Andrew Fox - Fat White Vampire Blues

He lifted a large box out of the backseat, set it on the Lincoln’s roof, and opened it. Then he removed a large black object that looked like a cross between a pistol-grip crossbow and a child’s Special Forces action toy.

“Tiny Idaho made this for me. After last night, I came up with the idea of it firin‘ pellets loaded with garlic powder, in addition to the wooden darts I originally wanted. What a whiz that guy is. He was able to add the extra features while we were hangin’ out by his work table talkin‘. See this little button here? It lets me switch between the two types of ammo.”

“Very clever.” Doodlebug took the weapon and examined it from all angles, then handed it back to Jules. “I don’t recall the Hooded Terror ever using a gun before.”

“Yeah?” Jules carefully put the gun back in the box, then put the box back in the car. “Well, that’s because the Hooded Terror was facin‘ dumb-ass fifth columnists his last time up at bat. That sorry buncha losers could hardly hit the side of the Higgins Boat Plant with a mortar shell from thirty yards. I figure Malice X and his bunch should be a little more battleworthy, them being vampires and all.”

“I expect you’re right,” Doodlebug said. He got into the car. The rain began to beat a little harder against the Lincoln’s windows, and the thin reeds by the bayou’s edge were splayed flat against the black water by sudden gusts of wind.

Jules drove down Esplanade to North Broad Avenue, a once thriving, middle-class commercial corridor now split evenly between rent-to-own rip-off joints and sagging, boarded-up storefronts. He fiddled with the radio tuner while steering around abandoned cars and rusty muffler husks, trying to get WWOZ to come in strongly. The Lincoln’s radio was acting up; the Wild Magnolias’ “Iko Iko” faded in and out of clouds of static.

“Fuckin‘ Ford Motor Company piece of shit…” Jules muttered to himself.

“You promised me earlier you were working out a plan,” Doodlebug said, tying back his long hair into a sensible braid. “I’d like to hear it. I assume youhave a plan, don’t you?”

“Well, sure. Sure I do. I went and got the gun, didn’t I?”

“So you plan to shoot him with the gun?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Jules repeated. “Vampires don’t kill other vampires. Maybe I didn’t teach you that too good, but that’s one of them commandments I live by. The gun? I plan tothreaten him with the gun. After, y’know, we rough him up a little. To show him we mean business and he can’t railroad me no more. Then I’ll talk to him, man to man.”

“Uh-huh. Do you plan to have this little heart-to-heart before or after he sics his vampire goons on you and rams a stake through your chest?”

Jules snorted. “I’ve got that worked out, okay? He won’t be expectin‘ us. We can stake out his car, hide in the shadows. I figure he’ll have at most one or two bodyguards with him. And between your kung-fu tricks and my Tiny Idaho special, we should be able to knock them out easy. Then big, bad Malice X is all ours.”

Jules stopped for the light at the corner of South Broad and Tulane Avenue. The busy intersection was dominated by the gray stone hulk of the Criminal Court Building, a failed, boarded-up Goodfeller’s Fried Catfish Shack, and an immaculate, golden-arched McDonald’s.

“Y’know, that McDonald’s there,” Jules said as the light changed, “it appeared overnight. Like magic. I was passin‘ this corner for weeks while workmen leveled the old building on that corner and prepared the concrete slab. Then one night, they brought the restaurant in on the back of a flatbed. They plunked it down in the concrete, and by the next night it was open for business. Magic.”

Doodlebug glanced briefly at this miracle of modern commerce. “Maybe you’re expecting a little too much magic tonight? Let’s say that everything goes exactly as you described. We take care of his bodyguards and pull him into some dark, empty alleyway. What makes you think you can convince him to leave you alone-short of killing him?”

“Againwith the killing! You wanted to kill his sister, too, didn’t ya? Look, this Malice X, whatever else he may be, he’s a businessman. Sellin‘ drugs is abusiness, just like sellin’ toothpaste is. And if he’s a businessman, that means he can be bargained with. If I can show him that I can’t be pushed around, that screwin‘ with me is bad for his business, I can get him to cut a deal. Some kinda quota deal on black victims-maybe two a month for me, and the rest of the time I’ll get by on white tourists and blood you ship me from California. I got his black binder of customers, don’t I? I can always use that as a bargaining chip. Besides, we got somethin’ in common… we’veboth had to put up with Maureen’s shit. That should count for something.”

“I see. And what’s your fallback plan?”

“Fallback plan?”

“What are you going to do if your calculations of Malice X’s character are wrong?”

“I dunno-didn’t them Tibetan monks of yours teach you some superduper hypnotic whammy you can lay on him?”

“No.”

“Bummer.” Jules’s spirits sagged momentarily, but they quickly reinflated as he experienced a brainstorm. “Hey! Igot it! Here’s what we can do to really put the quakes in him. You tell him about all these nasty extra powers you got. Then you give him a demonstration. Wave your arms around like Mandrake the Magician, then stare at me real hard and mean. And whatI’ll do, see, is I’ll do like I did in Maureen’s basement and try to turn into two animals at once. I’ll change into some horrible two-headed mess, then collapse into a pool of goo. Then you’ll wave your arms around again, and I’ll reappear as me, moanin‘ like you just cut my balls off. After that, he’ll be thinkin’,Shit-if he’d do that to his buddy, just to prove a point, what’ll he do to me? He’ll be crappin‘ his pants big time!”

Jules waited for some sign of enthusiasm from his companion. But Doodlebug just stared out the window. “Huh-uh,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Interesting plan, very creative. But it won’t work.”

“Why the hell not? It’d sure scare the shit outtame!”

“That’s the problem. It would scare the shit out ofyou. Malice X isn’t another you. He doesn’t think like you. The two of youare brothers, in a way, just not identical twins. You’re more like Cain and Abel. The farmer and the hunter.”

“Now wait a minute-Malice X and me areboth hunters!”

“Technically, maybe. But you’ve always been content to gather whatever resources are conveniently at hand. That’s a big part of why you’re so reluctant to give up black victims-you’re accustomed to them, they’re abundant, and they’re convenient. Malice X, on the other hand, appears to be working very hard to change the city’s status quo, to remake his environment in his own image-”

“I’m no damn loafer, if that’s what you’re tryin‘ to say!”

“No, that’snot what I’m trying to say. Just let me finish. Cain and Abel both wanted to impress their Creator with their offerings and bask in His approval. Both you and Malice X, over the years, have tried to impress Maureen. According to what Maureen has told us,your offerings met with greater favor. In the Bible story, Abel’s inadvertent one-upmanship of his brother had fatal consequences. Your position is even worse than Abel’s was. Imagine if Adam weren’t around, and both Abel and Cain desperately, fervently wanted to marry their mother. Take that ancient stew of jealousy and hurt feelings, stir in some Oedipal yearnings, sprinkle in a generous pinch of racial animosity, and you have a perfect recipe for murder. Very bloody murder.”