Christopher Moore - Bite Me

So I’m like, “What’s with the pink ring around people?”

And he’s like, “It’s their life force. You can tell how healthy they are by it. You’ll be able to smell if they’re dying, too, but you won’t know that right away.”

I know, whoa. So I’m like, “Whoa.”

And he’s all, “You see it for a reason.”

And I’m like, “’Splain, s’il vous plaît.”

And he’s all, “Because you’re only supposed to take the sick, the dying. It’s part of our predator nature. I didn’t know that before I-I was lost, but I know it now.”

I know, whoa. So I’m like, “Okay, how do you turn to mist?”

And he’s like, “It’s mental. Completely. You can’t think about it, you just have to be.”

And I’m like, “You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?”

And he’s all, “No, if you think, it doesn’t work. You have to just be. Words get in the way. I think that’s why the cats do it instinctively. That’s the key. Instinct. I don’t function well on instinct. I’m a word guy.”

And I’m all, “I’m a word guy, too,” like a total dwee-bosaurus. I know. How is it that I, acting Mistress of the Greater Bay Area darkness, can be reduced to spewing nano-brained beauty-queen dialog when I should be enjoying the heady power of my vamp immortality? Simple, I am a romance slut, and there’s nothing I can do about it. If a guy does or says something romantic, I’m all, “Oh, please excuse me, kind, sir, let me dial down my IQ and oh, if it would please sir, may I offer you this moist, yet helpless va-jay-jay that seems to have lost its way.” I was clearly born in the wrong time. I should have been born in Wuthering Heights times. Although if I was Cathy, I would have hunted down that Heathcliff guy and beat him with a riding crop like a sado-hooker with his Black Card on file. Just sayin’.

So there’s nothing at the Fairmont. We talk to the bellman and the guy at the concierge desk, who talks to the front-desk guy who says that he’s not at liberty to talk about guests, when I whip a hundred-dollar bill on him and he says “the redhead” never showed up again after the day the cops came around asking for her. He said the cops took a cooler from her room.

And Tommy’s like, “She just vanished.”

And I’m all, “Do you want to get coffee? I have a bag of blood and ten thousand dollars in my messenger.” The nosferatu can totally drink lattes as long as they put some blood in it, unless they’re lactose intolerant.

And he stops and looks at me. He’s like, “Really, ten thousand? Think that will be enough?”

And I’m like, “Well, you’ll have to drink the cheap stuff, but I like to drink my lattes directly out of the veins of a toddler, and those little fuckers aren’t cheap.”

And he’s like, “Okay, you just completely creeped me out.”

So I’m all, “You suck at this. Let’s go get coffee and do some vamp stuff, like beat up some pimps and whatnot.”

“Since when is beating up pimps a vampyre thing?”

“Since I was looking for the Countess and they kept trying to recruit me because I’m am so awesome sexy that desperate losers will totally pay to do me, which is flattering and whatnot, but I still kind of feel like they would have taken advantage of me because of my youth and naivety.”

“So you want to go beat them up.”

“I want to try that kung-fu thing where you tear their heart out and show it to them while it’s still beating. Très macabre, non ? Plus, I’ll bet the look of surprise on their faces will be worth it. Did you do that when you were out slaughtering people with Chet?”

“I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember slaughtering people.”

“That’s why the pimps were trying to recruit me. You and Chet ate all their hos.”

“You make it sound so sordid.”

“Okay, you make eating hos sound pretty. Talk poetry to me, writer boy.”

And he looks all heartbroken and whatnot. And he’s like, “That’s what Jody calls me.”

And I’m like, “Sorry. Where do you want to look for her now?”

“I don’t know. What time is it?”

And I look at the watch that the Countess gave me, and I’m all, “A little after one,” in my I am total poop on a stick voice.

“ Polk Street.”

And I’m all, “ Why Polk Street?”

He’s like, “Because I’m out of ideas and we need to resort to magic.”

And I’m like, “Sweet! Let’s rock the dark magic!” I was tempted to do a booty dance of total dark magic celebration, but I thought it might reveal my secret.

’Kayso, we roll into this coffee shop on Polk Street, and it’s all full of hippies and hipsters and couples on dates and drunks sobering up and whatnot. And everyone turns and looks at us. I’m about to chuck a spaz, because I realize that I haven’t fixed my makeup since I bounced my face off the plywood in the love lair.

So I’m all, “Tommy, psssssst, do I look like a cannibal corpse on crack?”

And he stops and looks at me for a second, and he’s like, “No more than usual.”

And I’m all, “Do I have raccoon eyes?”

And he’s like, “You’ve kind of taken your broken clown look to the next level, with the crusted blood around your mouth. You look cute.”

Flood can be very sweet for a doofus from Indiana. I felt like I had made the right decision to choose him to be my Dark Lord, even if he was only nineteen instead of five hundred.

So I feel like I should say something nice back, so I’m like, “You’re not as pathetic in those clothes.” Then I realize that didn’t sound as nice as I liked, so I’m all, “I want a triple soy latte with type O in it while we’re waiting for magic and whatnot.”

And Flood is all, “She’s here.”

I know. I’m like, “Whaaaa?”

’Kayso, Flood sends me for coffees and says he’ll meet me at a table in the back, so when I show up, he’s sitting with this ginormously fat gay guy, wearing a purple silk wizard robe with silver stars and moons on it, and his head is shaved and there’s a pentagram tattooed on it, just like I drew on Ronnie’s head with a Magic Marker. I know! And he has a crystal ball on his table on a stand made out of dragons, and a sign that says MADAME NATASHA, FORTUNES TOLD $5.00, ALL PROCEEDS GO TO AIDS RESEARCH.

And so I come up and Flood is all, “Madame Natasha, this is my minion, Abby Normal.”

And I’m all, “ Enchanté, ” in, like, perfect fucking French. “Most fly eye-liner, Madame.” He had like spider fake lashes and glitter liner out to his ears.

And Madame Natasha is all, “Oh, sweet of you to say, child. Your ensem is très chic as well. But you should have a jacket, little thing like you could freeze in the fog.”

And I’m all ready to throw down anti-mom you’re-not-the-boss-of-me-talk on him, then I’m kinda okay with it. Like maybe I would get along with the Motherbot better if she were a ginormous gay guy.

And I sit down next to Madame Natasha, because Flood is, like, in the client seat, and Flood’s all, “Madame Natasha told my fortune when I first came to town, and said that I would meet a girl, but the death card kept coming up, so she couldn’t figure it out.” Then he turns to Madame and is like, “You were right on the money, I ended up meeting a dead girl.”

And Madame’s all, “Oh my,” and she pulls this little fan out of one of her chins and starts fanning herself.

’Kayso, I pull out the bag of blood and squeeze a little into my coffee, then into Flood’s, and he’s all, “Abby, put that away.”

And I’m all, “Why?”

And he’s all nodding toward people, who are totally not looking at us now, but like really reading or texting hard. And he’s like, “They’ll freak.”