© Copyright 2004 Mike & Leigh Redikop
We kill... to live... to survive. Why is this so fucking intriguing? Ask any Hollywood half-wit screenwriter what being undead is all about and you'll get as many answers as a gothed-up tart has piercing. So, why the complexity? Why the hullabaloo? What makes becoming a methodical mass murderer so interesting? One word: Envy.
See, Slurpee, it's all rooted in your crippling fear of "the End". Your instinctual human need for survival keeps you going. Day to day, in and out of weeks and through the years until you're pushing up daisies in Jesus' well-manicured lawn. While you toil away at your mundane existence, we persist. We CAN die, but not without outside assistance. See, unlike you cattle, we get stronger with the passage of time. Instead of falling apart and reverting to a drooling, diapered state punctuated by a rather pathetic end; we just keep going. We're the Energizer Bunny gone seriously and irreconcilably wrong, wrong, wrong.
So, sit back and enjoy yet another unnecessary Vampire tale, and you will. Because your disturbed little inner child needs to romp in a place where it's okay to kill a kitten by shoving a firecracker in its dirty daisy, so to speak. The story you are about to read are true. We do exist...we do exist.
Chicago, IL. December, 1989
It's cold, it's fucking cold. The wind slices through my Levi's tearing at the delicate flesh beneath. Or, that's how it feels, luv. I think my nuts fell off some place between Watertower and Neiman Marcus. The "Magnificent Mile" they call it.
Nothing "Magnificent" about Michigan Avenue. Nothing even remotely engaging. Unless you think watching people spend inordinate sums of money on things they probably don't even need is "Magnificent". The "Magnificent" things happen underneath the city street. In the pedways and parking garages that run under the Mag Mile. Down there, filthy, homeless derelicts huddle together for warmth, waiting for some unsuspecting bystander to come their way. Down there, sauced up tarts give their bosses sloppy blow jobs, knees in the filth, in a last ditch effort to improve their station in the office. Down there is where my life ended and my tale begins...
As I was saying, it was fucking cold. As such, I sought respite from the bitter winds of the Windy City beneath the street, in the pedway below. For blocks I walked undisturbed, until I came upon an especially dark and menacing corner. A poor unfortunate soul shivered beneath its tattered, piss-soaked rags. He? She? It. It held out it's shaking, frostbitten hand and solicited help in the form of some "spare change". Being as I have always had an underlying feeling of guilt bordering on nausea when dealing with "transients", I offered a rather quick "Fuck off" and quickly turned the corner to get back above ground to the #65 Bus and home to my warm, sheltered existence.
Someone had other plans. My foot no sooner hit the first step when I felt the all-too familiar sting of a blow to the back of my head. The world flashed white and the last thing I remember was the transient looming above me as the world went black...
I've been hunting you for years. Watching your every move. The way you laugh. The women you keep time with. The ones you just fuck and discard like a wet nap. The smug way you seem to feel you're above it all. Yes, that's you Sidney. You little shit. You aren't even worth my time. As fucked up as it sounds, however, I need you. You've become an obsession... a rather unhealthy, irritating one at that. I don't know when my intentions changed from ripping your offensive tongue from your pouty little mouth to making you my companion and nurturing you for the next century or so; but, they did and it really chafes my pampered little ass.
So, I followed you that night. Watched from my Mercedes as you shivered and cursed at the cold. Laughed at your oh-so-human frustration with some unknown boogey-man deity who makes the weather shit ice balls with the sole purpose of pissing off poor little Sidney. I cackled as you fell to the ground when that homeless man hit you in the head with an empty bottle of gut-rot rye whiskey. What a fitting end for you...death by hypothermia, as the homeless man took everything he could off your prone, helpless form. I watched as he ran off to get his next fix, leaving you to die alone, cold and frightfully underdressed for the occasion.
I waited a few minutes, to make sure you truly understood on some subconscious, base level, the frailty that is the "human condition". Then, I picked you up, cradled your cold, disheveled form in my arms and carried you to the leather bound safety of my S class. I embraced you there, on the Corinthian leather of my car. I figured you would appreciate the irony as you were to be re-born in much the same fashion as you were conceived back when mommy and daddy did the baby dance in the back of your grandparent's Chevy. Then, as you shivered and changed in the back, I hopped into the front seat and sped off to find your first victim. I'm not without some sense of justice. I pulled up outside the closest liquor store and waited for your attacker to emerge with his ill-gotten bottle of Courvoisier. Ah... even derelicts can behave Neuveau Riche when they hit the jackpot and get a fist-full of silver.
He came out as expected (you humans can be SO predictable) and proved to be very helpful when asked if he could help me carry some groceries to my high-rise for the sum of twenty dollars. Knowing that he planned to rape and rob me once upstairs made what was to come even more delicious. I would have paid a twenty thousand to see the look on his face as he reached into the back seat expecting a cold cut platter and some spinach dip from Jewel and wound up staring face-to-face with his death made incarnate.
I watched as you pulled him by the lapels of your leather jacket into the back of the car and ripped into his throat. Watched as you gulped his life from his neck. Witnessed his thrashing legs lose their outrage as he succumbed to your embrace. Smelled his blood mingle with the scent of his alcohol-infused urine as his body voided itself in one last effort to survive. Slowly, his body slid out of the car and into the gutter, sans jacket.
"Lick the wound on his neck, Sidney.", I said.
You answered me with an outraged hiss. A hiss! Little fucker. So, I grabbed you by the nape of your neck and shoved your face into the bloody mess of ragged tendons and severed vessels.
"I said LICK, you wretched little cur."
You obliged, rather reluctantly, and then I released
my grip and allowed you to scurry back into the car. We drove in silence
to my condo in Gold Coast where you would prove to be the most incorrigible
and thankless of all my progeny. Oh Sidney. Sweet, beautiful, tragic Sidney.
If I had known what you were to become, I would have let you freeze to
death on those steps that night.
She would have you believe that she's the good guy in all of this. Utterly humanitarian the way she "rescued" me. Rescued me from what? My budding musical career? My growing legion of female fans? Or the sex and drugs thrown at me constantly? Or did she save me from death that night on those cold stairs. Did she? I may have survived on my own. She's a cunt. A possessive, overbearing, ridiculously bourgeois cunt who threw money at me when I was sad, lectured me endlessly when I was naughty and never noticed when I was being a good boy. She's a cunt, and I hate her.
Now where were we?