Chapter 2
I move
through the crownds on the street, smirking just a little to myself.
Anonymity is a wonderful thing. I'm dressed in black jeans, a white
shirt, a black leather jacket and a denim baseball cap, with my hair
tied back in a ponytail. No one recognizes me, which is exactly what
I want...the last thing I need is the police or Acme ruining my
night with my friends.
I walk up the street to Pigskin's.
Despite the name, it's not really a sports bar. It's just one of
those exclusive Southern California nightclubs that throws people
out based on how their dressed or if they didn't slip the bouncer
enough cash. It has a sports motif, the waitresses dress like
cheerleaders...Which is why Rich loves the place.
I walk up
to the door. Robert, the bouncer, nods and lets me inside. They know
I'm here to meet my friends, and they wouldn't dream of keeping me
from going in. They know all too well that my friends wouldn't like
it.
As I walk into the club, noting with amusement that they
still haven't changed the bad football field coloring sceme of the
floor yet, I hear a scream and a crash over the din of the music and
the talk...plus a masculine voice saying 'Damn it, Rich, do you have
to do that EVERY time we come here?'
I smile. Ian, one of
Rich's roommates, expressing his distaste for Rich and his antics.
As I make my way through the crowd, I finally spot the three of them
at a table.
Rich, who could be described as ever-weathly,
ever-wrinkled, and ever-tasteless, is pouring himself a shot from a
bottle of bourbon that is on the table. The lights of the club
reflecting off his glasses, only serve to heighten the sheer
ugliness of the wrinkled green suit he's wearing. The red and green
hitops aren't helping much, either. His greasy brown hair is tied
back in a short ponytail, and a half smoked cigarette is in the
fingers of his right hand. He also looks a little damp...must have
taken the sewer route down to the street again.
Sitting
across from him, in sharp contrast is Ian. Ian is everything Rich is
not. He's suave, elegant, light on his feet. His ebony hair is
brushed back and he's dressed in black leather. He could teach Brad
Pitt and Val Kilmer a thing or two about style. His eyes are an odd
bluish-green and they seem to be able to see things much more
clearly than anyone else's eyes.
'Would you boys please mind
not starting anything tonight?' asks the third of my friends, a
woman with stunning red hair. 'I really don't want to spend the
night in jail again.'
I smile. Theresa always was the sensible
one. She has bright green eyes to complement her straight red hair,
and freckles across the bridge of her nose. She's dressed a bit
oddly; ruffled shirt, black pants and boots and an old fashioned,
vaguely Victorian-era style cape. She doesn't drink the bourbon, but
instead fills her glass from a silver flask.
Ian, Rich, and
Theresa...my friends.
I walk up to the table. 'So, is this a
private party or can anyone abuse these two reprobates?' I ask
Theresa.
'Hey, you can do anything you like to me, gorgeous.
I'm sure I'll enjoy it!' Rich says smiling with a grin that shows
nearly all of his teeth. I notice that the front two are still
slightly longer than the rest.
'How have you been, Carla?'
Ian asks, standing up and pulling a chair out for me. Always a
gentleman. 'We haven't seen you in a while.'
'I've been
busy. Sorry I couldn't get up here for New Year's, but I was a
little tied up at the moment.'
'Not a problem. We
understand.' Rich says. 'Barkeep! A glass of Lafayette for my friend
here! What year again? I always forget.'
'1961' I say.
'The '61! And make it snappy! And send that waitress back
over here with another round!'
'Rich,' Theresa says,
'Haven't you tormented that poor girl enough?'
'Nah, you can
never torment yuppies enough.'
'She's not a yuppie, rodent.'
Ian says, boredom evident in his voice. 'She's a waitress. Leave her
alone.'
'Who're you calling a rodent, you mangy hairball? Go
sharpen your claws.'
'Don't tempt me.' Ian says pointing at
Rich. Theresa and I exchange glances. Here we go again. That poor
waitress.
Ian tretches out his arm and his hand begins
changing along the way. Th ehairs on the back of his hand begin to
grow and multiply. The hair becomes softer, sleeker. The fingernail
extend and taper off, curving down and coming to a point.
Rich is going through his own changes. His nose extends and
his mouth enlongates. Fur starts sprouting from the back of his
neck. His upper teeth become even more prominent, and his legs begin
to shorten. Within ten seconds, the two young men are gone, replaced
by a six-foot cat, and a three-foot rat with glasses and hitops. I
smile and look over at Theresa. She's got a grin herself. One that
exposes her fangs.
Most people in VILE have said that if I
had any friends outside of my organization, they'd have to be as
unique as I am.
I think a were-rat, a were-cat and a vampire
qualify as unique...
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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