Freaks Macintosh Archive/Freaks Macintosh Archive.bin/Freaks Macintosh Archives/Textfiles/zines/fuck/fuckvl21.sit/fuckvl21 Folder/FUCK0509.TXT

Text File | 1998-06-12 | 12KB | 267 lines

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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                     Becoming
                     --------

  I could smell the bones on the wave of night, and I
  shivered in gentle anticipation. I squinted into the
  dark. The street was 2 o'clock empty, and the heels of
  my boots clacked startlingly on the cracked asphalt, a
  stacatto gunshot sound bouncing off of brick and glass.
  My pace was brisk but my pose relaxed - just the way
  I liked it. I clasped my hands loosely behind my back
  and leaned into to my stride, pushing the momentum
  of my gait, making myself New York City aerodynamic.

  Everything was the dimly lit bluish grey of early
  nighttime film. I could hear the electricity buzzing
  from the street lamps and watched my shadow undulate
  as I passed the occasional lit window. I recalled
  watching my first moving picture and chuckling at
  the imprecisely timed lighting of the young victim's
  bedroom after her curvaceous lips puckered to blow out
  the candle. I remembered thinking that the director
  must not have been friends with the dark to have robbed
  it of its beauty that way. Modern film was no better.
  Rapists stalked victims in the half-light, and even
  Freddy's world was populated with a hungry fire that
  clothed the dark in an acceptable uniform. Too bad
  that even now no director can capture the depth of
  night. I wished I could show them.

  I stopped abruptly and inclined my head. A shop window
  had caught my eye. I prowled forward to study the
  costume in the window.  A milk white mannequin eyed me
  unseeingly, an amethyst expression of hopelessness. A
  velvet confection hung from her hanger-thin shoulders,
  cloudy and rich. I made a mental note to return to
  this shop the next night to purchase this burgundy
  wonder. I sighed abruptly, longing for the complexities
  of the old days. This gown reminded me of those
  lost gossamer times.  Depressed now, I ambled away
  from the window and turned purposefully toward my
  destination. The club was waiting.

  I could already hear the heavy bass emanating from
  the after-hours club, located in an abandoned church
  basement.  Ghouled men and women lurked around the
  door, appropriately attired in fishnet and brocade.
  Their pale flesh gleamed in the blued darkness, and
  many of them sported freshly oozing wounds on their
  arms and legs. Above them hung a cobwebby cloud of
  smoke, and their laughter rose thinly to meet the smog.
  I approached the bouncer at the door, who recognized me
  and waved me in. I descended, gliding toward ecstasy.

  I immediately slithered to my regular table, back
  in the corner near the empty bar. Ancient velvet
  draperies faded to a steel grey adorned the stone
  wall behind me.  I reclined in my chair, throwing one
  booted foot on top of the table.  I had not gone out
  of my way tonight. I simply wore faded and torn jeans
  and a black velvet shirt with my ankle length calvary
  coat and a tiny bit of blood-black lipstick. I was
  not in the mood for costume drama. I flicked open my
  silver cigarette case and drew one out. Suddenly a
  flame appeared before me, and I smiled in recognition.

  "Vincent."

  "Cleo, my love."

  I gestured toward the chair beside me and he slid into
  it. He had gone all out. Black velvet cape with red
  satin lining floated all around his wiry frame, lacy
  poet shirt and black leggings completed the picture.
  I nodded in approval. He looked pretty. I drew in smoke
  and puffed it out, watching the ghoulies, as we called
  them, fling their bodies around on the dance floor. The
  odor of sweat draped the smoked air. Glittering nail
  polish and glow in the dark fangs beckoned from the
  human mass in the center of the club.  I was about to
  comment on this sight when I heard Vincent chuckle,
  and I arched one eyebrow at him.

  "Nothing, darling. Just bemused."

  He lit his own cigarette, and we played out the ritual,
  waiting. It did not take long.  It never did. A young
  couple approached us, swaying slightly, probably from
  alcohol. I would know in a moment.  They sat opposite
  us, grinning inanely. No words were exchanged. The
  young man rolled up his sleeve and extended his arm
  to me. I watched the sweat bead up on his forehead
  and slide over the contures of his face. He worried
  his lip in anticipation.

  I leaned forward and grasped his arm tightly.  With my
  thumbnail I made a small cut in the soft flesh of his
  inner forearm. The blood beaded on his pale skin,
  a nourishing jewel to be treasured. Delicately I
  flicked my tongue out and tasted him. I heard him
  groan in pleasure.

  Diseased blood. I could taste it. I spat on the floor.
  Disease did not hurt me, not really, but clean blood
  tasted much better. I had a well developed palate. I
  narrowed my eyes at the young man, who had a bewildered
  look about him, much like the amethyst eyed mannequin
  I had encountered earlier.

  "Go get a blood test, you disgusting creature."

  I nodded at the girl, who had a horrified expression
  on her thin face. I was oddly impressed by the
  translucence of her skin. I could see her veins
  throbbing just beneath the surface of her tissue
  paper flesh.

  "You too. Now, go."

  Tears gathered in the young woman's eyes and she
  grabbed her boyfriend's arm and pulled him away from
  the table. I laughed.

  "Diseased thing."

  Vincent nodded. "Many of them are, I am afraid. So
  nasty tasting."

  "You taste test the next one, then."

  I could hear his sigh above the music. I glanced at
  him inquiringly.

  "Remember when we had to work for a living?" He wore
  a sad expression.

  "This is a phase. It will pass."

  "Perhaps. Look.. here comes another."

  A plump young woman, alone, draped in gauze. Her
  bare arms were heavily scarred - a good sign. Vincent
  took her hand and pulled her into his lap. He smiled
  wanly at me over her shoulder. Gently he scraped her
  neck with his teeth. Out of her sight he raised one
  hand and made the thumbs up symbol. Then he drank,
  deeply. As I watched I recalled the month I spent
  practicing my bite.  It had taken many hours to perfect
  my technique. Biting like a human was not as simple
  as it would seem. One must always be cautious. The
  ghoulies should have no inkling that they were being
  attacked by anything but another human with dental
  fangs. Vincent was a professional.  He was the one
  who had convinced me to allow these creatures to
  bite me so that I could emulate them. It had been a
  sickening experience, but had proved useful in the end.

  Vincent passed her over to me carelessly. I chose a
  pleasantly soft spot on the other side of her neck and
  sank my teeth into her vein. She jerked mildly and then
  relaxed in my grip. I breathed in the heady metallic
  perfume of her blood. This one had a sweet taste to
  her, my favorite. Vampire lore claims that drinking
  human blood provides an almost orgasmic sensation
  in the vampire. A pile of nonsense. It can only be
  compared to a fine meal and the fullness one feels
  afterward. Not that exciting really, just difficult
  to obtain at times. Therein lies the thrill. I licked
  her wound and released her.

  "Thank you,"  she whispered, and walked away,
  trembling.

  "A victim who thanks her attacker. What more could
  one want?" I lit another cigarette, content for
  the evening.

  "The thrill of the hunt, for one."

  "Why are you here, then?" I was annoyed. I wanted to
  enjoy my cigarette in silence, not engage in philosophical
  discussions about our way of life.

  "I am closing the club."

  "What?" I glared at him. I could feel my eyes blazing in
  their sockets.

  "Right now, as a matter of fact." With that he rose
  from his chair and snaked through the mass of
  bodies to the center of the dance floor. He lifted
  one hand and the music stopped. The sudden silence
  swelled the room, and the human mass jerked into an
  uncomfortable motionlessness. Frenzied expressions
  raised to meet Vincent's.

  "I am closing the club. Now. It will not re-open."

  Human cries of angst and anger rose to the ceiling.
  I imagined the timbers trembling with the weight of
  their disappointment. And mine. One voice rose above
  the others.

  "Why are you doing this?"

  "Because we are not like you. We are not.. we are not
  playacting at bloodthirst, as you do. This way of life
  is weakening us. We need the hunt, we thrive beneath
  it. That is all."

  Then the inexplicable occurred. The mob swelled inward,
  and for a moment I could see nothing. Then, just as
  suddenly, it parted, a parting sea of lace and velvet.
  Vincent. He was on the floor, empty eyes staring into
  eternity. Blood flowed like wine at a wedding. His
  heart.. his heart was missing. Frantically my eyes
  searched the mass, and I spied a male morsel grasping
  Vincent's heart, tearing pieces from it with his
  gleaming teeth predatorily.

  Escape. I must escape this blood-bath. I hugged the wall,
  eyeing the stairs and the mob simultaneously. I could
  see pieces of my beloved friend being passed around.
  They were vultures preying on carrion. The sight sickened
  me. Finally I reached the stairs, and I raced toward
  the door, freedom within my grasp. Just as my fingers
  touched the doorknob an inhuman strength clutched at my
  throat. Hot breath tickled my ear.

  "Run, vampire. You thought to fool us, when we were the
  ones fooling you. We waited, patient assassins, for
  this moment, to show you that our power is greater
  than your own. Your ignorance will destroy you. Go,
  before I insist that you don't."

  Suddenly he released me, and I raced into the night,
  fear my pursuer.


  Monika DeMire
  [e-mail]

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