Here’s a piece of flash fiction I did for a horror website last year. I threw in a dash of comedy to spice it up. Comment if you like it.
My Life As a Bloodsucker
By E.J. Robinson
Vampir non grata.
That’s what I’ve become.
These days, even the hemophiliacs consider me a joke.
I hadn’t realized it’d gotten so bad ‘til I dropped by one of my favorite watering holes, the Homesick Nomad in Cairo. It’s just down the cobbles from a goat bazaar so the smell keeps most of the tourists at bay. Still, if you like dark, musty, old world ambiance, it’s been the happening joint for over three centuries.
The drinking selection is stellar too. There you can still get some of the continent’s rarer blends. A 90-year-old Ethiopian Jew. A bitter French-Sufi mix. But for my money, nothing beats the Coptic Christian Red. Crimson with a hint of mallow, cumin and fig? Yum! Five pints of it will have you ululating like a Jihadist at a Salman Rushdie book signing.
But this time my arrival wasn’t met with the usual hysterics. No shrieks of terror or patrons clawing to escape. This time, I got cold looks and mutters of derision.
“That’s him.” “What a joke.” “Heard he has sickle cell.” “I heard Hepatitis and AIDS.”
The last was particularly hurtful because, as a vampire, our t-cells are one of the sources of our immunity and regeneration, so it’s actually impossible for the HIV virus to become lympotropic. But does a human bother to learn that? No. They only care if you’re “infected.”
It used to be different. Once, we were Gods, but ever since the Vampire Regulation Act, people know they’re not going to die, so now it’s just one big inconvenience.
Still, I have no one to blame but myself. You see, when I woke from my last slumber, I was shocked how much the world had changed. China was a superpower and vampires had their own chocolate cereal.
It took me years to get the courage to venture out, but once I did, no one feared me. So I went on one of those vampire makeover shows. You know the one, on TLC? Out went the waistcoat and breeches. In came Dolce & Gabbana and expert styling. Laser surgery for the skin. Meds for garlic. Suddenly, boom!
I was happening.
Jay Leno invited me on the Tonight Show. I was “liked” on Facebook. Trended on Twitter. Even had a bromance with the Biebs. And after I staked a Kardashian, I knew I’d hit the big time, Baby!
Then it happened. I got invited to a Lady Gaga concert.
There I was in the green room, hanging with the freaky deakies when someone offered me an open vein. How was I to know it was loaded with bath salts? None of the other guests, including little Honey Boo Boo, ever saw me coming.
After the arrest, I hired Gloria Allred, but it was already too late. My endorsement with V-8? Gone. The Biebs? Quit returning my calls. Even Tommy Lee went on TMZ and called me, “dirty.”
Now, even my own kind won’t talk to me. Last night I tried to chill with the werewolf downstairs and got dissed. I mean, dude has fleas!
At this point, there isn’t much for me to do but sleep this one off. Hopefully when I wake up in thirty-forty years this will have all blown over.
But word to the wise. I know many of you out there think being an immortal is cool. But before decide to join the tribe, think long and hard because being a vampire these days isn’t all its cracked up to be. Even for us, it’s tooth and nail, Baby.
© E.J. Robinson – All Rights Reserved