Don't Tell Me That Vampires

Don't Tell Me That Vampires Can't Be Heroes

All right, so Superman isn’t a vampire. Why should that stop me from my lifetime goal? I vowed at age ten to become one of the good guys, and nothing, not even that two-pronged serpent who bit me, is going to keep me from following my dream.

Sure, I can only save people during the nighttime. I’m not one of those daywalkers. The Serpent got me good. I’m not even sure what the difference between a night prowler and a daywalker is, except that I know which I am. I spend days under the sunlamp inside my coffin, (wearing special goggles, of course) and I prowl the night.

About six-thirty each evening, I feel my eyes start to pop open. My jawbone rattles as I move, my back freezes up, and my limbs start crimping from the lack of blood. Gotta tell you, this being dead isn’t what it’s cracked up to be; I’ve still got pains. Lots of them. In fact, I believe my body aches more than it used to since I have to spend my nights out in the cold and damp looking for the newly dead.

Yes, I knew your eyes would gel on those words, "newly dead." Gross, isn’t it, but I figure that it’s better to suck after than before. I just have to make sure that I get to a newly dead before the morticians do. Those guys are usually brethren, but when they're finished with their dessert, so to speak, they pump the corpse full of chemicals, and not one of us vampires can tolerate the taste of that stuff. Any remaining blood is not worth the resulting upset stomach.

Anyway, so around six-thirty in the evening, as I was saying, I rise out of my coffin, stretch my legs over the side, crack, crinkle -- pain, agony, as the needles start to circulate inside a body that has been still as death for a whole day. Then, finally, as I get to functioning again, I hop down -- well, maybe not hop; I’m still kind of creaky until I drink a little Geritol. (I think it’s the iron in it, but it really helps. Just call that my “morning” Java.)

On the nights when the moon is out, I have to wear sunglasses. It’s a real pain, and I get some funny looks. One couple from China even stopped me a week ago and asked for my autograph. They thought I was a Hollywood Star. I smiled and scribbled a line. I never told them I wasn't famous.

When the sky is dark --- cloudy is my favorite weather type -- I can walk about like I own the night. My cape swings with my stride, and I really start feeling good. The best times, though, are when I hear a cry in the night. A woman screams, a man calls for help, and I’m up and away, rushing to their aid. I don’t know what they think when they see me swoop down. Maybe they think I’m Batman or something, but almost inevitably the bad guy, if he sees me land, runs screaming down the alley, and I get to feel a sweet, warm body hugging me like I was really someone.

I don’t let them hug and kiss me for long. Need starts to fang my teeth. So I gently push them aside and walk away.

One time a fair young damsel, red hair down to her chubby little, inviting butt, wiggled and kissed just a shade too long. Gees Louise, I almost bit her. She was kissing, and my lips were opening -- my teeth lengthening and getting sharp. I think her tongue did a little exploring. It was all that saved her. She backed up faster than a kid that owes you money. She never even paused to give me her phone number.

There was one time when a young man did a similar thing. Of course, he wasn’t kissing me, but he was so shaken up about the thug who’d held the knife to his throat, that he didn’t notice I was licking up the blood on his neck as he hugged and thanked me.

I think that’s the hardest part about being a super hero. I wish I could let them thank me longer, especially when they have red hair down to their little . . .

Super heroes never think about things like that. They spend all their time looking for crime, saving people, stopping problems. I keep reminding myself of that, but there’s sometimes when I’m lying in my coffin, staring up at the picture of Marilyn Monroe, that I wish things were different.

The Serpent who did me in used to bring women back to his house. I think he enjoyed watching me make them sing a chorus of groans and oohs and aahs. The Serpent always wanted to watch. That’s how he first took me. We were having a foursome, a real orgy, when he made like he was going to kiss my girl, but he didn’t. He kissed my neck, instead –- with his teeth.

The two girls were so drunk, they never even noticed. I was drunk, too, but I knew. The feel of the Serpent drinking me sent streams of ecstasy throughout my flesh. I knew. I knew the moment he bit me. Why didn’t I stop him? I ask myself that question repeatedly. Why didn’t I stop him?

Anyway, that's why I've resolved never to turn another person into a vampire. It wouldn't be a hero-thing to do. I would never want to become a creature like the Serpent.

But I wasn’t going to dwell on that. I’ve finished with regrets. This is who I am. I’m a hero, and I walk the streets helping people.

There was one time that I came in contact with the law. Gerald Manson was the detective’s name. He wasn't one of the brethren, but he knew about us. He used to tell me where I could find a fresh body. He was a good friend -- even though he was human.

I met him when the street gangs had him cornered. It was a tough group. Leo, the Wildcat, Jiminy, the Spazz, and Sardo, the Italian, were all surrounding the detective, their switchblades open and shining in the light of the moon. The reflection made my eyes sting. I blinked, changed my glasses for darker ones, and moved in to help.

Of course, I didn’t know the guy the gang was attacking was a cop. I might have left him, if I'd known that. Cops are always hunting us down, ready with a stake, throwing garlic powder at us, or burning our eyes with a flashlight and a crucifix. But like I said, I didn’t know Gerald was fuzz, so I saved him.

I had to use my fangs and a vampire hiss to do it. The Spazz and Sardo both fled right off. They weren't dummies, but Wildcat was determined to prove something. He stuck around. In fact, he stuck me. Of course, it didn’t do him any good. He poked his shiny knife in and out of my lungs and kidney, and then his mouth dropped open, and he took another look at me, a long one. That’s when Gerald got Wildcat. A quick thrust into the kidneys, and a stab in the heart, and Wildcat wasn’t wild anymore.

“Drink him fast, Vamp, drink him before the wagon comes for him,” Gerald said.

Distrust comes easy for vampires. With the majority of the world hating our guts and trying to burn down our mansions, we don’t take too willingly to human friendliness, but I looked into Gerald’s soul, and he was cool. I bit and drank. Wildcat was delicious.

That began our platonic relationship. Gerald and I used to meet for drinks. (Yeah, I had to bring my own. We Vampires talked a company into canning blood in old fashioned lead tomato juice containers. It makes living in a society of humans slightly easier.)

Anyway, like I said, I developed a good friendship with Gerald that lasted pretty close to a year.

But then it changed. Instantly.

Heroes have to make quick flash decisions. We have to decide which way to go, which person to save, how we should save them.

I was out being a hero, one night, just like other nights, but I couldn’t be in two places at once. I saved a woman from drowning, halted a liquor store robbery, and kept a bullet from ending the life of a naughty husband. How was I to know that Gerald needed me?

I came as soon as I could. The police dispatch alerted me. But when I arrived, Gerald was bleeding tomato juice at a faster rate than a vampire could suck. I went to him, planning to give him my goodbye, and he asked me to help him. A hero can’t turn down that kind of request, but you know what he wanted. He wanted to be one of us.

The ambulance had just pulled up. The medics were on their way. I needed time to think, but I didn't have time. I looked into Gerald's eyes. He nodded, urging me, and so I drank. He didn't have much left in him, but I didn't have time to empty him, anyway. I was able to get three drops of my own blood into Gerald before the first medic shoved his stethoscope down on my friend's heart. Of course, it was too late for a heartbeat. I could have told the medic that, but I didn't. I simply rose and walked away.

Three drops of a vampire’s blood is all it takes. Gerald lived to walk the nights. Did I do the right thing? A hero is supposed to help. Isn’t that what I did? Didn’t I allow Gerald to keep on going? Didn’t I save him from death?

Gerald and I are still friends, but things have changed between us. He prowls the night for live ones, and it isn't because he wants to help them. For that reason, I rue my broken promise -- the one I made to myself that I'd never bring another soul into the darkness of the brethren.

But then, I remember, as I fly out into the night that even Superman has bad days.




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~