The Las Vegas Vampire Chronicles

By

Christine L. McKellar 

-Chapter One-

The Gift That Keeps On Giving  

I became one of the undead a week ago. It happened at a nightclub on the Las Vegas Strip where I really had no business being— not at my age, anyway.  And the prickster who did it (forgive the pun, but I am damn near hysterical these days) was a well-sculpted gorgeous young man whom I had no business flirting with in the first place. Until Greg came along, I was one of the millions of rational people who don’t believe in vampires or any undead ghouls, ghosties, or goblins.

I am, I mean I was, sick to death of seeing vampire literature swamping the major bookstores. Technically speaking, I’m still sick of vampire anything but sick “to un-death” is more the reality for me these days. Me being a writer of genuine fiction, not TREND fiction, it galls me because I know scores of decent writers are being overlooked while agents and publishers go gaga and line their pockets while they ride a wave that has no real or lasting substance. 

No one could touch the vampire genre like Anne Rice did twenty years ago.  I can see now that she had cleverly written the true history of vampires and sold it to the public in a so-called fictional novel format. However, the vampire/undead media mania of the past two years has burst all bounds of decency and morality. I mean, there are vampire soap operas on the cable channels for Pete’s sake! And the teenage vampire books and movies? Blockbusters all the way around, for a crowd that’s too young to stay up after curfew much less after midnight.

For centuries vampires were viewed as soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking mythical monsters. Now that I’ve become one and now that I’m thinking about it, with no threat of death and eternal damnation hanging over their—oops—our heads, why should vampires ever have any qualms about drinking and draining the very life’s blood out of mere helpless mortal men, women and children? Armed with supernatural strength, unholy beauty and the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet, it’s only natural that the undead have developed into a highly secretive, ego-driven sect.

The major down side, of course, is the inherent, and deadly, allergy to sunlight.What my careless little carnivore did to me the other night has caused unmitigated problems beyond belief and wreaked utter chaos in my un-life. I wasn’t quite sure where he was going when, after insisting he walk me to my car, Greg quite gently, actually, pushed me up against the driver’s side window. I didn’t mind flirting with him in the noisy, crowded nightclub, but in the gloomy near-emptiness of the parking garage, I was actually regaining my numbed senses.

“I have a gift for you,” he purred into my ear.  A gift? I don’t know why but the old joke about herpes being the gift that keeps on giving flashed immediately to mind. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I pushed back. “We had fun, but I’ve gotta go. Deadlines tomorrow, you know.”

He insisted. I resisted. To the casual observer we must have looked like we were doing a weird form of tug-o-war. I still wasn’t sure what Greg had in mind, so I made one last attempt to untangle myself, albeit verbally, from his embrace. “Greg, I really didn’t mean to lead you on in the nightclub. I thought we were just having fun. I’m practically old enough to be your mother, you know? I’m not a cougar, I swear to you.”

“I know that,” he whispered. (Oh, hindsight! Little did I know I had already lost the battle when I let him get his mouth that close to my neck.) “But, I love your books. Those sexy, sailing ones. I want you to keep writing and writing forever.” Yes, Greg was one of the rare few I meet out in public who have actually read some of my work. We’d discussed the book series merits over my third and last-ever martini. Greg doesn’t drink alcohol. Duh.

Au contraire to what Hollywood and the New York publishers are pushing down the throats (sigh) of the general population—a vampire bite HURTS LIKE HELL. It hurts so much you are speechless. You literally go rigid with pain and shock. And when the evildoer begins to suck the very liquid life out of your body—oh I shudder to even think about that feeling! It’s not vertigo and it’s not like being dizzy. Those sensations would seem as pleasant as an orgasm compared to that horrible feeling of being drained. Of being…emptied. Then, the heart goes badda badda BING over and over in your chest as it tries to compensate— Oh, that’s enough! I don’t want to think about it because now I have to nourish myself in a similar way to survive. 

Which brings me to some serious issues I have with being undead.  Right off the bat (oh, dear!) is this item about  not being able to go out into the sunlight. How does one explain that to family, friends and cohorts? Fortunately, I have an inherent excuse being a fiction writer, to wit: I’ve gone over the deep end and have become a nocturnal hermit. I’m claiming that, of late, my Muse only comes to me in the dead of night.  I’m not sure how long that story will fly (shut up!), but higher powers are at work for me.

The current economy is my escape-goat. I plan on pleading poverty and a need to down-size. I’ve got to live and I’ve got to hunt to live and while I love my home, my family and my friends, I need to remove myself from my familiar environs. Far away. Seattle? Alaska? For the time being, thanks to the Internet I can continue with my profession and stay in touch with those close to me. As for my current tri-weekly tennis? Oh well. A “sports injury” should fix that.

- Chapter Two-

A Midnight Midlife Crisis

I’m a tad more than mildly claustrophobic. One of the first things that had me grabbing dear Greggors around the neck once I became conscious and the reality sunk in was the unthinkable prospect of having to sleep in a coffin every day for mucho millenniums. Talk about damnation! Talk about hell on earth! NO WAY! HUH UH. NOT. GONNA. HAPPEN. I must say the poor metrosexual bloodsucker had his hands full with me those first few hours. Once he assured me sleeping in coffins was truly a misbegotten myth (I could sleep anywhere I wanted as long as I was secure and had blackout drapes or the equivalent thereof), Greg had to endure a series of serious meltdowns on my part.  

What Greg had failed to take into consideration is that he had created a MENOPAUSAL vampire. Talk about making a MONSTER! Let me give the poor sucker (groan) credit. I guess in the subdued lighting of the lounge I actually did look ten years younger than I am. Greg swears he had no idea that he would be condemning me to a very, very long life indeed of hot flashes and mood swings. Nor was there any way he could have been privy to the fact that I had scheduled a series of future enhancement surgeries: an eye lift, mini-face lift and some serious Botox. Now, all that is shelved unless I can find a vampire plastic surgeon that is willing to operate on me on a daily, no—make that a nightly— basis.

As if being cursed with eternal menopause isn’t bad enough, there are a few other inherit traits of mine that my menopausal-monster maker hadn’t bothered to investigate. I have food allergies. Yup. Particularly to peanuts or any peanut related products. Severe peanut allergy I might add. The throat closes and I damn near suffocate to death. Lovely, huh. Greg assures me that epinephrine should work just fine in my transmogrified system. I however, being of a more cautious nature and with no desire to suffer through the terrifying act of choking to death even if it won’t kill me, have scripted a small speech to present to my potential meals-on-wheels.

“Have you recently, say in the past twelve hours, eaten any peanuts, peanut products, or items that were manufactured in the same facility as peanuts?” I’m still practicing my delivery. Hey, I’ve only been a murderous stalker and drainer of blood for a mere week now. 

 It does amaze me how truly gullible humans are. To date, all I have approached have unhesitatingly given me the information I requested. My perpetual liquid diet isn’t damn near killing me, to state the obvious, but, it is boring. Anne Rice’s vampires got a vicarious thrill out of their victim’s blood: Tastes of the person’s life experiences coursed throughout them in a torrent of blood rushes as they drew the very life out of hapless souls. I must be picking the wrong persons. They all taste the same. They seem to share the same sins, vices, and lack of virtues. Maybe it’s the city I’m in? Could it be a syndrome? “What happens in Vegas simply stays?”

I’m actually having second thoughts about relocating. After all, Vegas is a 24-hour city filled with throngs of tourists in the summer who can easily go missing. Alaska would be good in the winter with its 24/7 midnight. Forgeddabout Seattle. Too damp.  The other thing I’m having second thoughts about is being stuck in my mid-forties for-like-EV-er. At least in real life I could look forward to getting OVER hot flashes and mood swings with a little help from my gynecologist. And, with a little help from my plastic surgeon, I could have dropped ten grand and ten years without batting (yah, yah) an eye.

I plan to actively find a plastic surgeon and make him mine. I know during my sleep I’ll always revert to exactly how I was when Greg-the-batman bit me. I just want my magic man for those special occasions; the upcoming Thanksgiving Harvest a Feast Gala, and especially the New Year’s Midnight ‘Til Dawn Smorgasbord which features hot and cold buffets. I’m not exactly sure what’s meant by cold buffets. Greg’s not talking. He wants to surprise me.  

-Chapter Three-

It’s Lonely Out There

Since my original self died and I became a new and revised entity on October 1, no less, does this mean I am no longer an impulsive, optimistic, happy-go-lucky Aries, but instead I’m becoming more of a moderate, well-balanced and inanimate Libra? This could actually work to my advantage since I read on AOL Horoscope that Libra and Aries are opposite each other in the Zodiac. Not only do opposites attract, but they complement each other like two sides of the same coin. I could really learn to love myself! I can already feel a really huge ego developing. I’d better make finding my plastic surgeon a major priority.

Surprisingly, there really aren’t a whole lot of vampires in Las Vegas. Greg has introduced me to only a handful. It’s actually kind of lonely out there. The reason for the dearth of deathly deviants is, believe it or not, vampires have addictions, too. It’s true. You have your basic gambling addicted vampire, your basic porn and adult club addicted vampire. And, some vampires are addicted to cocaine, heroin and other illegal substances.

Vegas is an all-night city. A great many of those all-night revelers have enough cocaine in their systems to keep a vampire up all day.  And the heroin crowd? They’re too much work. If and when you stumble upon one of them, their blood is so sluggish and their hearts beat so weakly, you’d be there until the crack of dawn just trying to get a decent meal. Disgusting. 

 Greg tells me that his Capo (for want of a better word), has a tight grip on who is and who isn’t allowed to nest (for a real lack of a better word) in Las Vegas. Candidates are carefully screened and even monitored to prevent the horrific possibility that a stoned or horny vampire might inadvertently expose him/herself/us to the world. Greg also keeps telling me how very special I am. That I was hand-picked because el Capo wanted an author in the mix and Greg simply adores my books. What’s—er, who’s—next? A token artist? Musician?  (How about a plastic surgeon?)

Sadly, the pickings are slim as far as undead dating goes. I’d been happily divorced for ten years in my former life. I was actually toying with the idea of finding (post-surgery, and post hot flashes and mood swings) a cool kind of guy to hang out with on dates, in the bedroom, etc. Until My Most Deadly Fan came along. Vampires don’t have sex. They get what they want through some hemoglobin exchange versus swapping spit and other bodily fluids.  

I have to chuckle to myself when I remember certain conversations I had with girlfriends back in the Day (and I do mean THE DAY). Nearly every female I spoke to who had read the books or seen the movies about the teenage vampire series that swept the country and world like cholera, had one thing in common to say. “It made me horny!” I had to point something out after I pondered this commonality for a bit.

What was making the ladies crazy was that they were actually reading/seeing good old fashioned foreplay. These jaded women were so used to movies and books that cut immediately and graphically to the act itself, that when faced with the teasing, tantalizing deliciousness of wending ones way toward a climax (whatever), their love meters shot off the chart.

My love meter was teetering on the brink of extinction when I got bitten, so no loss there. But, I wouldn’t mind some male companionship. Some testosterone around me to offset the now-eternal raging of my estrogen as it struggles to stay attached to my hormones.  Greg owes me. Big time.

-Chapter Four-

Keeping Things Kosher 

Ah, Greg, the handsome, sculpted young man who I flirted with so carelessly and most likely shamelessly in the first place (although truth be told, Greg is 125 years older than I am! Go figure) has pulled through and given me a gift worth keeping.  I feel like singing! “Ooooo ooo oo last night (that would be yesterday), I couldn’t get to sleep at all…no! Noooo! Noooooooo!”

We went clubbing recently, which is really a euphemism for hunting, and Greg gave me the green light to hit on a tall, slightly silver-haired gentleman who could really bust a move on the dance floor. He was a wily one, I must say. It took some convincing to get him to come home with me. Oh, he was interested all right, but he wanted me to go to his room in the hotel. Tourists!

I learned quickly to not get involved with my victims. Once you hear about the kiddies and the dogs, the little woman or man at home, the future goals and aspirations, it kind of kills the appetite (snicker). Whether it’s the merging of my Aries and Libra selves or just my maturing nature as a vampire, I’m finding it easier and easier to turn a callous ear to the pleadings of certain of my targets.

This particular one, Adam, I’m keeping as a mate. He has no idea how lucky he is—yet. I’ve got some serious plans for the both of us. I’m lucky, too. My Adam just so happens to be a plastic surgeon. He didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell once I learned what his profession is. Death is good again. And just in time for the Holidays. He is a bit of a complainer, though. I’ve been trying to break him in gently and with some compassion. Not an easy task with all the roadblocks he keeps throwing up.

I was explaining to him how things could be much worse. He could be me: Trapped for eternity in a forty-something female menopausal body.  Endlessly stalking victims with the utmost caution because of my peanut allergy.

“You think you have problems?” The look on Adam’s face could only be described as fahklumpt.  “Oy vay!”

There you have it in a (pea)nutshell. We’re a pair to draw to. I have to avoid peanut-eaters like the plague and Adam has to determine if his prospects keep a kosher kitchen. “Have you eaten any bacon or pork today?” is hardly an enticing pickup line. There are other issues relating to his orthodox upbringing. His Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday night and he fasts until Saturday night. Friday is generally feast night! All those crazy, stoned, drunken revelers are easy pickings. 

 But, hey, as a recovering Catholic, I have issues too! We’re a mixed pair of vampires that’s for sure. And the combined guilt? It’s going to take more than a millennium for us to get over it all.  If we ever do. Still, I have hope for my Hebrew honey. He shares my concern about world affairs. I’ve begun to worry about the proliferation of nuclear nutcases in Asia and Russia. The consequences of a nuclear holocaust would be devastating. There goes the entire food chain.

Just think of what an army of soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking monsters armed with supernatural strength and the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet could do for world peace! There’s a worthy project to keep Adam occupied.  Now, if I could just get him to get over his aversion to crucifixes… 

The End