DZAllen.net
Las Vegas, Nevada
Today
Two cherries and a bar.
Zero credits.
Shit.
I drop my face into my hands. I massage my aching temples and think about hitting the ATM.
Another night of bad luck in front of a crappy slot at one of the dumpy downtown joints. I reach
into my pocket and find a crumpled dollar. I straighten it out as best I can and slide it into the slot.
The machine spits it out.
I snatch it up and put it in again.
The machine spits it out.
"Son of a bitch!" I force it in again. It disappears and I wait those few tense seconds when you
don't know if the machine finally decided to take your money or it's just toying with your ass.
Four credits pop up on the screen. I tap the button and bet all four. I pull the handle. Yeah, I
know you can just push a button and the things will spin. Jesus Christ what kind of a lazy fascist
came up with that idea? I want to pull the arm on the damn thing and make the wheels spin.
No luck again.
Vegas sucks.
I guess it could have been worse. I could be stuck someplace without a night life and no way
to move myself to a city that has one. A bloodsucking junkie needs to live someplace that's active at
night or they end up blowing their heads off from boredom. Or at least I sure would. Back in the
day, I knew some bloodsuckers that couldn't take it and did themselves in rather than live with the
curse and what it does to a person. I don't know about lately because I haven't sensed another like
me in twenty years or so.
As far as I know I'm alone. The last of the vampires.
At least I was in Vegas and since Vegas sucks even worse during the daytime I kid myself into
believing that I have it good. Not seeing the sun really screws a person up and all the pretty bright
lights are no substitute.
Even for a supernatural being like myself.
I let out a thunderous belch then stub out my cigarette. Christ, I needed a drink…and I wasn’t
talking about blood either. Although I suppose I'd better get on to that as well sometime tonight.
I wander over to the bar. It was one of those little holes in the casino wall that open out onto
the gaming floor. It’s almost midnight and the stools are occupied with a few scraps of human
debris. The men have the stink of loss on them. Most of the women are beyond their prime and
look as worn out as I feel.
"Hey, Race," the bartender says. "You want the usual?"
"Why not," I say.
I've known all the bartenders here since the joint opened up in the fifties. They come and go.
Everyone does.
He pours me some of the house tequila over ice. I sip it and wallow in the night's run of bad
luck.
Christ my head hurts.
I tip back the drink and enjoy the flavor as it burns down my throat. My condition doesn’t
really allow me to get shit faced. Believe me I've done my share of drinking since this happened to
me. If I go long enough without blood I can get a pretty good buzz going as I get weaker but then
everything else goes to shit as well so it's not really worth it.
Yet another bonus of the curse.
I watch the bartender work the drunks perched at the bar. The kid's got a nice smile. Then
again he's only had to deal with the heaps of shit life dumps on you for maybe twenty-five years or
so. He has no idea how lucky he was that he only had another fifty years and change to go before
the misery ended.
I look down at my empty glass then up at him and his eyes meet mine. His smile broadens.
He walks toward me. I can see the vein in his neck pulsing and I feel the familiar tingle in the back
of my throat wake up reminding me that I'm a blood junkie. It reminds me that I can never stand
outside in the daylight. It reminds me that I can never be anyone's real friend again. They all
change and I don’t. They all get old and I don't. They all die and my fucking life just drags on from
one night to the next forever and ever.
"Set ya up again, Race?" The bartender holds the tequila bottle poised over my glass.
"No thanks, Rich. I gotta get to work." I get up and walk away.
"It's okay, Race." He calls after me, his voice filled with life and enthusiasm. "This one's on
me. Hope you have a better night tomorrow."
Fucking kid.
I get one foot outside the front of the casino and run into Mickey Light.
"Jesus Christ, Race! You don't answer your phone anymore or what?"
Mickey is coming at me like a crack head who hasn't fixed for days and I'm a big vile of rock.
I ignore him and reach into my pocket for my phone. I take it out and check the window.
Thirty missed calls. I check the ringer and see it's set to silent. I leave it there and put it away.
"Never mind. Don't sweat it, big guy." Mickey changes his tone to apologetic coated with
concern.
I light up another cigarette.
"Those things will kill ya." He laughs and gives me a wink. Slaps me on the shoulder.
I just look at him. It's about the thousandth time he's told that joke.
"I was just worried about you, man." He lights up one of his own. "Shit, when you didn't
answer I thought you might be passed out in some alley somewhere like last time. And this time I
won't be able to get you home before the sun comes up."
"Stop being so damn dramatic."
The last time he's talking about didn't have anything to do with booze. I hadn't fed for a few
weeks and was particularly vulnerable. I fell for the advances of a local bar fly who led me out to an
alley for a five dollar blow job. Turns out she had a few partners and they beat me with pipes and
bats until I was a lump of pulp. They emptied my pockets and left me for dead. I can take quite a
bit of damage and after a few pints of blood mixed with a big bottle of Jack I got better.
So it wasn't as bad as it sounds.
What really pissed me off about the whole thing was I lost the three hundred bucks I won that
night at bingo as well as a really cool set of mint coins from the forties that would have brought me a
nice piece of change.
I finally give Mickey the satisfaction of a glance. "You ready to go to work?"
"Yeah. Sure thing, Race. Anything you say, Buddy."
Mickey drives us down the strip and out Flamingo toward the huge houses that litter the desert
in that direction. He pulls off on a quiet side street, lights up another cigarette with the butt of the
one he just finished. He turns his head, looking at me with those beady, bloodshot eyes of his.
They're the expectant eyes of a junkie.
"Need a little taste before you go, Race?" he asks.
Mickey's cigarette is dangling from his mouth. His arm is extended and his wrist is turned up at
me. I think about it for a minute then decide to let him suffer. I could use the drink to sharpen me
up before work, but I don't want to give it to him when he asks.
So I stare at him for a moment then shake my head in disgust. "Just be ready to move when I
get back. Can you do that?"
"Sure thing, Race." He drops his arm and starts scratching at it. "Whatever you say. Maybe
later? If I'm good?"
I just grunt at him then get out of the car. Damn junkie. How ironic. He's addicted to me
sucking on him, but I'm the biggest junkie there is. If I don't get my fix on a seriously regular basis I
become a real pain in the ass to live with.
Mickey's annoying as hell to have around. On the bright side he keeps his mouth shut about
me under penalty of literal death and I have someone to do shit for me during the day that I can't get
done at night.
It isn't as strange as it sounds. Back when there were lots like me we would keep certain
humans as essentially glorified pets. He's not a vamp because it takes more than a bite and suck to
bring someone over. I'd have to drain him out then feed him some of my own blood to turn him.
Honestly I'm not that anxious for eternal company. I'm thinking I might buy a dog and turn that. I
could live with a black lab forever…maybe even a dumb ass cocker spaniel, but another person? I
don't think so.
I cut across Tropicana, dodging the traffic as I go. The neighborhood on the opposite side of
the street is like a prison camp, except that the cheapest cell in this prison goes for two million. The
entire place is surrounded by a seven foot tall stucco wall capped with motion sensors. An armed
guard sits in a stylishly decorated and community themed building that fronts a pair of gothic looking
iron gates. A Romanesque fountain surrounded by young palm trees centers a roundabout in front
of the gates and guard "shack".
I take a few steps across the manicured lawn and edge up against the wall. A branch snaps
under my weight and my left foot hits a sprinkler head. I almost fall on my ass. More importantly I
make a shit load of noise.
I see the guard look up.
I right myself and go still. Most of the wall is in shadow so it's easy for me to go dim. I look
at the guard and he looks in my direction, like he feels something is there. He squints then gets out
one of those high powered flashlights and shines it right at me. The shadows fold themselves around
my body and cloak me. The beam of light fails to penetrate the darkness.
He flicks off the torch and continues to stare right at me. I know he can't see me but looking at
the buffed out steroid zombie staring at me without seeing me creeps me out a little. I wish a car
would hurry the hell up and arrive so I could slip past the gate. Going dim doesn't hurt my energy
levels too much but it does in fact take some amount of concentration and focus of will. Right now I
just don't give a shit so it's hard to focus.
If the guard would look away I could just hop the wall and wait on the other side. A seven
foot vertical leap is nothing for me but I can't pull that off and stay dim. It's like patting your head
and rubbing your stomach. Walking and chewing gum. Doing two things at once takes practice and
a certain level of dedication that I currently lack.
Finally, a Hummer pulls up to the gate. The guard forgets about me for a moment and waves
at the driver. The gates glide open. I slip into the gated community and follow the Hummer. I
move quickly from yard to yard, the shadows doing their thing to cover me. I have no trouble
keeping up with the vehicle. The neighborhood speed limit is twenty and while that is near the top of
my range I can do it even while remaining dim.
The Hummer pulls into a gargantuan Mediterranean villa set on beautifully manicured grounds.
It pauses as the garage door lifts. I walk right in to the garage and stand in the corner next to a set of
golf clubs that have the word Majesty written on the irons. The bag has the name Louis Vuitton
written on the side. I'm no golf expert but I'm betting something polished and shiny with the word
Majesty on it stuck in a French bag must be expensive. I make a mental note of them and scan the
ceiling. I find what I'm looking for and relax.
The Hummer pulls in and the guy shuts it down. He looks like a TV doctor. I'm no homo but
this dude is handsome by anyone’s standards: strong jaw, store-bought tan, firm build. He has
some silver highlights in his hair. I put him at fifty tops. I notice the shiny gold Rolex on his wrist.
He has a woman with him…naturally. She’s half his age, blonde, big tits…a Vegas cliché.
She's laughing and has had plenty to drink. I can smell it on her. With her so out of it and him so
focused on her ass as they head into the house I figure I wouldn't have been noticed even if I wasn't
dim.
The guy reaches around the woman and opens the door to the house. I hear the shrill tone of
the alarm warning punctuated by an outburst of laughter from the woman. I see the guy's hand
punch in the code and then five beeps later the warning tone goes silent. The door closes. After a
moment, the garage light goes out and I'm in darkness.
I walk up the wall. I transition to the ceiling and crawl to the attic access hatch. Just a gentle
push is all it takes and the cover moves free of the hole. I climb up into the attic and replace the
cover.
I wait until I hear them going at it good and strong. By the sound of it the TV doctor is really
putting his back into it. Not bad for an old guy.
I pop open the attic access and crawl out onto a hallway ceiling. I reach in and slip the hatch
back in place. I drop quietly to the hallway floor. The place smells like dog. I focus for a moment
and don't hear any panting outside of what's going on in what I assume is the bedroom. Spot must
be outside.
I head downstairs and find the fridge. He's got Rolling Rock and I help myself to one. I take a
big swig and head back upstairs, following the rhythmic pounds and orgasmic grunts of the happy
couple.
I go dim again as I enter the bedroom. The darkness cradles me and I lean against the wall,
watching the show. It's Blondie's turn to get her back into it and she's on top giving it all she's got. I
pat my thigh, keeping time to the rhythmic slap of her ass hitting the guy’s thighs as she ravenously
bounces away. I can’t help but smile at the look on the TV Doc’s face. It looks like he’s about to
have a coronary but he’s happy about it…ready to die with a shit-eating-grin on his mug. I watch
until I'm bored and move on to the closet.
There's an armoire made of what looks like mahogany. It's a beautiful piece and I wish the
couple wasn't home so I could take it with me. I slide open a few of the drawers until I come upon a
leather covered jewelry case. I pop the top and take a look inside. Gleaming up at me are the
brothers and sisters of that Rolex he had on his wrist when he came into the house.
Jackpot.
I take a drink of my beer and scoop up the watches.
From the sound of it, things are about to wrap up in the next room. TV Doc is calling out for
his God and Blondie is rooting him on like a die-hard Red Sox fan in game seven of the series. I
quickly drop the watches in my pocket and replace the case. I slide back into a corner and wait.
"My God that was incredible, baby!" she says. She's out of breath.
"I do what I can," he says. I can hear the pride in his voice.
"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."
I hear her roll out of bed and enter the bathroom. The sink comes on. I can hear her
washing. I can smell the soap. The guy rolls out of bed and comes into the closet. I go dim. I'm
three feet from him. He reaches out and pulls a purple robe off the rack. He turns and heads for the
door but pauses. He finishes putting on the robe and turns toward me. I see his nose working and
hear him sniff. I can smell smoke, sweat, sex, alcohol, soap, and cologne on him.
He reeks of beer.
Shit.
It hits me that it isn't TV Doc that reeks, it's the goddamn open bottle of beer I'm holding.
Stupid. I put my thumb over the open end of the bottle.
He sniffs again and takes a step closer. He frowns then cups his hands in front of his face and
exhales into them, sniffing immediately after. Wondering if it's his own breath.
"Hal? Where you at, babe?" She calls from the bedroom. A playful kitten.
Hal frowns and cinches up his robe. "Just getting a robe. Thought I might go make a
sandwich before bed." He turns and leaves.
I exhale and take a big pull of Rolling Rock.
If Hal had gotten close enough to see me through the shadow I would have had no trouble
subduing him. The problem is I would have had to take care of two bodies and these days a body
opens up an entirely new realm of trouble that I don't want anything to do with. Plus it's just a lot of
extra work and I'm in no mood for it. So I'm glad Blondie called him out when she did.
After about an hour the lovebirds hit the sack. I wait until I can hear Hal snoring lightly. I
move out of the closet and kneel by the bed. Hal's on his back and I can smell the blood running
through him. To me it smells sweet and a little like burned wood. The tickle in the back of my
throat wakes up and urges me on. I edge down beside him and feel my fangs grow. By the time I
have my lips at his neck they are fully extended and I slowly guide them into his flesh.
The warm, sweet nectar that flows within him splashes into my mouth and coats my throat. I
immediately lapse into euphoria as his blood takes me on a trip that is easily the high of all highs. I'm
conscious enough to keep silent so as not to disturb Blondie. My entire essence commands me to
keep drinking. The thirst that can never be truly quenched.
I manage to pull myself away before I take more than will be missed. My fangs slide out of his
neck. I use my tongue to lick the bite marks. Something in my spit, an enzyme or some shit, coats
the marks and they heal. Hal's good as new…just a pint or so low.
I stand up and check on Blondie. She's out from under the covers, asleep, naked. I look her
over for a minute, sigh, then move out of the bedroom.
I light up a cigarette and cross Tropicana. The car is still there and I can see Mickey's head
bobbing in the front seat like he's trying to stay awake.
I bang on the trunk. "Hey, pop the lid."
He jumps and cries out. Sees it's me and calms down. I hear the trunk pop and I lift the lid.
"How'd you do?" he asks.
I gently put the golf clubs in the back and close the trunk. "Not bad. You awake enough to
drive us home?"
He scratches his arm and I know what's coming. "Sure, thing. I could use a little nibble to
make sure, but I'll be fine. Yeah."
"Gimme the keys."
He tosses and I catch. I slide in behind the wheel. He hurries around and gets in. "Christ you
might give a guy a break," he says. "It's been more than a week—"
"It has not been more than a week. Jesus, Mickey."
"Nine days. It's been nine fucking days, Race. I've got the goddamn shakes it's been so long
for me."
He looks so pathetic sitting there. Little beads of sweat across his forehead. His fingertips
trembling. His lips pulled back from his smoker’s yellow teeth in a grimace. Waiting. Needing a fix.
I know how he feels.
I let out a heavy sigh and start the car. "Alright. Shit…when we get home I'll take a taste—"
"Thank you so much! Jesus Christ thank you, Race."
"Yeah, just do me a favor and shut up 'till we get there. Can you do that for me?"
I pull out onto Tropicana and head for home.
"Anything. Anything you say, Race. Anything at all."
We round the corner of Hillside Drive in North Vegas and pull up to our apartment complex.
Mickey busts out laughing. "You see that, shit, Race?"
I think a corner of my mouth may have twitched at the sight but I don't like to give Mickey the
satisfaction of an actual laugh or smile.
We live in the Hancock Terrace Estates. The neon sign advertising the complex is shit and one
by one over the past several months the letters have been blinking out. On our return tonight the
illuminated letters tells us we've arrived at the cock Tease apartments.
The Terrace Estates is one of those places in a run down part of town populated by ex-cons,
dead beat dads, welfare mothers and bar flies. The pool is greener and has more plant life growing
in it than the landscaping. We drive a piece of shit, Chevy beater because we don't dare park
anything else in the lot.
Home shit home.
I carry the golf clubs up to our second floor two bedroom. Mickey gets the door and flips on
the lights as we go in.
"How long you think, Race?”
He's eyeing the golf clubs.
"I don't know. Couple years at most." I set them in the corner next to a box full of Power
Ranger action figures I'm going to put up tomorrow. "The heat should be off them by then. Take
them over to the storage unit along with the watches while I'm crashed out."
"You gonna take care of me now, buddy?"
I toss the keys on our shitty little dining table and stretch. "Gimme a minute to check my
auctions then I'll take a taste if it'll shut you the fuck up, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. No problem. I was just askin'."
I eyeball him for a minute. "Make yourself useful and blend me up a Jack and blood. Can you
handle that?"
"On it."
He disappears and I go to the computer desk in the front room and pull up my online auctions.
That's how I make my money and it's the only thing getting me out of the house anymore. Well,
that and bingo at the Station Casinos.
Mickey delivers the Jack and blood and I take a sip. He stands behind me bouncing in place
like a kid that can't hold his piss for another second. "Okay, shit!" I set my drink down.
His arm is out and in my face before I can turn around.
"You prepared for this?"
"Yeah. Jesus Christ, c'mon you're killing me."
"You got something in your pants or are you gonna' go change after?"
"Shit!"
"That's what I thought."
He runs out of the room toward the bathroom. I take another sip of my cocktail, look at the
computer screen and see that my autographed VHS copy of Ghost is up to three dollars. Happy
days.
Mickey runs back into the room. He's got a hand towel stuffed down the front of his pants.
"That's not the one I use, right? That's your play towel."
"Yeah, yeah. It's my play towel. Please, just get on with it."
I take his arm. My fangs grow and I slide them into his wrist. The wash of euphoria
envelopes me and my curse demands me to suck him dry.
A groan of pleasure escapes Mickey's mouth. He screams. "Holy shit! Christ all mighty!" And
climaxes in his pants.
I force myself to stop and lick the wounds healed.
Mickey drops to the floor in a dazed stupor. His eyes are glassy and his mouth is hanging
open.
I check the clock. It's five a.m. I shut down the computer, grab my drink, and head off to
bed.
I'm just about to hit the pillow when someone knocks on the front door.
Vegas Sucks - Excerpt