Things That Bang

Rubber like locks on doors work generally but once a thief or a sperm decide to make an entry there isn’t much one can do. The entry is butter smooth and the result- devastation.

My pregnant girlfriend is waiting for me in my apartment along with a locksmith who is fixing the mutilated lock of my main door. I, on the other hand, am clutching a carton of milk and standing behind an old lady emanating the smell of moth balls and sweet cloying death waiting to happen.

At the back of her head the hair is no longer a blizzard of growth but a gentle trail of sparse lost snowflakes revealing the smooth skull exposed in its paleness. Ironically her balding head reminds me of my girlfriend’s young pink skin peeking through the mousy pubic hair. They both have thin bush I muse and slowly shuffle along behind the dying human.

I clutch the milk carton close to my heart and ignore the face of the missing child splashed at the back. One child missing and another who will never be born. Justice for little ones lies in the hands of adults and rarely is it fair.

Temptation to bring up a little mini me flickers but the decision is made. Birthing a baby with fangs is not something vampires do.

Vampires don’t have their homes broken into either. Nor do they visit grocery shops to get milk to make coffee for the nice locksmith.

Yes, I am prone to talking to myself and why wouldn’t I be? Lonesome vampires with centuries behind them tend to hold lengthy megalomaniac dialogs tinged with right amount of carefully crafted self loathing. Today I am no longer a vampire biting voluptuous women willy nilly but one constrained by rubber and doors entailing privacy. Welcome to New Age Vampirism.

The woman before me speaks in a husky whisper. She asks for a lottery ticket. Whatever for? I want to question her. Her frail heart would not last the end of the week. Her fucked up heart murmurs its dying intent to me. But I maintain my peace. Death -the joker card dutifully remains a good messenger to my senses.

The old lady before me scratches the card with a ragged nail. I rock on the heels of my shoes. Disappointment whistles through her sagging throat and the pimpled boy behind the counter holds back the urge to scratch his crotch. Impatience shimmers manically in his eyes.

One short hard scratch to dislodge the damp knot of hair is the sole requirement of his day. He is cursing us. Waiting for the two of us to leave – the bag lady and the thin nondescript milk carton clutching dude.

Reading minds of horny teenagers. How normal and mundane life has become for me, the defanged vampire.

The woman shuffles away muttering her disappointment and I lay some crumpled bills on the counter. He tilts his stud punched chin slightly and speaks like a bored automaton “Wassup?”

The perfect end of English by a crotch clutching fuck wit. I give him a feral smile and his adam apple bobs in the swan like tube of a throat.

Yeah! Baby, I am what your mama warned you against. I am what causes you to wet your bed. Now scratch that itch. I tell him silently.

He vigorously scratches, sighs and promptly forgets the reason for fearing me.

The exact change is handed over and I walk out of the store to suffer more human drama in my apartment.