Monster Vice

by George P. Saunders

  I run with Jennifer, away from the vampire. The hallway floor in front of me shatters, as an enormous claw reaches upwards. I step on the claw, and fire five shots into the hole. Howls of hurt answer back, but I take no comfort in this. The vampire is in pain, but far from fucking dead.

  “Move, Jennifer!” I yell, though no need for this instruction. Jennifer is practically leading the charge out of my apartment, myself being the one in tow.

  We exit the front door, just as a black car, a Cadillac Esplanade screeches to the side of the street. The door opens.

  I see no one. Only darkness within.

  I don’t question providence at the moment.

  I shove Jennifer into the car, then leap in myself.

  The Esplanade screeches off, as I still have one leg hanging out of the doorway.

  I don’t mind.

  The vampires exit the front of my apartment, three of them. They snarl in fury, as the car accelerates, and turns a corner, leaving the bloodsuckers in the dust.

  “Close,” a voice says on the other side of Jennifer, who sits in the middle of myself and the stranger.

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “And who are you?”

  The owner of the voice leans forward, out of the shadows, and extends his hand. I notice that he is a priest, around fifty-five, balding, with a beard that still has the remains of what looks like lunch (chicken soup) peppered in the rangy mange.

  “Father Mel Gastroni, at your service, mate.”

  I shake the hand of Father Gastroni, who I gather with a fair degree of certainty is Australian, then look to the driver, who’s head does not turn around.

  “Our chauffeur is Colonel Jason Kellog, United States Marines,” Gastroni nods to the driver.

  I glance in the rear view mirror and size up Kellog’s face. A face carved out of stone, as marine military as you can get.

  “Pleasure, colonel,” I say quickly, then look to Gastroni. “Was that you who just called me?”

  “It was,” Gastroni grins, then looks to Jennifer. “We were monitoring your house for some time. And what’s your name, lassie?”

  “Jennifer,” Jennifer says.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jennifer. I’m very happy the vampires didn’t get you.”

  “Me, too.”

  Gastroni pinches Jennifer’s cheek, and she giggles.

  “How did you know about the Fang attack?” I ask.

  “Good intel, Officer Pitts. I am working with a mutual friend of ours.”

  “Who?”

  “Dracula. And Samantha, too, I might add. Good people,” Gastroni says.

  “Yeah, both vampires. I guess you knew that already.”

  “Of course, mate.”

  I turn, glance through the rear window. Night is falling fast. Gastroni presses on.

  “Dracula discovered that the Grand Master had sent the fangs after you and the child, to capture and torture accordingly.”

  I glance at Jennifer – a father’s protective aside to his child and the use of the word ‘torture’. But Jennifer is made of sterner stuff than I can even suspect. She digests the information soberly, I can see, and gives a brief nod.

  “Hate vampires,” she whispers.

  “Me, too,” Gastroni laughs, then looks to me again. “Dracula and Samantha are able to, on a somewhat limited basis, throw their consciousness into the vampire ether and assess what moves the Grand Master is making. They conveyed to me the plan of attack on your apartment, and so we took prophylactic action to insure your safety. The vampire Remote Viewing technique is only effective some of the time, but in this case – just minutes ago – their efforts were clearly rewarded. ”

  “Clearly,” I nod. “Where are we going now?”

  “To our place. The colonel and I occupy a kind of safe house. We’ll strategize from there on a sensible course of action.”

  “You mean beyond staying alive and escaping the Grand Master’s efforts at killing us,” I say neutrally.

  “Yes, that is what I meant,” Gastroni nods, then looks to our driver. “Colonel, home, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kellog replies, a snap in his voice.

  I have the sudden feeling that in addition to what has just happened with the vampires, the evening was going to get stranger still.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Though it is still daylight, it is a murky kind of daylight. Early evening fog seems to have come out of nowhere and as I look eastward toward the San Bernardino Mountains, I see dark clouds churning, cumulous formations that will guarantee snow for Arrowhead Lake and Big Bear. I find myself wishing that I were in the mountains now – fishing, kicking back in front of a warm fire, sipping mold wine, or absinthe. I find myself longing for escape, a different life, maybe even reincarnation.

  The car turns left on Gower, which is a few miles short of what will soon become Los Feliz. Colonel Kellog drives silently up the winding hills of what is known as Old Hollywood. I look down, and am surprised. I find that Jennifer has somehow crept her hand into mine and she is holding it. I am not sure if she is holding me to comfort herself – or to provide comfort to me. I sense, somehow, it is the latter.

  I take out my cell, and make a quick call to Monster Vice, instructing a Clean Detail to head for my apartment and deal with the vampire residue. I am confident the Tutis are gone, but I want to verify that the rest of the tenants are safe and unbit. I somehow sense that they are – the vampire contingent Jennifer and I encountered wanted me, and were not on a general Feed Hunt.

  I glance out my side window, and see a few discorporates – ghosts – floating in and out of trees near a house. They are harmless – apparitions like Mirabelle who for one reason or another, are earthbound. There is a soft glow to the phantoms at this time of day, as the sun has set, as the light begins its inevitable translation to dark and night. Like preternatural fireflies, the ghosts wisp in and around the trees, into and around the houses, twirling and loop-de-looping through telephone lines. If the ghosts were the only result of the Popov Phenomena, things would be great for both the deceased and undead. Peaceful coexistence would be the rule. Live and let die - yet remain dead and friendly, if you’re forced to stay close to home and hearth.

  Such is not the case.

  The Esplanade pulls into a driveway and I stare up at a house, easily a hundred years old, Victorian in appearance. A young priest awaits our arrival. He opens the back door, and I step out, Jennifer’s little hand still in mine.

  “Good afternoon, Officer Pitts. I am Father Ivory.”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  Father Gastroni and Colonel Kellog round the corner of the car.

  And this is when I notice that Colonel Kellog is wearing a kilt.

  Jennifer tugs my hand and whispers softly to me. “He’s wearing a dress, Dick.”

  I say nothing, and don’t need to, as Colonel Kellog speaks in a low voice, the annoyance in his tone undeniable.

  “It’s a kilt, young lady. Not a dress. A kilt. There’s a difference.”

  “What’s the difference?” Jennifer asks.

  “Men wear kilts. Women wear dresses.”

  This seems to satisfy Jennifer’s momentary curiosity – but not mine.

  “Is the kilt the new battle fatigue for fighting the undead, Colonel?” I ask, trying to interject some good humor into the mix.

  But Colonel Kellog merely eyeballs me, then turns and enters the house silently. I turn to Father Gastroni.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Colonel Kellog has endured much at the hands of the vampires, Officer Pitts.”

  “Please. Dick.”

  “Yes, Dick. The colonel is suffering from a mild case of post-traumatic stress syndrome. But don’t let that scare you. He’s a top soldier, a professional, and a very effective vampire killer.”

  “I think he looks nice in the dress,” Jennifer says.

  Gastroni laughs, a robust laugh that even makes me smile in spite of myse
lf. “He’d be happy to hear that, young lady. Please, come in, both of you. The night is upon us.”

  True enough. Darkness crept up quickly, and I cannot help but shudder at the thought that the Grand Master is out there, somewhere, plotting.

  Father Ivory has followed alongside us, and now turns to the older priest.

  “Father Gastroni, Dracula has called and said he will be here within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Phillip,” Gastroni says to young Father Ivory, then turns to me. “I always feel a sense of great relief when Dracula and Samantha are around. Don’t you, Dick?”

  “Yes, I always feel much better when in the presence of the plasma-drinking undead.”

  Gastroni smiles. “You’re being facetious, mate.”

  “Sorry, I’m still trying to get used to the friendly vampire thing. Takes a bit.”

  “Yes, yes, jolly right.”

  Tut, tut, how you go on, Dick. Getting your undies in a twist over a few vampires who you now call friends.

  I am led into a large room just beyond the foyer, Jennifer’s little paw in mine, and regard a fireplace about the size of the Oval Office, and an interior that I would guess is Pope-approved in terms of crucifixes everywhere, red velvet walls, and iconic statues of the Apostle and Jesus Christ nearly everywhere you look. This is all fine by me … ‘cause I take comfort in this kind of ambience, being that I’m the kind of guy that fights Satan and evil and monsters and vampires and other god-awful things that wish to wipe out humanity on a day to day basis.

  Father Ivory pats Jennifer on the head. “Want some cookies, dear?”

  “Chocolate chip?” she brightens.

  “And Sugar. And Cinnamon.”

  “Wow.”

  “Excuse us,” Father Ivory looks to both Gastroni and myself. “Looks like I’m on cookie detail.”

  Jennifer pads off with her New Best Friend – Father Amos Ivory.

  I sink into a nearby couch before Father Gastroni offers me a seat. He seems to care not a shit that I’m making myself at home. I’m tired … my only excuse. Tired beyond words. Gastroni watches Jennifer disappear with Father Ivory.

  “She’s a cute little girl,” he says.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “I prefer cute little boys.”

  I say nothing.

  Gastroni grins. “Kidding, mate. Little priest humor.”

  “Oh. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

  “Drink, Dick?”

  “No.”

  “You’re worried about tonight with the Grand Master?”

  “A tad.”

  “Sure you won’t have a scotch?”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “McCallan. Fifty years old.”

  “No.”

  “One small one?”

  “No. Okay, maybe one.”

  Gastroni (conveniently) has the bottle of 50 year old gold in his hand, and he pours me a hefty little pick-me-up in a glass that is somehow suddenly, mystically in my hand – as if perhaps I was on an episode of the old series comedy Bewitched and my every need was catered to at the wriggle of a nose.

  Gastroni reaches for two odd looking jars on the table.

  “You don’t mind, mate?” he asks.

  “Mind what?”

  “That I partake?”

  I don’t have a goddamn clue what he’s talking about.

  “I indulge myself in cocaine and PCP now and then. Just to fortify myself in the spiritual sense. You’re welcome to join me.”

  I look at the jars, as Father Gastroni begins to pour powder from both – one white, in consistency, and the other, close to jet-black.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “Scotch will do it for me.”

  Mind you, I judge no man on what he needs to do in this crazy, nutty world we now occupy. More so, when he is a man dealing with battling super-Vampires and other nightmares that threaten Mankind routinely. Father Gastroni is clearly a brave fellow, so I cast no aspersions, or even consider any doubt as to his effectiveness once in the fray. But I will confess momentary surprise that a priest would so casually offer me an opportunity to get fucked up royal on some fine white and what amounts to powdered elephant tranquilizer. Surprise, mind you, that is all I have to pass … not a moral judgment whatsoever.

  Father Gastroni produces a small ‘snort pipe’, which also possesses a small razor blade attached. He begins cutting the odd mixture of white and black powder. As he does so he prattles on with me.

  “Tonight, when Dracula and Samantha return, we will be a force of five. Them, myself and the colonel, and you. We shall soon know with Dracula’s return, where the Grand Master is headquartered, along with his demonic little minion.”

  “You mean, the children at the orphanage?”

  “And those that came before them, yes. You know he is conscripting children at large to be part of his army.”

  “Yes,” I say, chilled again to the bone. “He told me the other night. Bastard.”

  “Dracula has doubts that we can overcome the Grand Master. Do you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only faced Masters – and they’re pretty tough to defeat. As for the Grand Master …” I shrug. “It was a helluva fight when I was with Dracula and Samantha. It seemed that it was a pretty even contest.”

  “You’re wise to be so pragmatic. Not one for rash declarations, are you, Dick?”

  “Father … no. Hell no. And you’ll have to excuse my French.”

  “Yes, yes, not a problem.”

  He begins to snort the black and white powder. He coughs, shakes his head, hacks up what my cat would call a major meow-furball, and closes his eyes, savoring the high. He opens his eyes a moment later, his lids heavy with contentment, his eyes distinctly bloodshot. Gastroni smiles, and winks at me.

  “Nice.”

  I nod and sip my scotch.

  “You know, my cat died recently. Do you like cats, Dick?”

  “I’m not sure. I own a cat. Or he owns me. We live together. I guess we tolerate one another,” I say, and it’s the truth.

  “See, I loved my cat,” Father Gastroni says, already cutting more black and white. “Loved her beyond belief. Portia, that was her name. A lovely feline.”

  I continue drinking scotch, and am cognizant of the fact that I’m entertaining a buzz. A welcome one.

  “We were like peas and carrots together, Portia and me.”

  “Portia? Your cat’s name was Portia?”

  “Yep. Lived to be 18. Kidneys got her in the end. Happens with cats a lot.”

  I nod and sip.

  Gastroni goes in for a second snort.

  “Oh, yeah, sweet Jesus,” he winces, shaking his head and clearing his throat.

  I glance around the room. I have no idea where Colonel Kellog has disappeared to. Perhaps to change into a more casual kilt? I just don’t know.

  “So when Portia died, I thought, in a way, a piece of me died, too. I was crushed. This was about, oh, four months ago. Seems longer when I think about it. Then again, these days, most everything before the vampires and the werewolves … it all seems so long ago.”

  “Yes,” I say, watching Gastroni meticulously cut more of the black and white powder on the table, and then mix it together.

  “Find yourself using that term a lot, Dick?”

  “What term is that, Father?”

  “These days. These days, we’re doing that … these days, things are different. These days …”

  “Ah. Yes. Yes, I suppose I do.”

  Gastroni nods, glances at his watch, then continues cutting white and black powder.

  “Love is rare, mate. When you find it, try to hold on to it. It’s a treasure the Lord gives us, and it is not one we should treat with triviality. I learned this with my Portia.”

  “Your cat.”

  “Yes. My kitty.”

  I like Father Gastroni. But … I’m aware of the passing of time, the darkness outside … and I’m wondering where Dracula and Samantha are. And what the game plan for tonight wi
ll be. So I am only dimly attentive to Father Gastroni’s dissertation on love and dead pets.

  “So, keeping that in mind – that love is truly a gift, a present from the Almighty – I swore I would always treat such a blessing with reverence. In my own particular way, demonstrative of my own personal soul desire. Does that make sense?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, quite.”

  “I had Portia cremated, but I didn’t bury her. I didn’t want to be that far from her. I didn’t want to be that alienated. I didn’t want her to be alone, separated from the person who loved her most of all. I guess that sounds a bit odd… she was just a cat.”

  “No, I … I mean, animals … they can become like family for us. My own cat, the little fu-- … the little darling … he’s become something very special in my life. Words fail to really describe it, but it is a kind of kinship, I reckon.”

  “Yes,” Gastroni brightens, and nods vigorously. “A kinship. A bond.”

  Gastroni leans in and snorts the odd amalgam of white and black powder.

  “Father, I’m curious. What is that black stuff? I know the coke and PCP are the white … but that black powder. I’m in the dark.”

  “Ah, I was coming to that,” Father Gastroni says, and pours a shot of scotch for himself as well. “You see, because I couldn’t bury my cat – because Portia somehow conveyed to me spiritually that this was simply not acceptable – like I said, I had her cremated. I kept her ashes. Here.”

  Father Gastroni picks up one of the jars. The one with the black powder in it. “In this vessel.”

  I stare at the jar, and swallow hard. I’m trying to make the mean, nasty pictures in my mind go bye-bye, but I can’t.

  “The black powder. That’s your cat’s ashes?” I whisper.

  “Yes. My love, my Portia.”

  “Her ashes.”

  “Yes.”

  “You snort your cat’s ashes,” I say, probably sounding like I’ve just been ravaged anally with a blunt party spoon.

  “Yes. Well. I inhale her essence, let’s put it that way,” Father Gastroni says.

  I suddenly feel ill, and the scotch, so lovely and so friendly of moments ago, begins to do a little tidal wave of protest in my tummy-wummy.