Chapter 3 - After the Blood / a.k.a. Homecoming of thee DAMNED! Vladimir stood on the mountain cliff as the moon emerged unnaturally fast from the horizon. Strong gusts of wind tested the undead creature's stance, but found him as strong as an ancient stone column, and just as still. His trenchcoat was horizontal to his body, tugged by the wind that seemed to carry the souls of those he had used to survive. "Used." "Drained." "Dispatched." "Murdered." The words and their meanings had become blurred over the centuries. His face was long and pale in the moonlight, his eyes dark hollows. He was a static island in a sea of chaos; he seemed to be removed from time itself. Then, at a pace almost imperceptible to the human eye, his gaze slowly rose as his lips silently worded a mysterious phrase. The roar of the wind was soon replaced with a high-pitched voice that seemed to fade in from nowhere, yet echo from all directions: "I have a tale to tell. Sometimes it gets so hard to hide it well. I was not ready for the fall. Too blind... to see the writing on the wall." In a blur-like motion, Vladimir was looking up at the sky. His voice continued to shape the morose melody: "A man can tell a thousand lies. I've learned my lesson well. Hope I live to tell the secret I have learned. 'Till then, it will burn inside of me." Suddenly, as if by command, the silver clouds in the sky swirled into a mass that quickly took the shape of a face. Vladimir held his fist in the air and shook it at the ghastly visage. "Lestaaaaaaaat!" Vladimir felt his body being shaken violently. His vision was blinded by a sheer white light and a voice seemed to call out to him from some alternate dimension... "Fred! Freddy! We’ve gotta get off or they’re gonna suspend us!" Vladimir, the ageless undead creature who resides in the dark shadows of every mortals' fear, quickly roused himself and sat up in the Orleans Parish School Bus seat. "We’re here, are we? Well, let us depart, but not without a quick word, Mortal Jerome. As a familiar, you are exemplary. But as a companion, and, dare I say it, ‘friend,’ you are lacking in more areas than I can count." Jerome shouldered his backpack and turned to walk down the bus aisle. "Whatever, man." Vladimir stretched and surveyed the scene provided him by the school bus window. ‘A stately campus,’ he observed, ‘but certainly not the place I would be spending my admittedly unlimited time, given the choice. Ah, the trappings of such a young looking mortal coil.' The day unfolded like any other. The inbetween classes hallway crowd avoided Vladimir like a school of Caribbean fish, occasionally dropping auditory hints in the form of "freak" and "Satanist." It did not bother Master Vladimir. He, who had suffered thousands of year’s worth of misunderstanding and prejudice, let the comments roll off of him like blood off a young maidens' freshly lashed back. Ahh, memories. Lunch time, at which the school cafeteria staff had routinely expressed bewilderment and concern at Vladimirs' request for grails of virgin blood and fresh game, passed without incident; Vladimir, alone at his table, masticating his unnecessary supplement of government regulated nutrition (chicken fried steak, corn and mashed potatoes with milk), ignored stares with a sly grin on his face and pretended that the food thrown onto his back did not exist. Fortunately, there was soon a vomiting three tables over which distracted most of Vladimir's antagonists. Vladimir nodded. 'You live one more day, but only becaus...,' but even the Ageless Death fell victim to the morbid urge to stand up and try to see who puked, and where. Students filed around the soiled area in a wide arc as if it were a toxic chemical spill. Vladimir sensed an opportunity to slip from the room while everyone's attention was focused elsewhere and grinned as he imagined the pubescent herd's amazement at his sudden disappearence. "Where did he go?!," he saw them saying in his mind's eye. Philistines. Finally, a break from the often torturous gray sea of existence that plagued Vladimir in his undead state: the crude announcement board posted at the front of the school campus proclaiming the "homecoming" of the school’s football team that night. Fresh, young blood; the smell of still-maturing bodies thick in the air; free Kool-Aid. Vladimir was as good as there. Game time. His time. They were all there. The faces he had seen dozens of times during the school day, now enveloped in an the dark enviroment he was born to live in. Or died to live in...? The night was young, and so was the prey. Grabbing the sides of his trenchcoat and swooshing them in a menacing fashion, Vladimir descended on the campus and made his way to the football stadium. The air was alive with young energy. Vladimir found his mind contemplating the possibility of his never being transformed. To be young and mortal and free. Bah! A fool's dream. Who was he to question the Dark Gift? Ohh, the events he had witnessed... the knowledge he had accumulated... the years he had seen go by with nary a wrinkle on his immortal face. And yet, the price he had paid sometimes made him wonder. Love? Compassion? Mercy? Was immortal life worth these sacrifices? The perpetual dark cloud which hung over Vladimir's head became a little darker in these moments. He needed a distraction. Having personally witnessed the chariot races in Ancient Rome, a school football stadium filled to capacity with cheering masses did little to arouse Vladimir's interest. He noticed that his school's team was winning by three points and yawned. Even his usual stalking grounds beneath the bleachers were host to a game of touch football, makeout sessions and fights. Hardly as interesting as the sight and smell of Joan Of Arc being burned at the stake. Would anything ever excite the Phantom Menace as much as the some of the events he had witnessed in his long history? He began to doubt so when, as if by fate, he spied a small flyer on the concession stand wall reading "Babylon 5 vs. Star Trek Debate / Magic: The Gathering Fan Club Meeting Tonight In The Cafeteria!! Our Last, Best Hope For Free Skittles!! Beam On In!!" Vladimir was already in a dead run. As Vladimir had anticipated, they were already at it. Fierce games of Magic: The Gathering were in progress with card slamming echoing through the school hallways. Heated, nasally words were being exhanged at many different tables. Vladimir's keen vampire ears detected a debate involving Babylon 5 White Star ships versus the Enterprise-E in a space battle. A copy of "Conversational Klingon" was thrown in anger. A pale, pimply face wept in a corner. Producing a meticulously arranged Magic: The Gathering deck from his trenchcoat pocket, Vladimir eyed the pale crowd and announced his challenge through his eyes. A semicircle of challengers soon formed around him. Finally, a figure emerged from the nerd version of the parting of the Red Sea and stood defiantly in front of Vladimir. "'Sup." Vladimir knew this challenger. Everyone did. It was John "Smash" Bishop, feared Magic: The Gathering player and disturber of recess ground ant piles. A shimmer of what mortals would call "fear" that Vladimir knew was actually a wandering spirit swept through him. Smash was cloaked in his his legendary hooded sweatshirt, his face hidden from view by darkness. A voice spoke out from the dark recess: "Let's get on with this shit. I ain't got all night, a'ight?" Smash moved towards a nearby table which was quickly evacuated of Star Trek: Voyager die-cast miniatures by it's occupants. Vladimir sat on one side, Smash the other. Both broke out their decks of Magic cards and prepared for war. A Horn Rim stepped forward from the observing crowd. "W-what are you going to use to c-count points?" Smash and Vladimir's eyes locked for a moment, the question held in midair. Smash looked towards the Horn Rim. "We could use your motherfuckin' teeth, or we could use these plastic coins some stupid fuck left laying here." It was on. Both challengers laid down their cards. Smash tapped what he referred to as "some o dat black ass" but was actually a Black Mana card to summon one of his all-powerful Ghitu Slingers against Vladimir's defenseless Unicorns. Vladimir was forced to relenquish six of his gold coins. Smash taunted: "Sixpence none the richer, bitch." Vladimir would not stand for such provocation. What ensued would go down in legend as the most furious Magic game in New Orleans history. Smash's constant aggressive gestures in stark contrast to Vladimir's stony silence, each offering no hint of the internal panic they each experienced from the brilliant strategies employed by the other. Finally, the last coin was deposited onto the pile and the victor arose. Vladimir The Conqueror, indeed. "You play a mean game of Magic, pale motherfucker, but you better keep practicin', 'cause this shit ain't over. Not by a longsho--" Smash's threat was interrupted by his watch beeping. "Fuck, I forgot to tell mom to tape Buffy!" The group of observing nerds quickly herded outside to watch Smash lay two strips of rubber with his 1979 Chevrolet Camaro, license plate reading "SHIZNIT1," in the direction of home. A triumphant cheer pierced the night. The beast had been driven out! They were once again free to play Magic: The Gathering without having to worry about being bitchslapped mid-turn! But where was their champion? "Look! Up there!" Vladimir stood on the roof of the school, one leg propped on the ledge, staring at the night sky. His vampire healing abilities were already beginning to nullify the pain he was experiencing from the pinched skin the roof hatch had provided him, and he smiled, for surely *his* mom had taped Buffy. << main