Devils Kiss

Devils Kiss

A Novel

By W. E. LePire







Prologue

This is a story that aches to be told it is neither a fairy tale nor fiction. It is not an attack on our race nor are the events intended to destroy or cleanse it. It is a history record meant to justify a project in order to understand our world.



My name is Dr. Gabriel M. Whitechapel; I am a practitioner of medicine as I have been for well over three hundred years. Despite a certain lack of attention for the Hippocratic Oath I have made my living in both life and death, by day saving the lives of unfortunate souls stricken with any number of ailments, and by night as a harbinger of doom to the disenchanted. I did this not out of hate of man nor some hell sent urge to kill but a driven need for self preservation as with any man put before you would. Self-preservation is the long forgotten ‘secret of life’ and any number of military soldiers from ancient times to present would concur. Kill or be killed is the name of the game and the stakes are high (pun intended), despite the odds being shifted strongly the favor of the house, if the house is in fact our kind.

You may or may not have guessed that I am in fact a vampire, Nosferatu, the un-dead. However, against common thought I’m quite alive and as real as the nose on your face. To answer some FAQ, yes I have fangs, yes they are retractable, and (some however are not). I am not warded off by garlic in fact quite the opposite I eat as much Italian as possible. I have yet to be burned by holy water or blinded by the sight of the cross or any other religious paraphernalia for that matter and spent several years as a catholic, Jew, and Protestant. I cannot shape shift, fly, hover, vanish, or turn into mist. My father is not the devil; I do not worship him or any other higher power. I am a man. Granted a man with an exceptional life span but a man just the same.

I have very few ‘special powers’; including but not limited to extraordinary strength, increased senses by three fold, and heightened psychic capabilities. This however doesn’t mean I can read minds. I can cue into the same frequencies of brain waves as someone I’m scanning and intercept them like a CB intercepting cell phone calls. This helps define mood, health (both physical and mental), and whether one is being truthful. My research has shown that at any given time Nocturnes use up to 80% of their brain power at once allowing us to use exceptional abilities long since forgotten by modern man.

My story begins in El Paso, Texas in the year 2002. The country was in civil unrest over a radical Islamic group’s goal of world domination; however they where too blind to realize the battle of world domination about to begin on there own soil between two old foes.

I had gone to the university in search of a man. I had read his many books on the paranormal, and researched him thoroughly. In fact I kept his works soundly in my private library. Although his ideas of vampires where almost complete nonsense He was a man of my own heart, borne unto science. I needed this man more than I knew at the time for he would save my life one-day, much to my surprise.

The Auditorium of UEP was a cold harsh environment, lights dimmed to a delicate glow. I sat to the back of the room. To the left of me sat a young black man, bearing thin rimmed glasses and a smooth shaved head. As I scanned him I sensed that this was a requirement for him and that under normal circumstances he wouldn’t be caught dead at a lecture focusing on paranormal studies. He was also quite preoccupied with sex and the blonde he met last night at a party on somewhere campus. To the right of me sat a fat, scraggly haired, Forty something gent bearing a thread bear ‘Van Halen’ T-shirt and a shabby goatee quickly scratching bits of information down on a Steno pad with vigor. I didn’t scan him mainly because it seemed unnecessary and secondly because he made a point of chattering in my ear unrelentingly before the lecture began, telling me about his aspirations of becoming the next great vampire writer, he was quite annoying.

I listened to the professor babble on about Vlad Dracul, Vlad Trepes, garlic, steaks, base metals and other bits of game show trivia.

I’ll take bullshit Vampire misconceptions for a thousand, Alex.

The entertaining quip gave me a chuckle, which was quickly shushed by the fat man who was obviously obsessed with Nocturnes with out knowing an ounce of truth.

The man at the podium spoke wisely about the historical aspects, knew the times-table of vampiritic history, and quoted briefly from his book, Vampires of Stage and Film. The man told of artists who painted Vampires, and doctors who searched for them. He made many references of writers who gained fame in the dark genre, Rice and so on.

After the lecture I made my way to the podium and introduced my self, “Professor may I speak with you for a moment?” I said.

“I’m sorry I have to be on a plane back to Boston in two hours and I’m already behind schedule.” He passed me a business card with his phone number and E-mail address. “Give me a call or drop a line some time I’ll be happy to talk to you."





To: [e-mail]

From: [e-mail]

R. E.: Harvard lectures tour on the subject of paranormal studies.

Dearest Professor Kilgore,

I recently had the pleasure of attending your lecture on Paranormal Studies at the University of El Paso. To be perfectly honest with you I was quite intrigued with some of your findings, especially on vampires. I being a scholar in the paranormal department my self I was hoping to arrange a meeting with you on my up coming trip to Boston. I think it may bring to light a few details on the subject that you might be interested in, not to mention a possible job offer. If you have the time, meet me at ‘The Two if By Sea Lounge’ at 10pm this Friday. Come alone you can’t miss me.



Sincerely,

Gabriel Whitechapel







Chapter One: Kilgore





We’re all of us guinea pigs in the laboratory of God. Humanity is just a work in progress. ~Tennessee Williams







It was an unusually cool night when I arrived at the lounge considering it was the middle of august. The surf was beating against the harbor lightly sending salty particles of ocean spray aloft that was pushed a shore by an easterly breeze giving the air a musty pungency. A near tranquil night only challenged by the endless caws of the sea gulls in the harbor, the T making its way around the elevated tracks, and the far off whine of traffic on I-93.

“It’s good to be back.”

‘The Two if By Sea lounge’ was average bar and grill, located on Boston’s north end near Battery Street just a few blocks from the old north church, where any Bostonian could get a side of steak and potatoes with his Serosis of the liver.

On the outside of the massive brick structure hung a large wooden sign naming the bar that swung gently in the breeze. To the front was a large oak door that was in desperate need of a fresh coat of stain and I could tell it was probably original to the building. Flanking it on either side were large windows that displayed neon beer signs, one Guinness, and one Mickey’s malt liquor, their ominous electric glow added to by the flickering street lamp over head.

Their was nothing unusual about the lay out of the place, the building was not exceptionally wide, only about fifteen feet wide with a row of high backed booths to the right of the door that ran the entire length of the building, approximately 30 feet. Immediately to the left of the door there where two pin ball machines and a jukebox which brightened up the poorly lit atmosphere with their blinking lights. Next to the row of amusements was the bar, about fifteen feet long, made from some sort of hard wood I supposed but the light was to dim to pinpoint the exact type. It had the stereotypical mirrored back with countless bottles of alcohol set in front of it.

As I entered the bar I was greeted by a surly bar tender in a thick chowder accent, “Hay deah, hawaya doin, waddalit be.”

“Fine thank you, Bacardi and Coke if you will.” I said as I took a seat in one of the high-backed booths to the back of the pub.

The surly bar keep was a tall Irish brute of a man probably in is early fifties. He was in the 6’7” range with curly sorrel locks, a chubby face, and long mutton chop side burns. He wore a long sleeved brown plaid shirt cuffed at the elbow with the top two buttons undone which caused his chest hair to billow out, although he was not sloppy in appearance by any means.

The bar was almost completely empty other than a young Hispanic bus boy, a greasy cook who swearing in Italian and, two older gentlemen sitting at the bar drinking beer and bickering over politics and “what to do about those rag head bastards,” and how “Bush is fucking it up.” There was also a group of college boys sitting by the door talking about cars, guns, and hitting on the attractive blonde waitress who I assume only served food from the small kitchen at the back of the building.

The waitress came to my booth and handed me grease stained menu. “Yah need some time sweetie.” She said in a soft supple voice.

She was a very attractive young lady, no more than twenty-one with wavy shoulder length hair, large breasts, a long neck, and strong Irish features. Years ago she would be the type of young flawless beauty that I could have taken to dinner, in a matter of speaking. With that I could feel the itch of thirst and knew it was only a matter of time before I would need another feeding.

“I’m expecting another gentleman for dinner shortly.” I said smoothly.

“Okay I’ll be around to take your order,” she said sweetly as she handed me another greasy menu with out a hint of chowder accent.

I sat alone sipping my drink, flipping through the menu, and reading the numerous table-tents displaying nightly specials on beer and food. Time seemed to crawl by; the thirst biting at the back of my neck gave me no solace.

“Drink four, where are you, Kilgore, you fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

I glanced at my watch, “ten thirty already. Is he even coming?”

I sat staring at the ceiling, at one time white but over the years yellowed with nicotine and watched the waitress as she mad way from booth to booth taking orders of the patrons that slowly trickled in. I continued to sit turning the day’s events over in my head, how I had pulled in to Boston early last night to see an old friend, David Binks, a man I met years ago when I had started Harvard med. He was my lab partner in several classes and over the six years we knew each other we grew to be very close. Regardless of David the trip was inspired and based around Kilgore. Luckily if he didn’t show I still had a reason to be in Boston and wouldn’t leave feeling the trip was for not.

I got a room at Day Stop Inn, which I don’t usually do because chain hotels have a certain unsterile quality about them. A man in my financial position enjoys a little more class not to mention linens devoid of semen and urine samples left by the prostitute and her John last night; alas I had forgotten to make reservations at a more suitable hotel upon my departure from Amarillo.

It was like any other hotel room I had ever seen, bathroom right next to the door, everything in white. Just past the bathroom was a king sized bed with a flower print bed spread, cheap end table with faux brass bedside lamp and remote control for the television permanently bolted atop. Left in the drawer was the bowel movement of a Gideon in the form of the holy bible. The words of a Gideon I had met rang in my ear;

If ya feel the need to steal any thing don’t take the towels take the good book.

The carpet was a tight weave, maroon in color, which oddly enough looked just like the carpet in my living room at home, which made me chuckle a little. The room had off white textured wallpaper with a flower print border where the wall met the ceiling that I wouldn’t be caught dead hanging in my living room. On the opposite wall from the bed there was a dresser with nine drawers and a large mirror. On top of it was twenty-seven inch television that could have a thousand inch for all I care considering that I don’t really watch much television other than a documentary or two on A&E, and surgeries on Discovery health.

After surveying my room I proceeded to unpack my luggage. For this trip I only felt it necessary to bring two pieces of luggage, my briefcase which contained my laptop and some documents from the laboratory, and my suitcase which contained little more than three suits, some toiletries, sunscreen, and under garments.

Once my unpacking was complete and my suits were hung on the anti-theft hangers in the closet next to the room entrance and I had bathed it was already daybreak.

Later that afternoon, after a heavy application of SPF 220, a concoction made by Tasha Grimm the head chemist at my laboratory in Amarillo, I made my way to The Union Street Bistro, on Bow Street, for lunch with David.

Lunch was fairly predictable, sharing old college stories, a pair of Cuban cigars, and a few drinks. David spent most of the time telling me about his new practice, wife, and town house in the suburbs. To be quite honest I was jealous. I have never had a normal life and the idea of one has been the goal I have been working towards for the last twenty years…

“Doctor Whitechapel.”

“Your late professor,” I said to the forty-something man who stood before me.

Kilgore was a short Caucasian man with European features, probably French or English. His face was thin, with lips to match and pock marked cheeks that were permanently scared by years of adolescent zit popping and shaving with dull razors. His hair was salt and pepper gray shaped in to some bastardized modern day version of a pompadour which was as pretentious as his ensemble.

He was dressed in an over priced gray business suit, worn threadbare at the elbows, and a pair of Italian loafers that were permanently scuffed. By the condition of his apparel I could tell he was in desperate need of a new wardrobe if this was his best attire. There was no doubt his recent divorce had left him in dire straits when it came to finances and I knew this would be an easy sale.

“Ah, I’m sorry; I had some trouble with my car.” He said sheepishly.

“Never mind that, please, sit down we have much to discuss,” I said cordiality, “tell me a little about your self.”

“What is this all about,” he said with some irritation

“Let me tell you what I know, and you fill in the blanks,” I insisted, “ Your 45, born June 14, 1957. Your middle name is Jorge spelled with a J not G. Your parents Dorothy and Paul were married April 22, 1956. You were married to Regina Renée Linley April 22, 1982 as a tribute to dear old mom and dad. You have three children, 14 year old Michael Jacob, 10 year old Samuel Dean, and 5 year old Marla Jean. Seven months ago you and your wife separated claiming irreconcilable differences and divorced a month later. For the past six months you have been living in a studio apartment, barely making rent after alimony and child support. You are a hard nosed professor of Paranormal Studies at Harvard and now married to your job.”

He sat stunned for a minute with a blank look on his face, most definitely searching for some sense of reason and then said, “ H, how do you know that?”

“The Internet, my good man, you can find any thing online if you know the right person to ask.”

, “I have a person who does research on all of my prospects.”

“What do you want with me?” he said with some fear in his voice.

“I want to give you a job.”

“Where?”

“Amarillo, Texas, cataloging the findings for my research laboratory.”

“ What does that have to do with vampires and Paranormal Studies?”

“EVERYTHING,” I said sternly. “ Imagine being there to witness the paranormal become the normal. I want to show you vampiritic pernicious anemia; it’s the first proof that vampires are a part of more than just folklore.”

“What are saying, that vampires are real? I, I can’t believe this. Are you a nut case or just jerk off who has gone out of his way to fuck with my head?”

“Can you say that in all the years you have been a professor that you don’t believe what you teach?” I Questioned.

“You have to be kidding,” he said sounding stressed as he ran his hands over his face wiping the sweat from his brow.

“You have the chance to be privy to a world that only a handful of humans know about, well, living ones any way.” I said enthusiastically.

“I think I’d rather research a list of mental hospitals for you.” He said sarcastically.

“You’re a very witty man, professor, but all jokes aside, the job pays 270,000 a year which is a serious pay hike, but you will need to relocate to Texas.”

“Boy, you cut to the point don’t you.”

“I don’t have time to fuck around. I need a serious documentarian, and I need one yesterday.” I said sternly.

“Are you guys ready to order,” the attractive blonde waitress said.

“Sure,” we both said in unison.

We both ordered our dinner, Kilgore a Caesar salad sans croutons like any Adkins crazed yuppie would, and I a large helping of liver and onions for the extra iron required in my diet.

“Can I get you anything to drink sir?” the lovely waitress said to Kilgore.

“Bud light long neck, please.” He answered.

The waitress came with our food and Kilgore’s beer. We ate in silence. Their was a lot of tension in the air through our meal and I realized that Kilgore was having trouble deciding weather or not he should stick with me or run for the hills screaming. In either case I needed to be in Texas by Sunday night to feed or else find a petting zoo to raid regardless of the taste.

“So have you made your decision?” I inquired.

“How much time do I have?”

“Until tomorrow night. I leave at dusk with or without you.”

He let out a deep sigh and said, “I still don’t understand how you’ve discovered vampires.”

“I never had to discover a vampire; I have been one for three-hundred years.”

As quickly as it was said Kilgore’s beer bottle fell from his hand bounced off of the table and on to the floor. After a mad scramble to clean up the spilled brew Kilgore sat there speechless.

“I just thought you were speaking figuratively.”

“I know you don’t believe me. What I am about to tell you will unlock a door and once you go through that door you can’t go back.” As I scanned him I sensed an ever-growing nervousness.

“Okay, I’ll bite, what do I have to lose.”

“ Everything, including your life,” I said seriously, “ if certain people where to find out that you know what I am about to tell and show you, I have a feeling you may not last more than a week or so. We nocturnes have a tendency to be very secretive about our world and are not too friendly to humans who know too much.”

“This is crazy, I have to go,” Kilgore said seriously. “You’re a vampire, my life is in jeopardy, and I’m the friggin king of England, yea right.”

“Wait please,” I begged, “Do you want proof?”

“Yea, might be nice.” Kilgore barked.

I Began to wrench my head side to side with my mouth agape flexing my neck and jaw muscles to bring my fangs to their ready position. It took very little effort and the effect always brought around the non-believers.

Beads of sweat began to well up on Kilgore’s face. He sat stunned holding in what I could only imagine was a cross between a scream and gasp; his face displaying the pallor of a day old corpse.

“Holy Shit!” he proclaimed, “What are you?”

“I AM A VAMPIRE!” I barked quietly.

“Vampires don’t exist, they are folklore. Shit made up by ancient cultures to explain mysterious deaths in small communities. Most of the proof that exists can be summed up as collective ignorance in pre-modern society brought about by religious superstition.”

“You know as well as I do that every culture in the world has vampiritic folklore. How can you not believe that it could be possible that it is more than just superstition?”

“One of the things I teach my students is that the paranormal, with out hard scientific evidence, is no more than paranormal.”

“The vampire world has been heavily documented around the world. Our species has been forced to hide amongst the shadows for centuries because of ignorance,” I stressed.

“No one has ever tried to explore the possibility that there is a scientific explanation for this folklore that spans over the entire globe ranging from the Native Americans to the Chinese. Think of all the diseases that explain the existence of Hominis Nocturna, Pernicious Anemia which is one of the reasons for blood thirst, Xero Dermal-pigmentosum, and porpheria to a lesser extent, are reasons for the pale skin, the aversion to sunlight and UV rays. Also extreme ocular-photosensitivity caused by permanent dilation of the pupil. Not to mention about a million other diseases I’ve yet to come across.

What if a subject was so riddled with disease and genetic anomalies that the body compensates by giving it strengths, mutations if you will, such as an increased immune system? Also an advanced muscular and skeletal system and the ability to process oxygen three times more efficiently than the normal human resulting in the ability of fewer breaths per minute and lowered blood pressure. Imagine if such anomalies occur only in the ninth chromosome, which with the advent of genetics has only been testable for the last twenty or thirty years. What if said disease was only a “myth” for two thousand years and anyone with it was deemed a vampire. What respectable research facility would spend millions of dollars to research something if they can’t find any patients?”

“Consider this morbid curiosity, but why would a “vampire” want to be cured in the first place,” Kilgore said puzzled.

“Most don’t, they enjoy the thought of being alive for hundreds of years, not to mention being a myth to millions of people. There is a bit of gusto that goes along with superiority. Yet there are a handful, including myself, my backers, and my subjects who can’t see spending the rest of their near immortal lives being tethered to the need for blood and the constant guilt associated with the deaths of thousands of people. Regardless of uncommon knowledge, murder still caries the same emotional baggage for us as it does you.”

Kilgore sat looking at me as if my head had grown legs and walked off my shoulders.

“Look all the proof you need is waiting for you in Texas.”

“I can’t do this,” Kilgore barked, “I can’t go all the way to Texas, and who’s to say you’re not some freak serial killer trying to lure me to my death.”

“Don’t be so vain Professor, if I wanted to kill you I wouldn’t need to lure you anywhere. I could kill you, drink your blood, dump your pompous carcass in the harbor, and be back to Texas in less than twenty-four hours.”

“I’m broke anyway, I can’t afford to leave Boston,” he moaned.

“Ah, it’s about money,” I uttered, “The truth shall set you free.”

Looking a little embarrassed Kilgore replied, “Isn’t almost everything?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I replied, “I’ll wire half of the money directly into your account, $135,000, or cash if you would like.”

He gave me his account number after some coaxing and reassurance that I wasn’t going to steal his identity, which seems to be the current fashion. I paid for our meal and left a most generous tip for the mediocre food and drink.

Before bidding farewell, I gave Kilgore directions to meet me the next night at nine o’clock P.M. outside the Amtrak terminal with all of his clothing.

“After all this, we’re taking the train?” he whined.

“Nine o’clock,” I repeated, “and don’t be late.”

“Trust me”

“Not as far as I could throw you.”





Chapter Two: Moonlight Sonata



What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence. Lord Byron





I sat out side the Amtrak terminal taking in the night air as I awaited Kilgore’s arrival. Somewhere a bell tinked in the harbor and a boat horn pierced the night calm. A light sprinkle of rain had fallen that afternoon that settled on every surface giving the world a gentle shimmer in the moonlight. It was a shimmer I had witnessed many a time before. But tonight it was different; it was a shimmer of renewal, the shimmer of rebirth.

I love you son…go learn, for you may be the one to save us, in time.

The words of my mother came to me so seldom that her voice had dissolved amongst the masses and was little more than an inner monologue that fed off my very soul driving me forward to my unreachable goal.

“Nine-thirty, the bastard is late again,” I said aloud, thinking I may have been mistaken about Kilgore.

I had never been a patient man, which is odd being that I truly had all the time in the world, but ultimately being a man of schedule, deadline, and appointment, patience lost all meaning. I opened the door to my Lexus.

“Doctor, I’m here, wait, don’t leave.” Kilgore screamed as he dashed out of the terminal doors, luggage in tow, stopping just short of my Lexus.

Kilgore stood there, hands on his knees, searching for his lost air.

“I don’t tolerate tardiness, Professor,” I scolded, “two minutes later and you would have found your self without employment not to mention in debt $135,000 to me.”

Labored in breath Kilgore replied, “I’m…sorry…won’t…happen…again.” Kilgore regained his oxygen and we proceeded to load his luggage in to the trunk of my car.

The next hour or so was spent in silence with nothing more than the faint sound of Kilgore’s fluttering heartbeat and the whir of the road to keep me company. I could see the potential madness brewing after being subjected to that infinite lub-glub that was just audible enough in my range to be seriously grating on ones nerves.

“Would you care for some music?” I asked, hoping to fill the silence with noises a bit more pleasant to ones ear.

“Why not,” the heartbeat replied.

“Do you like classical?” pressing the play button on my CD player the melodious interlude to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata began, “I remember the first time I heard Moonlight Sonata, although at the time it was called Sonata Quasi una Fantasia. The year was 1812 Napoleon was the darling of the French revolution, talks of invading Russia where in the air, and I had gone to the Paris in search for some new blood.

I had the fortune to find myself invited the very wealthy Dubois family’s estate for a massive reception. Phillip Dubois was a French aristocrat, with six beautiful daughters and a voluptuous wife, who made it point to flaunt his home on any occasion that could be conceded as precious enough to hold a ball. The wine, the food, and the women where all at my beck and call, for no other reason than mistaken identity as an American diplomat, Needless to say I made off with several of his daughters seduced, ravaged, and devoured all in the same eve. I disappeared into the shadows before their corpses were even cold. Ah, to waist such beauty on a single meal. Thus is folly of youth. I have since learned to appreciate beauty for what its worth.”

“Not really a big fan of Classical Music.” Kilgore scoffed.

“Then something a little more to your liking, Master Kilgore,” I mocked while skipping tracks.

Before I knew it I was slipping into the hypnotic guitar licks of The Eagles “Hotel California.”

“I also remember where I was the first time I heard this one.”

Kilgore lifted an eyebrow, either in disbelief or in spite of my pleasure in the moment. On either event it sent me into an open-mouthed bellow of a laugh which fed my unquenchable thirst for humor in the moment. I sensed that Kilgore questioned my sanity more that ever.

We drove again just as silently as before. Me watching the yellow line snake out before me. Kilgore just sat shuffling through his briefcase and removed a pack of cigarettes, nerves at red alert as he lit one.

“Why did you become a doctor?” Kilgore prodded.

“It was my parents wish that I go to Krakow and learn, in hopes that I might find a cure this darkness which damned my parents and me.” I answered.

“Tell me about your self?”

“I was born Vladimir Szalinski. I don’t remember my birth date but I know it was in the spring. My family and I lived in a Polish village just east of modern day Warsaw, its name no longer matters as it was reduced to rubble around the end of the seventeen-hundreds by Napoleon’s armies, although there is a beautifully over grown cemetery which lies in its place.”

“Are your parents still alive?” Kilgore inquired.

“I’m not sure, they probably are unless they they’ve found a nice quiet place to die by there own hand, or were staked and beheaded. For all I know they may be roaming around Europe living in the old ways, feeding off the derelict souls that fill the back ways and alleys.”

I wasn’t pleased with Kilgore, his eyes troubled me, and the eyes tell tales the mouth wont. But what I saw in his mind now made me wonder if he was right for the job. I couldn’t help but think that he would most likely have a heart attack when he truly saw that everything he had lived and breathed be no more than glorified nonsense. But the fact that he made the effort to meet me, (not to mention that he was interested enough to ask about my history) told me that he wanted to believe, but not with out proof.

“How did you survive for three hundred years, Professor?” he said sarcastically with a hint of honesty in his mind.

“Your sarcasm will come to bite you in the ass Kilgore.” I retorted, “But if you must know, I left Krakow after a most unfortunate incident with a Russian courtesan on the night I finished my apprenticeship as a surgeon. The word ‘medicine’ in the sixteenth century was a term to be taken loosely, none the less; I spent the first bi-centenary moving about Europe working as a surgeon where one was needed and attending the finest medical schools Europe had to offer. Rome, Paris, Dublin, Berlin, Madrid, Belgrade, I saw them all, and studied with the greatest minds of the times I might add. I worked my ‘art’ at night when the rest of the earth slept, picking off the meek of the earth, drunkards, thieves, transients, and harlots. The craft was simple then, no one notices when the scourge of the Earth disappears.

I usually did some post mortem slashing on my victims or gnawing at the corpse to throw the local authorities off my tracks. Because the last thing I needed was the local yokels running about with pitchforks and torches blazing, searching fore the dreaded vampÍr while I’m trying to secure a hot meal.

Luckily, forensics of the day usually pointed to a vicious murder or a pack of wolves that they just happened to stumble upon. It’s nothing unusual for a nocturne to mutilate their victims in the hopes of self-preservation. You’ve obviously heard of Jack the Ripper?”

“Oh, so now you’re Jack the Ripper?”

“No,” I said with a chuckle, “but I did have the fortune to dine with him. Let me tell you a secret about vampires…”

“What’s that?”

“…It doesn’t suit a nocturne to be daft. Intellect serves as the basis for survival, just as with humans, the asinine usually don’t prosper. In the line of ‘work’ we’re in the Rinfieldesque wouldn’t last a second.

You just can’t be running about London making a snack of every barrister, bobby, and nobleman. It takes finesse to lure any one to their death.”

Another two hours went by.

“12:00, how long till Texas?” Kilgore whined.

“We pull into Amarillo tomorrow afternoon at about 3:30.”

“Where are we now?” Kilgore said as he reclined his seat and yawned.

“About fifty miles from Syracuse on I-90.”

“How fast are you going?”

“110 miles per hour.”

“I would have said ‘why didn’t we take a plane’ but it seems like you got it under control.”

“Don’t care much for flying, such an unnatural way to travel.”

“Oh yeah, almost as unnatural as a vampire in a black Lexus doing 110 through rural New York.

“I suppose so, but seeing as I seem to have life by the throat, no pun intended, I’m not interested in risking surviving an air crash.”

At 12:30 AM we broke in Syracuse, stopping at a little no-name gas station. I filled up the car, (regardless of the quarter of a tank it still had) while Kilgore used the restroom and got some drinks for the road. Fueling completed I made my way into the station to pay the attendant.

The attendant was a chubby blemish faced youth with sleepy eyes, perpetually chewing a Slim Jim ad nausium, and reading a copy of Hustler from a rack behind the counter.

“Can I help you,” said the young man.

“Yes Mike,” I said, looking at his name tag which hung off his shirt at a slight angle, “Twenty-one on pump three, and a pack of Marlboro reds in a box, please.”

After diddling around with the register for a moment he said, “Twenty-five fifty, Sir.”

I paid the young man, retrieved the pack of cigarettes of it cellophane and foil and popped one into my mouth.

“Ya know those things‘ ll kill ya.”

“Not likely, but good advice from someone who probably eats Slim Jims by the gross.”

“Point taken,” said the attendant.

I bid fair well to the chubby faced attendant who went back to his stag book and Slim Jim.

We departed the small convenience store and made our way back on to the interstate. I have always had a love affair with the road. It is heaven on earth sent down by god himself for anyone with good fortune to own an automobile. It has been my home since these very roads were just rutted out trails dissecting old cow pastures.

My very first car was the model-T, it was said to be the cleaner alternative to the horse and buggy stemming from the massive amount of manure left on the streets in the early nineteen-hundreds. Today, however, the automobile has become the harbinger of doom to every Green Peace-tree-hugging-Birkenstock-wearing-“don’t hurt the little animals”-granola eaters.

During the 60’s it was a 59 Cadillac Eldorado convertible its mass paled in comparison to only to its beauty. Borne of an era when gasoline was 25 cents a gallon and Buddy Holly was king of the AM radio. I would cruise up and down the scenic Sunset strip while men and women alike tuned green with envy.

The 70’s were a time of fuel shortages, Watergate, and the end of the hippie movement, and while the rest of the world was looking toward economy I was looking for speed in the outstretched arms of the ’73 Pontiac GTO Judge. I was in Boston again, and in a Burgh of that size flash is everything.

Members-only jackets, and Yuppies were in full swing in the 80’s and my poison of choice was a cherry-red ’83 Porsche 911 Carrera. Nothing less pretentious would do, when pretension was a trend. A time when there where more alligators on the breasts of polo shirts than in the Everglades.

Currently it was a black 2002 Lexus IS 300. Flashy but subdued, luxurious and dignified but economically priced. That is how I see myself, luxurious and dignified yet subdued.

There was a sudden shrill computerized howl of Mozart 40 that in my range of hearing nearly split my skull. It took a moment to sink in but I realized it to be a cell phone, Kilgore’s to be exact. As he picked up I could hear every word.

“How could you do this…” an anonymous feminine voice, which I believed was his ex-wife, said.

“Don’t be mad, please Honey” Kilgore replied.

“…You left you children a message on our machine while I was working, and don’t call me honey. Remember we’re not married…”

“I’m sorry,”

“…You just left them…”

“I know,”

“…YOU BETTER GET IT TOGETHER RICHARD, YOU’VE GOT CHILDREN TO THINK ABOUT!” she said before hanging up.

Kilgore looked like a whipped dog, his chin buried in his chest still clenching the cell phone and his last shred of masculinity.

“Your wife must be rather upset with you.”

“That goes without saying. She isn’t happy unless she has something to bitch about. None the less she can’t keep a leash on me in Texas. Are you married?”

“Me? Once. Her name was Gloria.” I said frankly.

We entered Dayton Ohio, filled up the tank, took in some refreshments, and departed.

“You drive too fast, Doctor.” Kilgore whined.

“Mind your self Kilgore, and I will mind the road.”

“So why Amarillo for this ‘BIG’ study. It seems that a bigger city would suit your cause.”

“Well, not exactly. Think about this professor, a city of about 150,000 understaffed, over worked police force, a major problem with the oldest profession, drug dealers, homeless, and god knows how many wayward migrants traveling cross- continent. Amarillo is a variable cornucopia of vice, murder, and sin.

I have done substantial research on climate, per capita statistics, and access to medical and chemical supplies. It has exceptional ease of escape in a situation that would warrant it with two major highways and city structure being that the most potent neighborhood is on a separate side of town not to mention a different county than the wealthier areas.

The project has been well underway for more than twenty years, skipping from city to city before the authorities catch wise. I started the laboratory in Amarillo two years ago, buying up an old AT&T substation on the north side of Amarillo in a derelict neighborhood known to the natives as the ‘North Heights’. It’s a bad location to live in but a great place to be for feeding sake, what with all the prostitutes, drug dealers, homeless people, and stray animals to feed off.”

“So it’s all about food supply?”

“In a way,” I answered.

“Let me ask you, do you still kill?” Kilgore said with a hint of fear in his voice.

“Not since the early Eighties,”

“How do you eat?”

“Very well thank you.”

“Seriously,” Kilgore quipped.

“Wild birds, stay dogs, and whole blood donations,”

“From where?”

“Believe me I have connections.”

“Anyway, back on the lab, who pays for it all?”

“A global Bio-tech firm, ‘Latimore Industries’ pays a three quarters of our annual debt, and another quarter from my company, ‘Greater London Industries’ and its many subsidiaries. The balance of the debt is made by a number of wealthy investors of the nocturne persuasion, several of which are in the program.”

“Who?” He asked.

“Well we have four persons in the program who invested large quantities of capital. Sha Millens, an Asian day trader who came to us from New York invested a solid Million. And Violet Hamilton, a very passionate writer, donated almost Three Million. Our largest investor by far is Carl Marx; a freight driver from Pahrump, Nevada invested about Six and a half Million.”

“How big a staff do you have?”

“Twenty, consisting of; two animal handlers, a cardiologist, a virologist, a hematologist, a nephrologists, a chemist, a pathologist, medical analysis tech, a radiologist, a pathologist, five nurse \ assistants, a medical equipment tech, and an all around gopher, and our resident hacker.”

“Are they all vampires?” Kilgore asked.

“No. We have five humans on our team. I approached them the same way I approached you. They had financial problems and I needed staff.” I explained.

“How close are you to finding a cure?”

“So close I can taste it.”

My faith in Kilgore had strengthened over the passing hours and my opinions about him where evolving. I could see a friend growing in the man I once thought of as an annoyance. He seemed to talk to me more openly about the dark cloud that has hovered over my head for centuries. His speech had lost the air of sarcasm, which he had displayed in earlier conversation. Kilgore asking questions about the project and participants gave me hope in my decision to adhere him to the project, and made me remember that his humanity dictates disbelief to spite the believer.”

“Go to sleep Kilgore, I’ll wake you the next time we stop.” I ordered.

“What time is it?”

“Six O’clock,” I answered, “We’ll stop in another couple of hours.”

The next two hours where spent in solitude listening to the hum of the tires on the road, buzzing in my ears a quite pleasing noise. The scent of the cool morning dew mingled with the sweet grasses and herbs that lined the interstate stirred in my nostrils. The road stretched out before us, a blessed carrier outlining our path to the future, to our destiny unaware of its vital role.

The sun raised its damned head above the horizon as if to challenge this nocturnal soul to a duel but it wouldn’t get its desire. I proffer the night but I’m not married to it when an armor of sunscreen is applied. Nonetheless, I donned a pair of sunglasses as my war mask in protest.

We stopped for Breakfast at nine at a small truck stop. The food was inedible and so was the ambiance. The clatter of dishes, mediocre food, and boorish language of the patrons left me in remembrance of a seventeenth century English Pub.

Lunch was more of the same. Next stop, Amarillo.





Chapter Three: Laboratory



Science is always discovering odd scraps of magical wisdom and making a tremendous fuss about its cleverness. ~Aleister Crowley





WELCOME TO TEXAS THE LONE STAR STATE: read a roadside sign as we crossed into more familiar environs. Three days without sleep and I had grown tired of the road; the comfort of a familiar bed seemed all too inviting. With every blink the sleep crept in daring me to yield to its warm embrace. No one held me as tightly as sleep has except anguish. With all its charms I couldn’t help my self.

“DOCTOR, YOU’RE VEERING,” Kilgore screamed as the tires roared on the rumble strips set in place for just such an occasion. At what point had I fallen asleep? I have been known to black out when under sleep deprivation.

Kilgore and I changed seats and resumed our journey after asking him to notify me upon our arrival in Amarillo. I hate to sleep in broad daylight but my exhaustion took priority over comfort, if so I would be riding a queen size bed down the interstate rather than a lumpy car seat.

Dreams came to me in great waves. Dreams of Gloria and my ‘enlightened’ days when I struggled to hold on to a beautiful woman and a life of humanity, of decency, of solace. Dreams no doubt stirred up by earlier memories. A wound split that had stayed sewn closed for centuries, less the occasional seepage sponged away by guilt and pride. How can a man, Nocturne or Mortal, feel so guilty but be too proud to admit his wrong? I pray that the wound will heal one day, salved by sweet death or the love of another.

I love you Gabriel and I will love you as long as time goes on.

Again the voices come as no more than an inner monologue haunting me like some hellish ghost.

“Doctor, we’re here,”

Sitting up and blinking my sand filled eyes I said, “Where are we exactly?”

“We just passed an amusement park.”

“Wonderland Park. Hang a right at the next light and I’ll take you to the lab.”

It was Three O’clock in the afternoon and Amarillo Blvd. was full of traffic.

My laboratory was a sight to be reckoned with; it was an industrial giant in an inner city neighborhood with a grand structure in the form of a communications tower which loomed over the area like an orange and white striped dragon posed for attack. I had climbed that tower many a time for a bit of solace from the hustle and bustle of the lab and its trials and tribulations. It was a grand tree house four hundred feet above the dirty city.

I had bought the communications building under a false front for it to be used as a warehouse for computers so not to attract attention from the watchful eye of ‘Big Brother’.

All of the employees were paid by direct deposit laundered through an off shore account in the Bahamas keeping the IRS out of the pockets of my employees and my self.

We pulled in and made our way to the door and after pressing in the key code went inside and up a shot flight of stairs to the right.

“Doc, Welcome back.” A young gangly man in a white lab coat carrying a tray of test tubes said.

“Salutations Dr. Braun, it’s good to be home.” I said shaking his hand, “I would like you to meet your new colleague. This is Professor Richard Kilgore; he will be filling the documentarian position. ”The two men took hands, exchanged pleasantries, and a brief good-bye.

Lewis Braun was our team Hematologist, exceptionally bright with a knack for blood science.

We walked on down the hallway to a large electric security door and a tall, slender security guard dressed in fatigues and armed with a pre-ban Czech AK47.

“Kilgore this is Jacob Stamm our security agent, any time you want in to the lab for any reason you need to show your badge which I’ll have Billy our computer tech make for you and a retinal and index finger scan.

“So you know, Jacob has orders take anyone into custody without badges so don’t forget it.”

Jacob was one of five humans on our team, found by listing an ad in ‘Patriot monthly’ seeking an open-minded security agent with military background. He was more of a figurehead than a guardian, sitting at his desk taking logs of who comes and goes and how often. His main job consisted of hassling the doctors for taking extended lunch breaks and keeping their minds on business. In fact just about everyone but myself caught a healthy ration of shit from him daily.

After flashing my badge and scanning in Kilgore and I made way into the bullpen. The bullpen was a large conference room where staff and our subjects would meet once every ‘morning’ to discuss tests and procedures before work started.

In the corner of the room was a phone. I picked up the receiver pressed the intercom button and said, “THIS IS DOCTOR S. I NEED ALL STAFF AND PARTICIPANTS TO THE BULLPEN ASAP FOR A LITTLE SHOW AND TELL.”

Minutes later the class began to trickle in to the conference room the last to arrive was Charles Dash or more affectionately known as ‘Chain Saw Charlie’, our resident Necrologist. The seating order in the bullpen went by rank, 32 chairs, one on each end of the table, and fifteen on either side. I took the head position, to my right was the doctors, and to my left was our participants the foot position was intended for Kilgore. As documentarian he needed an overview of our meetings but a position to show his rank.

“Hello everyone this Professor Richard Kilgore. He will be taking over the position of documenting research in place of Leonard Shultz. He is a human so be patient…” I said as Kilgore shot me a ‘go to hell’ look, “… but all in all a good man. He is joining us from Harvard University where he was professor of paranormal studies so I think he should fit in just fine.” There was a quiet clamor in the boardroom, a few hellos and waves.

“Professor, please tell everyone a little about yourself, we’re all friends here.” I commanded.

Kilgore obliged and fell into a long speech.

“Okay everyone please take the time to get to know the professor as you will be working along side him.” I said, “Dr. Braun please show the professor around the lab and I’ll come get him shortly.”

“Sure Doc.”

I then shifted my attention to my second in command, Tasha Grimm. “Tasha Can I speak with you in my office.”

We made way to the flight of heavy metal stairs that led to my office. Once in side I removed my overcoat and sat behind my desk in the plush leather desk chair. My office sat in stark contrast to the very utilitarian laboratory. It was very comfortable with a hint of Victorian styling.

“How were things while I was away, any progress?” I questioned.

“None to speak of.” she said with a hint of Russian accent.

Tasha was a beautiful Nocturna, by rusky standards, with sable locks that reminded me of strands of black silk for their glossy shine. She was a supple woman with blue, almond shaped eyes, high cheekbones, flawless nose, and full crimson lips, who could charm any man to the grave. She had endlessly long legs, and a taut buttock that she squeezed in to the tightest pair of black slacks available. She was a normal specimen of the vampire species with one abnormality. Instead of one or two sets of fangs (which is the norm) she had a full three sets which where all retractable which is very unusual trait.

With all of her beauty and sensuality there never seemed to be an attraction any stronger than a physical one. She had so many downfalls that removed her from any prospective lover contest. Her main downfall was her dominating personality. She was very feminine but lacked that certain softness that I would require in a partner. The young at heart quality so hard to find in humans these days let alone nocturnes, or the mothering, nurturing senses that all men desire, not to mention the fact that she kept to her self for the most part which is hard to accept in any woman. We flirted from time to time as any red blooded person be it human or otherwise would, but nothing ever developed from it.

“Well I’m not surprised, I think we should see more progress soon,” I said with a sigh.

“I pray that the new gene therapy shows a little more effective than the last one did.”

“As do I.” I said.

We talked for what seemed like hours. Truth is I missed my colleagues in my absence. They were my only friends and the only ones I trusted since Gloria’s father.

Tasha and I made way back to the lab after quick rundown of events in the lack luster world of medical science.

“Where the hell is Kilgore?” I said sternly to Dr. Braun.

“He’s with Billy getting his badge, retinal, and index scan,” Braun said.

“Well I hope Billy doesn’t scare him off.” I said with a small chuckle.

Billy Kirkpatrick was an unusually large specimen of the human form. He was short, around 5”3’ but bulky from years of lifting weights. He had bright red hair and Grey eyes, and a chiseled body covered in a mass of prison tattoos. He had numerous trips to through the legal system however his most recent was a 2-year sentence in Leavenworth. He was convicted for hacking in to the database of the White House, and copying various presidential documents, which he planed to sell to a host of media organizations during the midst of the Clinton/Lewinski scandal to increase his financial interests. Needless to say he was quite unsuccessful in his venture and since his release had been employed by my self as a computer analyst.

His original designation was as a code writer for my software and computer engineering firm Digitec, a division of Greater London Industries, however he seemed slated for something a bit more involved. Either way he is a valued member to my team and one of the few I address by sir name despite his slight absence of hygiene and the ability to make lunch in the bullpen a most unpleasant experience due to the prison mess hall etiquette he always exhibited.

Billy’s job consisted of; analysis of medical data, monitoring and building security systems, maintaining numerous computer controlled medical devices, background checks on all prospective applicants, and converting all documentation to a coding system of his own design. He was quite thorough and definitely amazing at his craft spending the vast majority of his waking moments tediously defining and interpreting massive amounts of code rarely faulting to get the job done.

Billy’s office was size equivalents to that of a hearty janitor’s closet stacked floor to ceiling with countless logbooks and transcripts. Lain eschew where crumpled papers empty coffee cups and empty bags of Doritos. To the back of his rabbit hole where four televisions stacked atop a metal card table which looked old enough to pull double duty as the kiddy table at the last supper. Each TV was tuned into a different station Cartoon Network, ESPN, CNN, and MTV.

Billy sat to the left of the door explaining the workings of the security system to a bored Kilgore who stood to the right.

“Good afternoon gentlemen.”

“Hey Gabe what’s the word,” Billy said loudly, thrusting a meaty paw into mine for a firm hand shake,

“Not much to speak of Billy.”

“And the trip,”

“Uneventful,”

“Uneventful is not a bad thing.”

“Never,” I said.

We made small talk for a few minutes and discussed the condition of the gene sequencer that had given us problems for the past few months. Billy spewed on about a new main frame design manufactured by one of our rivals in the hardware industry he wanted to duplicate by hacking into their database and ‘worming’ the specs out of them.

“The way I see it we get ours built while there still in development and when they announce plans to build we flood the market with ours and presto, automatically obsolete with no previous warning. It’ll be a riot. Years of development down the drain in a few key strokes.” Billy said with glee all too reminiscent of a schoolboy with a shiny new toy.

“Very well Billy, are you finished entering the professor into the system.”

“Sure are, Gabe, you need anything else just holler.”

“I will Billy,” I assured him as I ushered Kilgore off to meet one on one with the rest of his new colleagues.

I ushered Kilgore to the laboratory to meet the rest of the doctors. There was a brief silence as I entered the room human in tow. The first to acknowledge his presence was Charles Dash being that he was also human; they exchanged a few words and a brief summary of job history and a good bye.

Dash was a criminal pathologist whom I had acquired from Texas tech medical sixteen years ago he was quite adept in his profession and loved every minute of it. A self proclaimed gear head he made constant references to the similarities between the human body and automobiles. Dash is a very critical member of the team.

The next was Dr. Grimm the stoic, raven haired vixen who made very little effort to even lift an eye from the various test tubes and beakers that held her attention.

“Good afternoon Mister Kilgore,” she spoke “I hope you enjoy your position here as much as we all do.” And returned to her test tubes.

We made way to the pathology lab guided by dash.

The pathology lab was a dimly lit room about twenty foot squared shelved on the left wall by rows of refrigerated cubicles which held the remains of Nocturnes recently deceased by whatever means. To the right where three rows of shelves which held bell jars, filled with severed body parts, jars of pickled organs, boxes of bones, fangs, and skulls of the formerly undead.

In the middle of the room was a large stainless steel table, a rolling cart with a large assortment of surgical tools, a large medical lamp mounted to the ceiling, and a mammoth red tool box on casters for auto mechanics.

“Welcome to the Big Top,” said Dash, “it’s the greatest show on earth.” Dash had a grim smile on his face and he let out a slight chuckle.

“Who’s in, in there,” Kilgore stuttered as he pointed in the direction of the fridges.

“Vampire remains,” I spoke.

“No really,” Kilgore said.

“He’s dead honest,” replied dash, “Let’s pull out a fresh one doc.”

I motioned to Kilgore to a jar of Vapo-rub who slathered it liberally under his nose.

With in a few minutes a body lay naked on the stainless steel slab. It was the body of a woman, blue and cold, lips a pale gray, red hair tussled on the table and completely unviolated by way of autopsy. The only damage were two large gashes in her wrists that split the veins, held open by two large shards of glass still imbedded in her skin.

“Most of the ones we get are suicide and some accidental, never natural death.” I said.

“We got us a shaver,” dash said pointing to the woman’s pelvic region.

“How very crass of you Charles.” I said half scolding half amused.

I sunk the scalpel into the flesh of the body. She was soft and pliable. The rigor had long since given way to livor mortis and with little work I had made the initial Y-cut and pulled the flesh back to open the chest cavity. Dash removed the breast plate with a set of medical shears and set it on the stainless steel tray next to the slab. The smell was sickly sweet near that of fresh garbage and hint of rotting meat. How ever over the years of medical research and two hundred and fifty years of murder I had grown accustomed to that smell.

She had the mostly the same anatomy of any human how ever the heart was quite a bit larger as with the lungs. Her face was young maybe twenty by the looks of it but in fact I’d wager to guess more in the range of seventy five. She was young by our standards anyway.

“What do we know about this one, Mouse?” I asked.

Mouse, aka Veronica Allen was our research assistant. She was a vampire but the smallest vampire I had ever met. She was only four feet, eleven inches tall. sHe was slender but voluptuous, with Blonde hair in a pixie cut with hot pink strips running through out. She wore her lab coat open with a black tank top under it. Around her neck hung a Nikon camera and her id badge was nestled between her ample bosoms tucked into the front of her hot pink bra. She was the definition of sexy geek. Made only more apparent by the leather cuff bracelets and choker she wore.

“Well miss Leone here, was sent to us from San Antonio as far as we can tell she is a normal specimen. She died approximately four days ago due to insenguination; Five foot three, one hundred seventeen pounds, obvious suicide. ”

We weighed the organs and began the soft tissue dissection while Mouse snapped pictures.

It was nothing unusual, one set of fangs, standard muscular structure, standard digestive tract, standard, standard, standard. We labeled all specimens and placed them in the vault and took the various samples to the lab to be analyzed. Kilgore had a queasy look and I asked Mouse to show him to his office.

It was all so disappointing. I knew I was close but everything I had found lately was more of the same. I had come to expect monotony but this was pure torture. The only solace was the team they where the reason I hadn’t shut the whole thing down years ago. They believed in a cure as well. When I had left I told Tasha I was planning on taking a less up front role in weeks to come but hadn’t really meant it. but now I was defiantly considering it. It was definitely time to retire for the day. I said my good-byes and quietly left.

I drove my self home ready for sleep. It was five twenty-five and I was weary. I opened the door to my home. It was a moderately large home by any mans standards, nestled in the Sleepy Hollow area of Amarillo. The house was empty, devoid of all sound, like a tomb. No children, no wife, just possessions. Over the course of three hundred years one has a tendency to surround himself with items from a simpler time. The house was full of priceless artifacts from the past, all meaningless. I shut the door behind me, and laid my keys on the entry hall table and hung my coat on a hook above it. In the living room the grandfather clock tolled once.

I made my way to the kitchen and placed two containers of Chinese food in the fridge, it was empty accept for a two liter of Dr. Pepper and a insulated lunch bag which housed a liter of whole blood. I pulled the bag from the fridge and retired to my room to feed for the first time in days.



Chapter Four: the entrance of Carl Mckinney



A bestial and violent man will go so far as to kill because he is under the influence of drink, exasperated, or driven by rage and alcohol. He is paltry. He does not know the pleasure of killing, the charity of bestowing death like a caress, of linking it with the play of the noble wild beasts: every cat, every tiger, embraces its prey and licks it even while it destroys it.~ Colette





It was 10:30 PM and I had just awoken. I showered, shaved, and had a bite to eat (the cold Chinese from in the fridge). Eating alone served as self-flagellation and made me painfully aware of how lonesome this life of mental and emotional solitary confinement really was. I thought of Gloria and if she was sitting on a cloud hating me.

I needed to get out, I wasn’t the most social of men, but now and again everyone needs a crowd.

I was making my way down Forty-Fifth Street when I received a text message from Carl McKinney.

Hey Doc thought we could meet for some drinks and a chat. If you’re up to it meet me at Midnight Rodeo as soon as you get this.

Mckinney was a tough laced freight man who was turned during the gold rush of Forty-nine by a saloon girl in some California boom town. Mckinney was a boisterous Nocturne who made it a point of flaunting his numerous feminine conquests over the past centennial, and his current career a ‘trucker’. Mckinney was a man of anecdotes, be them true or false, if you wanted a story you got one, and a thorough one at that. They were stories that put some of the finest works of literary art to shame, with his elaborate plots and characters.

When I arrived at the nightclub I searched the crowded lot for a place to park my car, parked, and made my way to the door. It was a Saturday and it was obvious that this was the place to be for any twenty-something cowboy in the Texas Panhandle.

There was a long line at the door and standing amongst a mass of young humans, whose sole reason for coming to this place was to kill their liver one drink at a time, made my flesh crawl. Not that I feared humans or any contact with them (I could lay waist to the lot in the blink of an eye), but close quarters of any kind made me nervous.

As I approached the door a large man in a back suit welcomed me, checked my ID, and opened the door. He was a rather portly gent with a round, bearded face, and a classic horseshoe balding pattern. I made my way inside and paid my six dollar cover charge to a blonde cashier, who could have been pretty twenty years ago but the years of peddling booze had furrowed her brow and given her crows feet. She was looking at me in my Black three-piece suit, and Italian loafers. It had to be an unusual sight amongst a field of western wear and black Stetsons.

Midnight Rodeo was a country theme dive, built in the shell of an old super-market, filled with smoke, mirrors, neon, and scantly clad women with a gaudy décor consisting of old cowboy boots, branding irons, and cow skulls. It was the type of place that took a way of life and made it a fashion trend for ‘urban cowboys’ who have nothing better to do on a Saturday night but the two step.

The layout was a bit complicated for my taste (Russian Tea Room it was not), with a huge oval dance floor at the center for the dancers to ‘mousy’ around, with a bar and seating area at the center of the oval. There where island bars and beer stations lay about strategically so no one would go without their favorite poison de jour on a packed night, and built in couches around its perimeter. At the back of the building was the stage, on which some no-name country band (if they where famous I wouldn’t know the difference) currently resided.

I sniffed around the club for a while looking for Mckinney, and after a few minutes I found him, quietly drinking a Budweiser and puffing a Black and Mild Cigar. The stench of his cigar turned my stomach and the millennia of crafting my high-class façade and air of proper breeding seemed to dissolve due to redneck by osmosis. He sat in the Piranha room, a small Hip-Hop off chute of the main club, watching a group of women on the dance floor grinding against each other to some hard beating techno music.

“Ya know why I come here,” Mckinney said with out introduction.

“Why.”

“You and I both know that when ya exhale a minute amount of blood cells are released, too. When ya dance yer breath speeds up as well as yer heart rate. In my way of thinkin’ it’s kinda like the smell of dinner while it’s cookin’. Besides who doesn’t like watchin’ a couple of girls rub up on each other while havin’ a drink.” He said in a country drawl.

“You’re quite the odd one, Carl” I quipped.

A waitress came and took my drink order (Bacardi and cola per usual) and we were alone again.

Mckinney was a slim, Irish, devil of a man; around six feet tall with brown hair shaved close in high and tight fashion and a long goatee that came to a point at the base of his chin. He had a long scar on the left side of his face, which divided his eyelid down the middle and left his eye permanently marled silver. I would have to say it gave him a somewhat gruesome appearance heightened by the brilliant emerald green of his right eye.

He wore a plain white tee shirt and a pair of light blue jeans which bore holes in both knees, and a pair of black snakeskin boots on his size twelve feet.

Carl had the standard muscular build so many nocturnes are blessed with muscular arms, broad shoulders, taught legs, with a thin waist.