Lewis Aleman - The Anti-Vampire

“Ever think that doing all this is why he’s not interested in you?”

She springs to her feet—fluidly—unreal velocity. Her fingers arch, outstretching her nails as she speeds at me in a blur.

Her legs move so fast—her feet tear into the ground—lunging her body forward. Looks like moving light. Blurry lightning-fire coming to burn through me.

So fast, can’t move.

Cocks her hand back and flings it at my head. Nails coming at my nose—raising to my forehead—skimming through my hair—shredding a chunk out of the tree trunk behind me—splinters and dust falling onto me and all over the ground.

My fist still grasps the small spear behind me. I spin around and aim its pointed end in front of me. Branches sway, and leaves float to the ground, but there is no sign of her—just the wake she left behind.

I’ve wanted nothing more than for her to leave me alone since Simon left me with her. For hours, she wore my patience down—saying anything to rile me up, any hateful thing to upset me.

Now that she’s run off into the darkness, I’m going after her, and I’m not entirely happy about it.

Wanna know how to spot a local out of the tourists in The French Quarter?

The local looks both ways before crossing a one-way street—the tourist trusts people will still obey silly traffic laws in the middle of their wild night.

I seek the ones who still trust the imaginary laws to protect them. I like them when they’re all sweaty and stumbling. They like me better when they’re sweaty and stumbling too.

Have to get my fill now. Roderick’s got Quint and Carvelli out here to bring me in. Saw those two on Bourbon. Luckily they were too distracted by something they saw gyrating through an opened doorway to notice me before I slipped away. Roderick must be having some colorful fits waiting to find out what I’ve learned—boiling in his own hatred over why I haven’t come back to him. Time’s running out.

Would’ve already been back there if Simon hadn’t promised me a girl with an acute feeding fetish. Girls are drawn to Simon like plants stretching, straining to get closer to the sunlight. Swear one would stretch her head in front of a speeding bus to catch another glimpse of him, and die smiling as the metal behemoth crashed into her. So easy for him, and he wasted his power for so many years over that girl he lost. Regardless of all that—any girl that made an impression on him is something to hunt down and experience—that’s why I defied Roderick, left him waiting while I tried to meet up with this girl Simon told me to call. Didn’t mention she was dead. Her brother explained it to me over the phone. Simon’ll pay for this. Whether Roderick needs it or not, Simon’ll pay.

Also would’ve been back in town sooner if he hadn’t torn my stomach to shreds. Simon would’ve never got me like that if Roderick woulda just let me feed before sending me out. By the time I found them in the woods, the withdrawal dizziness had already clouded my mind. Can’t fight like that. All Roderick’s fault. Impatient, hard-headed…

Something soft and fluffy takes my thoughts away from Roderick as it bounces down the one step from the bar onto the sidewalk. Her jiggle is almost a singularity. An unmistakable body in the universe sucking in the attention of all others around her. By design, she pulls others into herself, trying to fill the void inside her with whatever she can take from them.

Three friends of hers walk out after her. Leaving her behind, they move down the street and pass where I sit on their way to a less crowded bar on Toulouse, migrating away from the masses on Bourbon. Bouncy-fluffy stays near the opened French doors she has just gyrated out of, taunting the bouncer with the parts of her that sparkle.

Sometimes I think I’ll leave New Orleans—there are other cities with a large supply of what I like. Lot of cities are much bigger—more pretties to choose from, so many more flavors to sample. There’d be no Roderick. No one else to put up with. I’d be free to do whatever I wanted—I’d own the night—all by myself.

But it’s easy here. Roderick brings me smack when I can’t get it myself. He lures women to me when I can’t speak. And then there’s the new breed …

I’ve tried every fix under the sun, and nothing’s sent me flying like this new breed Roderick’s created. Still won’t tell me where it comes from. As long as he has more to give, I don’t care where—just how much I can get in me.

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh—eyes roll and jaw drops open just at the thought of it. Better find some quick feed fast. Get to Roderick. Get the good stuff.

Now, where is that bouncy, fluffy thing?

She still talks to the bouncer who leans a meaty shoulder on the opened French doors to the bar, trying not to show her how interested he is in her. He’s worked here for years—I’ve seen him before. He knows the best method for a bouncer on this street is to ignore her, which’ll only make her want his attention more. He may fool her, but I can see the pulse of his blood through his body—speeding up faster and faster.

The girls that come down to this tourist attraction are easily fascinated with bouncers, thinking them the alpha males of the debauchery—the ones in charge of the chaos.

While they do go for the bouncers, you should see how easily they follow a man in black who claims to be a vampire. The fantasy melts them—they don’t care if he’s crazy—they never dream he’s telling the truth. They just enjoy the bad boy, and live the dream—the dark fantasy she’s created in her mind that he’s bringing to life for her.

Funny—the silly things they think about vampires. They think we’re all straight out of a Victorian romance.

Let me tell you, the affinity with antiquities and Victorian fanciness is all bullshit. Vampires have always been gluttons, addicts to desire. There is no room in a vampire’s being for pomp and circumstance. It’s hard to worry about staining a designer shirt when the lust for hot, spurting blood places my fangs inches from tender flesh. The desire is the glory, not some trinket or frivolity of fancy society. We have as little care for antiques as a lion on the prowl. It’s the bloodlust we crave. Had you ever experienced it, you’d see that nothing else ever comes close to it, and you’d never waste your time pursuing anything else. The only appetite that remains in me for things from centuries past is an affinity for women in poofy skirts, or perhaps it’s just the thrill in lifting them up that lingers.

As for attire, a vampire is more likely to approach you in torn clothing that he cares little about than dressed as a silly poet professing love up to a balcony. Your blood tastes the same no matter what he’s wearing.

Speaking of balconies, it’s not the decrepit, rundown buildings, tall pointed cathedrals, or even the legendary river itself that brings my kind to New Orleans. It’s the howling from liquor-soaked mouths, feet stumbling down beer-stained streets, and even the stink of it all. It knells like a chiming dinner bell, summoning us to its decadent streets. It’s a playground. A playground for things daylight would rather not touch.

It’s not just the drunkenness either. It’s the tourists who come here like Anti-Pilgrims, unfamiliar with the customs and the bizarre, crooked streets that follow the curves of the river—refusing to be restricted to any manmade grid. They travel here from all over the world, having left a substantial part of their sound judgment in their homes hundreds of miles away, looking to fill their own twisted desires. After all, it’s why most pay to come here—the anonymous romp in a decadent city where no one knows their names. It’s intriguing to watch.