I did a bad thing tonight, but before I get to that I’ll need to rewind a bit. Late last night, not long before for the greedy Summer sun made its early rise, I ran afoul of a group of Damned. Four Succubine punks (two niggers, a spic, and a white trying hard not to be) dressed like rejects from the Beat It music-video, were strutting down our street, yelling, beating on trash cans, and generally asking for it. They’re in Hell’s Kitchen, our turf, acting like it’s their private annex of The Rack. Unacceptable. Now, I knew better than to think I could best these fools—all four of them at once—if things got physical, but one thing I learned in prison is that if you’ve got a line you’re not going to let people cross, sometimes you’ve got to take some licks. If you drop trousers and spread, you’re going to get fucked, not once but every night. If you fight back, you’re going to get hurt real bad, and you’re going to get fucked, but probably not as often. And if you can come back later and make them wish they’d stuck their dick somewhere else, that’s better still.
So I walk up and explain that they’re on the wrong side of 8th Ave. They could tell I was alone, and all five of us knew that I had placed my unlife in their hands, and yet I was telling them to fuck off back to The Rack. The predicable ensued, leaving me starving and soaked in urine. But it was getting too late to do much about that, so I went home. Bad call. I should have hunted right then and there, but the way this all turned out, I figure this is just part of God’s plan.
So, tonight I woke up ravenous. I could barely concentrate on putting my shoes on, much less putting one in front of the other, visions of feeding coursing through my head. Of course, I step outside and what’s the first thing I see, but a group of kids playing in the gushing stream of an open fire hydrant. I stood there and stared for a moment. Those cute little bloodbags. That gushing stream. You remember when you used to pee, how the thought of running water might as well have been an enlarged prostate? Same deal. And these were kids, right out in the open. I already knew if I touched a kid, I’d be done. That’s the rule. The Family won’t have me return to my old horrors, and that’s fine with me. I’d rather sleep in an urn than go back to that. So I tore myself away and started my usual alley circuit.
I didn’t get far before I found a bum laying by a trash can. I slowed my pace, drew my Liston knife, and fell upon him. I put my knife to his throat and told him to be cool. He started to babble some kind of mush-mouthed nonsense, but I was gums-deep in his arm before any of that mattered. What came next was easily the best feeling since my wedding day. If you’ve never fed on some worthless low-life kine while you could barely contain yourself, well, it’s like almost overdosing on morphine; I don’t recommend it, but it’s the most amazing experience ever. Now, I knew I’d kill this poor piece of shit if I didn’t pull myself away in time—and The Angel1 wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight—I was going to cause some grief for the maybe one other person in the world who even knew who this failure was, and I was probably going to save the taxpayer a few bucks. He tasted like cold water on a long hot day, and before I knew it, that glass was permanently empty.
What had I done? I’d completely exsanguinated a man whose life had led him to sleep alone in a Hell’s Kitchen alley, like the discarded trash he’d made of himself. And look at him now! Pale, cool-skinned, slightly damp with sweat, and sweetly still. That’s one of the subtle reasons statues are so beautiful, I think: the perfection of their form, unmarred by motion. This one was a keeper! I know, I know. This is a weird thing, and they told me this was probably going to happen eventually, but from the moment I held that corpse in my arms and pulled my lips away from his skin, I knew I’d found something new and magical. So I took him home, sat him on my couch, and put a glass of limoncello in his hand. I decided not to name him. He’s got a name after all, and with a little more study, I can discover that. A toast! To finally making something of yourself, whoever you are!
Oh yeah, those punks from yesterday? We took care of them, too. I got the rest of the Hell’s Kitchen Vassels, and we went to Queens to pay them a visit. We left three torpid and the fourth in fox frenzy. Hopefully that’s the last we’ll see of them. I hate to imagine they’d be foolish enough to raise the ante.
All in all, a pretty good night.
1 Most Damned call it The Beast, but I think Angel is more appropriate. Not the kind of guardian angel they tell you about in Sunday School; the kind that stalked the streets of Egypt, consuming firstborn on Passover.