So I'm a Vampire... Now What? - Book 2 (Original Version)

Chapter 9.1 - So Much For the Afterglow

The agents kicked me out of the car a little more unceremoniously than was necessary. All things considered, they at least stopped the car and left me on my feet, rather than facedown in a snowbank that was only pretending to be soft snow. Anybody who lives in northern climates knows what I'm talking about: the snowbanks get rained on and solidify into huge chunks of ice that then get snowed on so they look all pretty. But underneath is ice just waiting to fuck your shit up.

"Don't leave town Mister Diego," one of the agents had said with a smirk. "We might have some more questions."

The agent shoved a handful of my belongings into my arms: keys, wallet, cufflinks, phone, shoelaces, belt and tie. The last three they had taken because they didn't like it when prisoners tried to off themselves, vampire or not.

The agent got back inside the car and then the black Ford Explorer with blacked-out windows sped away down the street. All I could do was watch it. I couldn't even summon the strength to give them the time-honoured double-one-finger salute. Part of me wanted to, but the rest of me remembered what the agents had done to me over the last twenty-four hours or so, and that part was afraid that they would come back for round two.

"Fuck you motherfuckers," I muttered to myself instead, but only when the taillights had vanished, and there was no hope anybody would hear me.

They had dropped me in front of my apartment building, and thankfully it was still dark out. Somewhere a few streets over I could hear the loud but familiar grind of a street cleaner, so the time still had to be sometime in the early morning. Unless there had been heavy snow, the street cleaners always made their rounds. People still dropped their trash all over the place, and somebody had to stop the city from turning into a dump. Garbage trapped in slushy or frozen snow was nobody's friend. I still had no idea what time it was, but judging by the sound of the street cleaner, I had maybe an hour before the sun would be up. I was glad the agents hadn't dropped me off at sunrise just to watch me run for it before the sun got me.

What are you looking at me like that for?

You try being a defiant prick after countless hours of what seemed like non-stop torture. Believe me: that shit wears you out, and after a while, you'd say or do anything just to make it stop and so you can sleep.

You think torture is bad? Try being a vampire who is being tortured by other vampires. They know everything they can do to you that will hurt the most and heal the fastest just so they can start the torture all over again. It turns out that the fast-healing ability cuts two ways and those motherfuckers took full advantage of it.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

I may have confessed to being a terrorist at some point but don't hold me to that. I would have confessed to being a cross-dressing assassin with a plot to kill Santa Claus if they had wanted me to, but we hadn't reached that point of our relationship.

I made my way back to my apartment, the cold wind biting at me through my tuxedo and unlaced shoes, and I tried not to think too much about the utter mess my life had become. That wasn't too hard since I was so exhausted, but it was still there in the back of my mind. Lurking. Desperately begging for attention.

"You gotta be kidding me," I mumbled to my exhausted self when I made it to my front door.

I stood there for a long moment looking at the busted door, my brain trying to catch up with what I thought was reality. I was sure that Oscar, the apartment supervisor, had replaced my door and sure enough, there was now a door there instead of a sheet of plastic. It was a brand new door, with a brand new lock, which it was just occurring to me that I didn't have the key for. The state of the lock made it clear that I wouldn't have to wake Oscar to get my new key. Someone, probably more agents, had broken my door open, breaking the wood away from the lock itself in a jagged circle.

Technically, the door was closed, but only if you squinted your eyes and didn't look too hard at it.

I poked at the door, and the piece with the handle wobbled and fell to the ground with an unremarkable thud; the rest of the door creaked open slowly.

How fucking depressing.

I entered my apartment and dumped my stuff onto the kitchen table, already feeling the frustration turning into dull anger fueled by exhaustion. I just wanted to fall onto my couch and pass out, maybe hide from the world for a while until it didn't suck so much and nobody was trying to hurt me. Looking at the place, I couldn't even do that.

Whoever had broken the door had trashed the place. I didn't have much to start with, but they had gone through the entire apartment and emptied every drawer, opened every cupboard, ripped open every cushion. The television lay face down on the rug, the back of it open to the world and I doubted that it would ever work again. Everything I owned had been systematically destroyed either in the pursuit of evidence to nail me for being some kind of terrorist, or just to cause more inconvenience. Of course, the apartment was freezing, the broken door only providing a token resistance to the freezing cold wind that waited for any chance to remind me that winter was here and that it hated me, but not in a personal way.

If this had been a movie, it would have been the perfect moment for a framed photo or poster to slip off the wall and crash to the floor to really drive home the reality of the situation.

I looked around expectantly, but the universe failed to deliver.

Nothing crashed to the floor.

I somehow managed to close the door, wedging the lock into place, and finally trudged off to the bedroom, my phone in one hand. I would have turned it on, but the battery had died at some point, and the agents hadn't bothered to charge it. I was just going to have to charge it myself.

When I opened the bedroom door, someone shot me in the chest with a taser.

For some reason, this did not surprise me.

I felt the barbs dig deep into my skin and electricity shot through me, turning my muscles to jelly, my limbs flailing uselessly as they ignored my commands to do anything except flail uselessly.

I curled up in a ball on the floor after they were done shocking me, waiting for my torturers to come and get me. Pro-tip: if someone is going to be kicking your ass, you need to protect your face and organs, so the fetal position is actually useful, but only when you're truly and thoroughly fucked. Do not make it easy for your attackers.

Nobody kicked me so I dared to open one eye--

"Holy shit, it's Bob!" Benjamin said as he leaned over me.

"I told you it had to be him," Natalie said urgently.

"How was I supposed to know?" Ronnie asked angrily. "We're all on edge here, you know!"

"Did you knock him out?" Stanley warned to know. "I think he's knocked out."

I weakly raised a fist and flipped them off. I had to try three times to get the correct finger out, but I finally did.

"Fuck all of you guys," I groaned. "Fuck you hard."

"Good to see you too cuz," Ronnie said and helped me up. She winced as I wiggled the barbs of the taser free from my skin. Fucking things still hurt, and now I had bloody holes in my nice new shirt. It was kind of ironic since they had stripped me naked to torture me, so my clothes had remained pristine, but now there I was in the place that was supposed to be safe, and my shit was getting fucked up. See, this is why I can't have nice things.

"Did you have to shock me?" I asked, exasperated, but there was that underlying relief that it was only my friends and not more torture waiting for me. That would have been seriously fucked up. My hands shook, just thinking about it—

"I liked that shirt," I said instead of thinking about that. I steadied my hands, rubbing them together instead, and looked around the room at everyone, taking a headcount. Frankie nodded from his seat on the bed. Everyone was there except Claude and Sammy.

"You all look like shit," I said.

**CONTINUED***