  We could hear Wade fire up the engine of his Harley, and within seconds, our enigmatic friend disappeared into the night as well.

            Geno came over to our table and put his arms on Stacey and Tommy’s shoulders in a paternal manner.  His eyes glinted in the low light and his mustache quivered in time with his words.  “I’m afraid I’ll hafta be chasin’ you boys out in a few minutes.  We’re closin’ way early tonight, because of inventory.  I’ll get the check to you guys tomorrow in the mail, okay?” he asked, looking at Tommy, who was our master of finances.

            “Sure,” Tommy nodded.  “If we don’t get it, we know where you live.”

            “It’s not good business practice to shaft vampires, after all,” I said to Geno, showing him my fangs.

            The swarthy Italian laughed.  “Steele, when you gonna get those silly things outta your mouth?  The show’s over, you dinglefuck.”

            I shrugged.  “I’ll get around to it eventually, I suppose,” I said, nonchalantly studying my nails, which were painted jet black (all of us did that . . . it was kind of a trademark).

            “That’s what you always say, and you’re always wearin’ ‘em anyway,” Geno chuckled.

            “We do it to piss you off,” Stacey told him matter-of-factly, baring his fangs as well and leaning towards the Italian.  “C’mon, Pops.  Just one little nip.  As big as you are, you won’t notice a pint missing.”

            Geno roared with laughter, and he removed his apron and swatted Stacey with it.  “I’ll be seeing you boys in a couple of days,” he told us as he walked back towards the bar where his bartender was starting inventory.  “And stay out of trouble.”

            “Perish the thought,” Stacey said.  He hopped out of his chair and lifted his black leather jacket, which was almost identical to mine (mine sported more in the way of chains and studs, though), off of the chair back.  As he slid into it he asked, “What’ve you two got planned for the evening?  Brandi and I are heading out to some of the dry sluiceways underneath the freeways . . . I ran into a couple of bikers last night who thought they were hot shit and we’re all gonna go out riding.”

            Tommy rolled his eyes.  Before the night was over, Stacey would more than likely have at least one new cycle for him to either cannibalize for parts, keep intact and ride, or sell.  The phrase, “I’ll race you, title for title,” was one that Stacey trotted out quite often when he was with bikers.  He already owned three Harleys he’d won in that manner, and he’d sold at least two times that number.  Then there were the cheaper bikes he ripped up for parts . . .  “The Hustler rides again, eh, Stace?” Tommy asked him, a light smirk crossing his lips.

            “Oh, hell yeah,” Stacey agreed.  “You’re looking at the original Hell’s Angel,” he said, put his index fingers alongside his head to look like horns.  “Now, what are you guys doing?”

            Tommy shrugged.  “We’re probably going to go rustle up Clarisse and Donita and walk the streets for a time, maybe stray over into gangland for a little snack, should the need arise.”

            “I love the taste of gangstas this time of year,” I said, smiling.  “Early May is great: they’re just starting to get their juices really going again, and haven’t had the summer to beat the shit out of each other yet.”  I cracked my knuckles for emphasis.

            “Give Clarisse and Donita my best, as always.  Oh, and take my axe with you.  I’ll get it out of your car later on,” Stacey said, producing a cigar from the pocket of his jacket and sticking it between his teeth.  “See you underground, gentlemen,” he gave us a half-bow and swaggered out the door.  He brought his cycle to life with a lot more fury than Wade did, and we could clearly hear him rip out of the Roxy’s parking lot and around the corner.

            “He’d kill himself on that thing if he wasn’t already technically dead,” Tommy said as we got up from the table and headed out the door, Tommy carrying Stacey’s guitar case.  Our hired “road crew” had already removed the rest of our equipment and had taken it out to one of the empty warehouses we use as an entry point for the Catacombs, so we didn’t have anything else to worry about.  That’s another thing money’s good for: the almighty dollar has so much power these days that it’s not difficult at all to find gophers and lackeys who are willing to drag your things all over creation, take them anywhere you wish any time you want them to.  All you have to do is wave the right amount of cash at them, and they’ll practically enslave themselves to you and ask no questions and make no trouble, because why bite the hand that’s giving you over $600 a week to be a simple roadie?

            “I remember the first time he pulled a wheelie, back in the 50's.  Smashed right into a city mailbox, he did.  It’s been a love affair between Stacey and bikes ever since,” I told Tommy as we exited the Roxy and out into the cool night but far from silent urban night.  “Always preferred these beasts, myself,” I said as we approached my blood-red (of course) ‘68 Chevelle.  I patted the car affectionately and unlocked the door.

            “Steele!  Tommy!  What’s happening?” called a voice from across the parking lot, and I involuntarily snapped at the air, fangs bared, like a canine snapping at a phantom cat.  Frizz tended to have that effect on me, and he was inching closer and closer to the day that he was going to find himself dead.   About the only reason that I hadn’t wiped Frizz out of existence yet was that though he was annoying, he usually knew when to go away.  He was one of the primary examples that just because one is a vampire doesn’t mean that one is intelligent or even has worth, because Frizz was one of the most worthless beings I’d ever had the displeasure of knowing.  He was sloppy in his feedings, often leaving bodies in the middle of the sidewalk or in backyards, raising suspicions of the authorities that something not quite ordinary was at work, and there were more than a few vampires that had had to make extra efforts to clean up after Frizz’s messes; these vampires were ones that Frizz avoided completely, because if they saw him again, he would more than likely end up dead.  I hadn’t yet had to make a quick-fix of one of Frizz’s blunders, but if I did, I was going to actively hunt him down and get rid of him.  You might think that on the harsh side, Michelle, but one thing you must understand about me is that I do not suffer fools gladly, and though I’m able to maintain a facade of relative politeness and class in a conversation, however brief, with a fool, they don’t tend to last long in matters other than conversation.

            Frizz was a tall, wiry vampire with bright yellow hair whose style seemed derived a finger in an electrical socket, hence the name.  He tended to wear dirty, ill-fitting, sloppy outfits that looked as though they came from a dumpster, and his voice was somewhat high and nasal, seeming to hit the tones that registered annoyance flawlessly.  His face was lean and oval-shaped and his eyes perpetually wide as saucers, as though he had just found out the whereabouts of Jimmy Hoffa (I’ve known the answer to that for some time, but please don’t ask), and he basically had the look and bearing of an cretinous baboon.  And if you’re frowning as you read this rather unfavorable description, believe me, you never met the sorry son of a bitch, so you don’t have the full picture.

            “What?” I asked sharply as Frizz came running up to me, as enthusiastic as ever.  Tommy was leaning against the side of my car, cigarette in mouth, looking greatly amused at the fact that Frizz had run up to me instead of him.

            “What are doing?  You want to go with me tonight?  I’ve got some new buddies and they—“ Frizz said with a big grin on his face, but I cut him off.

            I fixed Frizz with a hard stare that caused him to wince a bit.  “We’re going hunting tonight.”

            “Oh really?” Frizz goggled, his limbs moving around in that obnoxiously jerky manner that was one of his trademarks.

            “Yeah, we’re gonna make the world a somewhat safer place by knocking off a couple of gun-totin’, blunt-smokin’ jerkoffs.”

            “Are you sure you should be—“

            “Sure as sure can be, now get out of here, we’re leaving,” I said with finality, opening my door.

            “But hold on a second, can I just tell—“ Frizz began, looking concerned, and my patience started to strain so hard that I thought I could hear it screeching.

            “Get outta here!” I yelled at Frizz, and when he turned to scamper away, I couldn’t quite resist the urge to give him a good swift kick in the ass.  He let out a little yelp, then hurried across the parking lot as Tommy and I had a good laugh at his expense.  “Little schmuck,” I said with a shake of my head.

            “And what’s amazing is that no matter how much of a jerk you are to him, he keeps coming back; you’d think he’d learn,” Tommy said.  “I think the only person he won’t go around is Stacey.”

            I grinned as a memory popped into my head.  “That’s because Stacey pushed him out in front of a semi.”

As I hopped into the driver’s seat, I reached over and unlocked the passenger door for Tommy, and after he had opened the door, he set Stacey’s guitar case in the backseat.

            “If we go out cruising in this thing tonight, the girls’ll have to share the backseat with Stacey’s guitar,” he said as he settled into his seat and shut the door.

            “Stace’ll be thrilled,” I snickered, “Though not as thrilled he would be if it was Brandi.”  I turned the ignition and brought the engine (which had been custom-rebuilt and heavily souped up by Dorian, Tommy, and myself) to life.  Tommy was already rooting through my collection of tapes and trying to decide what he wanted to listen to.  As always, the selection was rock ‘n roll . . . classical music, though beautiful, was definitely not driving music, but rock ‘n roll seemed tailor-made to be listened to while in command of over a ton of steel, plastic, and rubber traveling at high velocities through the night.

            “Oh yeah, I can deal with that,” I said in agreement as I revved my engine a few times out of sheer boastfulness.  I gripped the shiny metal skull knob I’d put on my shifter, worked the clutch, and put my baby in gear.  We pulled out of the nearly-empty parking lot at a relatively sedate pace, but as the first riffs  started up and Tommy cranked the volume, I hit the accelerator hard, burned rubber, and Tommy and I shot off into the night, in search of Clarisse, Donita, and a good time.  Screw speed limits.

            Such was the existence of a vampire in Hollywood.

Read Part Two