The Vampire Rants, Part I
One of the biggest pains in the ass about being immortal is moving.
Every time you move, it seems like you have more crap that you never use than ever before. Every year you just accumulate more junk. You think you’d stop buying stuff. You think you’d learn not to pop the trunk every time you see a piece of furniture out by the dumpster that “could be fixed up.” And perish the thought of telling a birthday well-wisher bearing a gag gift to fuck themselves. You just plaster on a fake smile and give them insincere thanks, and pile the shit in your closet.
Lucky for you, one day you’ll die and all that worthless junk will turn into someone else’s problem. But what if you don’t die?
Over the many lifetimes I’ve lived, I’ve had many aliases. For right now, my name is Wayne. I’m a vampire. And I have too much shit.
Imagine having crap you just can’t bear to part with because, even though it’s crap, it’s 500-year-old crap, so there’s a good chance it’s valuable. For example, I have a musket I picked up off one of my prey at an English settlement in Virginia — a blunderbuss, I think it’s called.
I don’t even remember why I kept it. I don’t use guns to hunt. I guess I thought it was neat or something. Anyhow, I know it’s worth a lot of money now. I’ve spent a few centuries poor. I don’t intend to repeat that experience. I like having assets I can turn over into cash when I need it. Oh sure, my needs don’t really cost anything, but I find undeath to go much easier when you’ve got a little cash on hand.
So here I am, talking to the guy at Pak-It-In Storage, setting up shelter for said musket and countless other antiquities I can’t just throw away.
He fills out the date on the lease.
“Wow, can you believe it’s almost December already? Where does the time go, huh?”
So I sign the form and the putz points out I missed a spot shaving. I guess he thinks he’s being helpful. I know I always look like shit. I just never know exactly to what degree, because I have no reflection. I’m fine with how I look, but I always hate seeing how vampires are portrayed in movies. They always hire some clean-shaven pretty boy actor with good hair to play the undead. It’s ridiculous. Vampires have awful hygiene and grooming.
Think of it this way: if you couldn’t see your reflection in the mirror, how do you think you would look?
Hollywood acts like we’re a bunch of slicked-back, sexy seducers, but that’s only sometimes. The requisite shape-shifting to be one of those is a pain in the ass. Sure, sometimes it’s funny, changing into a guy whose socks match and who didn’t miss a button when he was putting his shirt on and going out into the public to hunt; finding some drunk girl and asking her if she wants to ride on my motorcycle. After a few minutes of riding, I might say, “You want to take the handlebars?”
“Sure,” she giggles. Then I get on behind her and urge her, “Open it up. See what this baby can do.”
Before she knows it, we’re tearing down the freeway at 110 miles per hour, the police on our tail. She wants to pull over, but I remind her she’s drunk and she doesn’t want that kind of trouble. I have control of her mind.
She revs the throttle and I wrap my arms tighter around her. She purrs at my touch. There’s a hairpin curve ahead. I sink in my fangs and drain her, change into a bat and fly off before the bike smashes into a tree, leaving little behind but a twisted mass of metal and flesh, not to mention a very confusing dashcam video for the authorities.
That’s fun a couple of times, but it loses its charm as quickly as you run out of places that will rent you a motorcycle.
No, nowadays I like to spend my Saturday nights at home reading. Besides, where I’m from, it’s considered ill-mannered to play with your food.