Unmade: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale Read online

  Un-Made: A Neo-Nihilist Vampire Tale

  By The Vocabulariast

  Text Copyright © 2012 MovieCynics LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Foreward

  Chapter 1: Tears of the City

  Chapter 2: Aftermath

  Chapter 3: Dreams

  Chapter 4: By the Bigfoot Tangles

  Chapter 5: Hipsters for the First Time

  Chapter 6: On the Bridge

  Chapter 7: No Beans

  Chapter 8: Hot Pussy Pie

  Chapter 9: Alien Signposts

  Chapter 10: Grab the Bull by the Horns

  Chapter 11: A Stern Talking To

  Chapter 12: Starfish Farms of the Past

  Chapter 13: No Names Necessary

  Chapter 14: Get Some

  Chapter 15: Brick-Brown Blotch

  Chapter 16: Greasy Spew

  Chapter 17: Interlude

  Chapter 18: A Wiggly Burrito Slug and an Old Soldier

  Chapter 19: Story Time

  Chapter 20: A Vampire... Ha!

  Chapter 21: Like a Sock with a Hole in It

  Chapter 22: Stuff We Can't Do Shit About

  Chapter 23: Going for a Dip

  Chapter 24: Ratula

  Chapter 25: You Think You're a God, Boy?

  Chapter 26: Pacts Were Made

  Chapter 27: Bag O' Rats

  Chapter 28: We Ain't No Little Pigs

  Chapter 29: Sweat-Soaked Sleep

  Chapter 30: Cathedrals and Grave-Digging

  Chapter 31: An Urge

  Chapter 32: Cradle of Filth

  Chapter 33: Spoon and Egg Race

  Chapter 34: Getting Clean

  Chapter 35: Johnny Punchingbag

  Chapter 36: Revenge

  Chapter 36: Regrets

  Chapter 37: Stakeout

  Chapter 38: Slip Your Feet Into Your Pimp Shoes

  Chapter 39: Preparation

  Chapter 40: Like a Lilypad

  Chapter 41: Is It Right?

  Chapter 42: The Glasshouse

  Chapter 43: The Water Waits

  Chapter 44: Waiting

  Chapter 45: A Guided Tour of Nighttime Portland

  Chapter 46: The Gruesome Parade

  Chapter 47: Bummin' Smokes

  Chapter 48: Like a Slug in the Sun

  Chapter 49: It's Done

  Chapter 50: Too Far

  Chapter 51: A Weapon of Great Design

  Chapter 52: A Cup of Sugar

  Chapter 53: De-evolution

  Chapter 54: Delusions of Grandeur

  Chapter 55: The Irrelevance of Conversation

  Chapter 56: Reconnecting

  Chapter 57: So Close

  Chapter 58: In the Pokey

  Chapter 59: Split Brats

  Foreward

  Un-Made is a novel that I worked on in my youth, at age 25. I'm proud of the story, and can't wait for you to check it out. It was born out my frustration with the wimpifying of modern vampires. It's a cynical piece that is brutally honest, as was the man that I was some years ago. It's a dark piece of fiction, which some will find too dark, but the truths contained within are a rarity.

  At the very least, it's a novel unlike any vampire novel I've personally seen. It's also a risk-taking novel that is written the way that my past-self felt like books should be written, unflinching and with a certain amount of risk involved. There are moments in the book that may leave you scratching your head, and moments that may blow your mind. Either way, the experimental nature of the writing should keep you reading.

  The book is part of a larger series kicking around in my mind, and like the past-self that wrote this book, it agrees that many will be surprised by the shape of subsequent entries. Hell... the protagonist might even get a name!

  Chapter 1: Tears of the City

  Moving in was the worst. The sun was still up and burning and it was only 5 in the afternoon. He hated the sun, cursing it silently as it beat down on his heavily tanned arms. Sweat dripped into his eyes from his soggy eyebrows as he trudged back to the U-Haul for another load of stuff. He scanned the back of the truck to see if anything was missing since his last trip up to his new apartment. Everything looked like it was there, but he felt uncomfortable as he picked up another box marked “DISHES.”You never knew who was walking around with sticky fingers in the city.

  He would give anything to just stop for a second and get a drink of water, but he wanted to get the job done before the sun went down. He got a good grip on his “DISHES” and began the three story climb up the stairs. He was almost to the second landing when he tripped and crashed, face first, on top of his dishes. One side of the box caved in and he heard the crash of broken glass. The large pebbled texture of the steps ripped through the knee of his jeans and he immediately felt the drip of blood down his shin. To make matters worse his nose was pouring blood from where his face had smashed into the box. Maybe it wasn’t the sound of dishes breaking, but his nose instead.

  He repositioned his load and carried the box into his apartment. The King’s Castle, as he thought of it, had one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The main room was filled with boxes and had a great view of the building across the way. Someone across the way was lying on their back and lifting weights. He wondered how anyone could lift weights in this kind of heat. It was stifling in his apartment and his pants stuck to the sweat of his crotch just as the leg of his jeans stuck to the sticky blood on his knee and shin. He felt dirty.

  He moved to the kitchen sink and began cleaning up his blood. He had heard somewhere that blood wasn’t a liquid, but actually a tissue, like muscle. Where had he heard that? Probably in some class that didn’t matter, in some place that didn’t matter. What the hell would he ever need to know about blood anyway? All he needed to know now was where his fucking towels were. He peered through the little opening between his kitchen and his throne room and tried to find the box marked “KITCHEN STUFF.”

  He couldn’t find it so he walked over to his things and began opening boxes looking for anything he could use to hold on his nose. He could hear drops of blood thud to a halt on top of his boxes as he tore through them. He finally found something he could use in a box marked “OLD SHIT.” He pulled out an old Dio T-shirt and put it up to his nose. He plopped down in the only piece of furniture that he had moved so far, a threadbare old recliner that leaned to the left when you sat in it. He stared out the window as he waited for his nose to stop bleeding.

  The man across the way had stopped lifting weights and had begun a new exercise. His pants were around his ankles and he was now jacking off. Lovely. He moved to the window and closed the blinds. What kind of guy jacks off with the window open? What a scumbag.

  After about five minutes the blood finally slowed to a drip, and he went to the bathroom to look at the damage. His jeans were plastered to his knee where a red gash peeked through and his nose had swollen. He could already see the bruises forming around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. His wifebeater had drips of blood down the front of it; he looked like he had been drinking blood.

  He finally began the long trudge down the three flights of stairs. He still had all of the big stuff to move. It was going to be a pain in the ass to haul his bed up three flights of stairs by himself. Maybe he could black mail Mister Jackoff across the way into helping him carry his stuff. Nah, it wasn’t worth getting some guys cocky hand germs all over his shit.

  As he skipped off of the last step, he saw someone clearly trying to lift something out of the back of the U-Haul.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  The man in the back of the truck stopped and froze like
a deer in headlights; slowly he turned his head and he got a better look at him. He had eyes like a weasel or a cat, something feral, and copper-red hair peeked out from under a confederate flag bandana. The man grinned back at him, until he noticed all the blood and then he stammered as he said, “I was just getting a look at the goods. I need a new lamp for my place and I was seeing if you had anything I might want to buy. What happened to you?”

  “Something to buy, huh? It looks like you were planning to steal my shit.”

  The man seemed to get uncomfortable and he could see the wheels turning in his head ‘Should he run or try to play it out?’ Decisions apparently weren’t his greatest strength.

  “Hey, you gonna move all this shit by yourself? I could help you, if you have some cash.”

  He thought about it for a second and decided he might as well pay the guy to help him move. It was better to have the guy helping him and in his sight than to have him hanging around down here while he was dragging a mattress up three flights of stairs.

  “I tell you what, you help me and I’ll give you ten bucks.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  The man held out his hand and they shook on it. The man had a nasty habit of scratching his arms. Any time his hands weren’t occupied his clawed fingers would find their way to his vein corded forearms and begin scratching. He noticed the scabs that ran up and down his arms. The man was skinny, but not in a good way. He was Iggy Pop skinny, the type of skinny that is almost uncomfortable to look at. He looked like a starving sailor, Old Captain Skin and Bones.

  With the Captain helping him out, they made short work of the rest of his things. There really wasn’t that much and if the Captain had helped him from the beginning it probably would have taken a couple of hours. As it was his back was covered in sweat and his nose was throbbing. He could feel his heartbeat through his face. He just wanted to pay the Captain and go to bed.

  “Alright, let me get your cash.”

  He walked towards the kitchen counter to grab his wallet and suddenly the only light in the kitchen went out.

  Cap’n Skin & Bones had grabbed a lamp and cracked him on the back of the head as soon as he turned his back. The Cap’n watched silently as the body slumped to the floor like a bag full of jelly. For a second, he just stood there scratching his arms and looking at the man on the floor. Somewhere in the back of his head he felt bad; in the part of him that still had feelings he knew that the guy was just a kid with nothing to his name, but that was more than he had right now. He moved to take the guy’s money and all he found was ten bucks. Dejectedly, he grabbed the slightly damaged lamp and closed the door as he left.

  “Good night, hillbilly.”

  Chapter 2: Aftermath

  He woke up in a puddle of blood. It wasn’t a huge puddle but there had definitely been some seepage from his nose and from the back of his head. Despite the fact that he had been knocked unconscious, he had gotten some good sleep. There was a slight throb in his head and a little dizziness when he stood up, but other than that he felt fine. Then he touched his nose and tears sprang to his eyes.

  He looked around for a clock and then realized that they were all packed up. It was definitely dark outside, but he didn’t know if it was the darkness of 10 at night or 3 in the morning. He stumbled his way to the wall next to the door and searched for the light switch. He flicked it on and the dirty light bulbs lit up and spread their sickly orange glow over the apartment. Where he had been laying there was a puddle of blood like spilt wine. That was definitely not coming out of the carpet. There goes his security deposit, on the very first day too.

  He walked to the bathroom and threw his bloody clothes into a pile, all the while wondering if they were salvageable or garbage material. He climbed into the shower and gasped as he turned on the water and its cold kiss assaulted him. The water warmed up and he gasped again as he ducked his head into the warm spray only to feel the sting of water on the small gash on the back of his head. He finished his shower and emerged into the steamy bathroom. There was no ceiling fan to alleviate the oppressive steaminess from the shower so he opened the door and felt the stale, but considerably cooler, air from the rest of his apartment rush in. He used his hand to wipe down the bathroom mirror and look at himself.

  He looked like he had been smacked in the face by Charles Bronson and his famous “sock full o’ quarters.” Maybe he should go to the hospital and get one of those little pieces of tape that he always saw on people that had broken noses. He wondered what good a piece of tape did for a broken nose. Maybe it was just there so that people knew to be careful around your nose. Maybe if you had a piece of tape people would be extra careful to not throw footballs at you. Maybe they wouldn’t play that one joke where someone tells you that if your hand is bigger than your face then you’re not stupid. Then, after you put your hand in front of your face, they hit your hand, causing it to smack you in the face. Then you know you’re stupid.

  He decided that it didn’t matter because he didn’t have any health insurance anyway and he wouldn’t be able to afford to pay the fucking hospital bills. He was pretty sure a piece of nose tape from the hospital would cost at least two hundred bucks. He finished with the mirror and realized that he had already done as much as he could, which was pretty much nothing. His only comfort was that he had always healed fast.

  He wandered into his living room and plopped down into his throne. He stared at the closed blinds and wondered if the guy across the way was done rubbin’ one out. Why couldn’t a hot chick live across the way, like in the movies? Maybe he should get one of those telescopes so he could get up close and personal with whoever lived in the building behind his. With his luck someone would call the cops on him for being a Peeping Tom.

  Oh yeah, the cops. Maybe he ought to call the cops. After all someone did crack him in the skull with something. He looked around and tried to figure out what that skinny guy had taken. Nothing seemed to be missing, then he saw his wallet in the corner where Cap’n Skin & Bones had thrown it. He walked over and bent over to pick it up. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. Blood rushed to his head and a little began to trickle out of his nose. He snatched the wallet up in one swift movement and then stood up straight. He leaned against the wall to avoid falling over as his head began to swim. Slowly he flipped through his wallet. The only thing missing was the ten dollars that he had promised the guy in the first place. He had gotten robbed for something he was going to give the guy for free. He walked over to his recliner and sat down. He decided not to call the cops, the guy didn’t take anything important, not that he noticed anyways. Fuck the cops. He leaned his head back and went to sleep. Maybe tomorrow would be better.

  Chapter 3: Dreams

  He woke up with the sun cooking him through the blinds. They didn’t offer much protection against the rising sun and the heat was making him sweat. He felt a little better, not great, but better. He certainly didn’t feel like setting up his apartment, unpacking his meager belongings and putting them in their final resting places to collect dust. Shit, he didn’t even feel like putting on any clothes. He sat there thinking about the life he had left behind in Scappoose. That took all of two seconds, and then he decided to stand up.

  Clothes… that’s what he needed, a nice set of clean clothes. Too bad he hadn’t done laundry before he had left his last apartment. He ripped open some more boxes and tried to find something that was kind of clean. He went through the familiar manly ritual of holding clothes up to his nose and smelling them to see if they were too rank to wear. He found an old George Thorogood t-shirt that only faintly reeked of gasoline and bar atmosphere, some jeans that were fairly clean, and some only-worn-once socks. Not bad.

  He took the rest of the day to set up his apartment. The sun baked his apartment in the morning, so he had to open up the windows. There was a nice breeze coming from the river and he noticed the weightlifting masturbator was nowhere to be seen. He moved things back and forth, up and down, until he got
it right. When he was all done, he laid down on his mattress like a whore waiting for the John to do his business and leave. The place was already cluttered. He almost wished Cap’n Skin & Bones had taken some of his stuff so he would have a little more room. That’s when he noticed that his lamp was missing. It should be right there on his night stand next to his bed, but he looked and it wasn’t there. It couldn’t be lost in the clutter. There was a lot of stuff, but everything he had was visible. Oh well, the fucking thing didn’t work right anyway. He had gotten drunk one night and threw it across the room after a bad day at the gas station. It wouldn’t be missed. It was almost a relief to not have that spontaneously flickering lamp around anymore. Besides, he could get by with the sickening, peach-hued radiance from the overhead light.

  He laid back on his bed and dreamed of the future. The city hadn’t been kind to him, but it couldn’t get any worse. He wondered if he would even be able to find a job with the way he looked. It didn’t really matter, he wasn’t qualified for anything other than a minimum wage job, and the people that owned those places didn’t generally give a fuck as long as you showed up on time, were capable of getting your turds in the toilet, and didn’t steal their shit. He’d be fine. Maybe he’d get a job waiting tables at some high class restaurant, and one of those rich business ladies would fall in love with him and become his sugar mama. Yeah, that’d be sweet.

  He dreamed of ladies with their hair in buns and briefcases in their hands walking back and forth, throwing dollar bills at his naked body.

  Chapter 4: By the Bigfoot Tangles

  He woke up starving. His stomach growled so loud that he was jerked out of his sleep. He hadn’t eaten for two days… ever since he had gone through that drive-thru in the U-Haul. Fuck! The U-Haul he ran downstairs in the morning light and saw that the U-Haul was still sitting where he had left it. The back door was open and there was a lumpen shape huddled in sleep on the bed of the U-Haul. At least the truck was still there. He ran upstairs and searched through his bloody pants lying on the bathroom floor and found the keys to the U-Haul.