Vampire Workday

ethaetjae

The bloke’s name was Cortena, or something. A handful in the cage, a cheap suck, my afternoon tickle. He had ratty, brown hair and a beard that looked like something dead and wild was trying to eat his face. Third of a group of four that walked into the coffee-fuck shop that morning, and I should have known better than to look, and judge, and tremble in anticipation of the collision of flesh.

And to think that Howard still wants me after this. Poor Howie, alone and unflinching before the travesty of his life, my breasts in his hands eternally, and he thinks a finger offered is a finger sold.

Demonshine off the last one in. I paused – I guess I was reluctant. Sheep; not necessarily my favorite meal, but hunger is as hunger wants. Tap-tap-tap-tap.

The coffee tastes like something a hairy nomad took a bath in.

My teeth extended across the room.

This bloke, Cortena, was a vampire hunter. And now, I’m dying, naked and alone – just like the little girl I thought all this would take me away from.

Awful, this death. And not without regret.

It was the drugs.

God Has a Monster Face

ajabamaja3

Attend.

Captain Yazoshea, on his daily whirlwind tour through the ratty shoebox drugstore under his bunk, finds a placid serenity in the embrace of the umbilical duty of mankind on the frontier. His fingers bleed from razor molestation – a side effect, perhaps intentional, of the routine rummage. He finds, without looking, a wooden child’s toy, a bottle of strangely colored capsules, a syringe, a mysterious powder.

Sound erupts across the bridge as the alert is raised, and is joined in chorus by the thunderous clatter of all hands manning their stations from sleep-induced akinesia in seconds flat.

Our Captain, so low for mighty, dumps a good amount of the mysterious powder on his palm. He then places one of the strangely colored capsules in the small mound before dumping the contents of his palm into his open mouth. The twitch, expected, shudders into a full body cringe.

Outside the massive ship which floats in space, a writhing darkness teases the cockpit with its smoky tendrils.

Near the termination, again expected, of his illustrious career, Yazoshea strides purposefully to the forward deck and stares at his god through the thick viewport.

“How long has it been like this?” the Captain asks his crew.

No one answers, but the creature’s strange smoky appendages multiply and seethe over the ship’s hull as the bulk of the entity moves toward it.

Captain Yazoshea turns and notices, as he has for the last thousand years, that no one is in his ship but he.

The darkness seeps into the ship by some sinister means and embraces the dead captain, again.

“Down with the ship,” he mutters.

Dissociate.