Trapped. Trapped in the elevators with the CPAC vampires. I cursed my own foolishness and lack of wooden stakes as they sidled closer to me, cold eyes and hot breath and sharp, sharp teeth. And it was all my own damn fault in the first place.
I knew about the zombies, of course; my trusty Democratic sherpa told me about the zombies, as we put together our bottles and bags and bricks for the trip. “They’ve been doing voodoo for decades, man,” he muttered to either me, or the motel pillowcase with the disquieting stain in the shape of a mouth that was his new best friend. “They want to bring him back, so they’re all into that necromancy stuff now. That’s what Katrina was all about, man. Magic payback to New Orleans for not letting them have the grave dust. I read it on the blogos…”
I pistol-whipped him at that point and started screaming – very reasonably, I thought – into his face. “DON’T SAY THAT NAME! Those clowns wouldn’t know stream-of-consciousness if it bit them on their pimply asses! They think that gonzo means no semicolons.” He was fetal and whimpering to his friend at that point, so I riffled through his wallet for the cash we’d need for the ever-more-anxious looking drug dealer. You have to be careful about the feelings of drug dealers. They get no real respect, even in the community, and the steady diet of weird makes them brittle. Plus, they might shoot you.
Still, I loved that sherpa like a brother. Shame he didn’t make it through the lobhy before the robot dogs spotted his nervousness and the peyote crystallizing out of his forehead. Me, I walked right past them head high, secure in my knowledge that no cyborg hell-beast was a match for a heart free of sin and a forehead carefully blotted (and the blotter paper licked) five minutes before walking through the door. The last I saw of him he was screaming about Oil For Blood and how 9/11 was responsible for the Jews as the rent-a-stormtroopers came in to taze the bro. Little bastard had accomplished his mission in the first five minutes, and he promised me that he’d be my guide.
So I knew about the zombies, and I packed plenty of thread and bacon salt. I figured that I could put whatever salt I didn’t use on my mashed potatoes. Or my cocaine. Or, hell, both and see if it’d do anything. And I knew about the werewolves, too, and I had plenty of silver and gold coins to fix those backstabbers. But nothing for vampires, so when the four Lovely Deaths came pushing into the elevator past me I knew that I was done for. They were going to drain me dryer than a seminar by Voorhees on how to reach the youth vote, and I didn’t have a chance. The first one tottered closer, red thirst rising in her in one fascinating ripple from her toes…
…and then she sniffed, once, with her perfect – surely unnatural – nose. Her milk-white face curdled instantly as she tossed her long, blond – surely unnatural – hair in dismissal. “Labatt’s,” she sneered over her shoulder at her three companions as the door opened onto the Eleventh Circle of Hell. They turned as one and went out, noses and hair up, with my neck still undefiledand my knees on the floor. I had been saved. Saved by cheap beer.
…Robert S McCain, do not DO things like that.