Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1159691-The-Game
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #1159691
He felt the stare of own his kind, a new one, ...
The Game


Winged man

The night was dark, thick with clouds and promising more cold rain, as he slowly wandered the heavily shadowed, wet street. The street was familiar, though he hadn’t walked it in thirty years or more. Unlike so many of the areas, this one had not changed; nothing had been razed to make room for malls or shopping centers or leveled to stop urban blight. The old storefronts, though many were closed, were all still here in their shabby defiance to progress. He felt the stare of own his kind, a new one, watching him as he played his game and grinned.

He was full, too full. The veins, taut against the covering of his flesh, made his body temperature high and his color flushed, almost as though lightly sunburned. Though March in Illinois is still the weather for coats, he wore short sleeves. He strolled the street among the thin crowds of drinkers and drug sellers and prostitutes, his clothing, the most expensive to set him further apart, make him noticeable, and attract the one he sought but he was so full that his clothing constricted his movements. Though he could have his pick from any of the hookers, male or female, they just weren’t right type.

Tonight, if any of them asked, he is a fat and wealthy physician seeking nocturnal excitement after a long day at a convention. The disguise fit him perfectly for over the centuries he’s had time to study many things, especially medicine. He could discuss at length anatomy and human illness among many subjects, including the history of man. But as to his own problem, he could find no cure, because there was none; there was no explanation for it. Nor did he want to be cured.

He felt a sensation on his left side, much like the tickling of a feather against his cheek, and saw her leaning against the grimy, neon lit window of a nightclub.

She was extremely thin and pale, gaudily dressed in cheap, shiny, tight-fitting clothes and chewed gum like a cow with a cud.

Perfect. He stopped and turned toward her and felt the tingle of anticipation of relief soon to come.

“Lookin’ for a good time?” she asked. She pulled herself away from the window and lurched up to him in a gait, he guessed, meant to be sexually alluring.

He nodded while she studied his clothes, impressed by the quality.

“Hundred,” but when she saw him frown, she said. “$50, if you just wanna do it. The hundred is for if I spend the night.”

He nodded and draped a heavy arm around her narrow shoulders and led her along the narrow old street. She asked questions to determine if he were a cop and he whispered nonsense in her ear while he looked for a suitably dark spot.

He found one within two blocks and nudged her toward it.

She resisted. “We can’t do nothin’... in here.”

He glanced at the over-loaded dumpster beside the brick structure and moved behind it.

“Some preliminaries, little lady. To add to the anticipation of what’s to come. Understand?” He removed a thick wad of money from his pocket and showed it to her.

“Sure.” She reached for his zipper. “This’ll cost $25 right now.”

“No problem,” He pulled her close and put his lips against her forehead, then moved down the left side of her face to her neck. As her hand slid into his trousers, he held her tightly, stifling her screams and eased his fangs smoothly into her jugular and poured the great quantity of blood from the three previous victims into her body.

He left her lying next to the dumpster like a huge fat slug barely covered by a few cardboard boxes. She was unrecognizable as the same person he’d led into the alley, her cheap clothing had burst at the seams and her features were grotesquely distorted, blood oozing from her pores and ears and eyes. He on the other hand was also unrecognizable, thin and pale and ready for sleep.

As a youth in ancient Rome he could never do what he was told; he had to do things his own way, even when he met the Master, the creature that made him a vampire. So for centuries, he played this game to amuse himself and disgust the others of his kind that shadowed him; he chose three victims to drain then he would empty the huge quantities of blood his body stored into the fourth victim. He always chose the thinnest, like tonight, in which to pump himself almost dry; it satisfied him greater than a feast.

Now he looked and felt like a vampire should, lean and pale and he laughed aloud at the staring eyes hidden in the darkness near him. Naked, he shape-changed and disappeared into the cold, wet night.


820 wds Officially approved Writing.Com Preferred Author logo.
© Copyright 2006 storyteller [retired] (leno at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1159691-The-Game