THE VAMPIRE'S CHAUFFEUR
- or -
The Steady Decline of Nice People
- or -
(apologies to Anne Rice)
Interview with a Low-Budget Vampire's Right-Hand Man
“Now, now, Mister Renfield.
Are you saying the public has been misinformed about vampires?”
A wispy silhouette stood by
the window. Outside, a crackly Murky Motel
neon sign blinked in the parking lot, making the silhouette turn off and on
like a light switch. “The public has been force‑fed fibs and flapdoodle.”
“Are you…”
Renfield continued in his high-pitched
voice: “Forget all the hoopla about a vampire being a tall, peroxide Aryan on
the make, surrounded by six glittering mannequins from the Ford modeling
agency. Forget it—we’re not talking a dishabille Brad Pitt with fangs.”
“I must say, Mister Renfield, I was expecting perhaps a rock superstar.
A blond bidentate with tails and leather chaps over black patent-leather pants
studded with silver adornments. A reanimated corpse who’ll never know what it’s
like to be human again, quite like those in the music industry.” The reporter
paused and caught his breath. “This is a flat-out shock.”
“Shock?” Renfield blinked on
again, twitching his pallid cheeks. His ratty cardigan sweater drooped to his
bony knees. “Try being a vampire’s aide-de-camp.” Then the pipsqueak blinked
off.
Earlier, the reporter
received a whispered phone call. A squeaky voice promised "inside information"
concerning the steady decline of nice people in an increasingly nasty world.
The conversation ended with: “Meet me at
Murky Motel. Midnight.” Click.
“Let’s start at the
beginning.” The reporter sat at a table, snapped a tape into his recorder. The
table supported a collision of bottles and cans: vodka, tomato juice,
Worcestershire, Tabasco.
Little boxes of Roach Hotel were
scattered across the floor. “How did you first meet...ah...?”
Renfield inched forward until
the tip of his crooked nose emerged from the shadows. “I was utilizing a
footbridge, expectorating into a river. An elderly gentleman with a nightclub
pallor approached me in his sharkskin raincoat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘you strike me
as a lingering malingerer with free time on your hands.’
“I shrugged, took aim, and
hawked on a water bug below.
“The elegant one introduced
himself as Master Ellsworth Bazarsky and said he was in the market for a
butler, a chauffeur, an all‑around right‑hand man. ‘Primarily graveyard shift,’
he purred, ‘with some diurnal commuting.’ We agreed and high‑fived.”
The reporter found Renfield’s
facial tics a bit distracting, as if a bee buzzed behind his teeth. “Perhaps we
could touch on the vampire’s much vaunted love life.”
Renfield blinked on. He
clasped his hands as if in prayer. “There was a recent incident.”
“Do tell.”
Renfield blinked off.
The silhouette licked a
fingertip in the dark, turned halfway and ran it across the dirty windowsill,
tasted it, then squeaked, “It began...”
#
Bazarsky the Vampire and his
right-hand man had been on the road in the vampire’s candy‑apple red Chevy,
crisscrossing New England, staying in cheap
motels. Master Bazarsky would disappear in the evening and return before dawn,
with a drop of blood on his chin, along with a wallet or occasional purse.
Early each morning Renfield would empty a pocketbook on the nightstand before
they checked-out. Chief among Renfield’s duties was to lock his master inside
the Chevy’s trunk before sunrise, where he slept through the day using the
spare tire as a pillow. Occasionally, when Ellsworth Bazarsky was potholed
awake on a bumpy road, he passed his time reading vampiric porn (Brooding Bucktooth Babes, Shapeshifters in
D-Cups, and Vamps) by flashlight.
Ellsworth Bazarsky sneaking back to Murky Motel after hectic night of biting strangers.
And so things went until a
fortnight ago when they pulled into the parking lot of a 24‑hour convenience
store.
#
“The vampire naps in the
trunk all day?”
“Come evening, he taps the
lid.”
“And then...?”
“Usually I stop on a deserted
road, unlock the lid, and His Elegance climbs out, stretches, squirts in the weeds,
and slips into the back seat.”
The reporter squinted in the
low lamplight. “I see.”
“That night we were caught in
traffic when the Master knuckled the trunk. In a bit of a snit.” Renfield
picked up a Roach Hotel box, shook it
next to his ear like a bell, heard nothing, and dropped it. “So I pulled into a
7‑Eleven, stopped and popped the
lid.”
#
The vampire sprang from the
trunk like a jack‑in‑the‑box. The 7‑Eleven
neon lights ignited his wild white mane and pale skin. A rumpled god suffering
from a bout of pernicious anemia. “7‑Eleven? Renfield—where are we, Renfield?”
“You sounded antsy, Master.” Renfield got a whiskbroom from the glove
compartment and dutifully brushed his Master’s wrinkled raincoat. “So I pulled
over.”
The vampire stood by the Chevy, frowned, listening to the radio:
“The former president should be
executed for high treason on pay‑per‑view. The opposition party should be hung
by their thumbs, brushed with barbecue sauce, and slowly dipped into a shark
tank. You’re listening to ‘Unhappy Hour’ with Hap Toogler…”
“Egad, Renfield. I recognized the voice from inside the trunk.”
“Talk radio, Master. Did it wake you?”
“Hap Toogler was a gentle, soft‑spoken usher at a homeless shelter in Boston. I fanged him last
summer as he escorted me to my cot. Now he’s back from the dead, hosting his
own show. Hmm…Hap’s acquired an edge since I saw him last.”
Ellsworth Bazarsky aboard "Good Ship Lollipop," sailing from Transylvania to America.
I’M THE STATUE OF LIBERTY!
Gimme your tired, your poor, your wretched?
Gimme your broke, worthless vampires with clue
disabilities?
Gimme your fanged freeloaders?
Gimme Ellsworth Bazarsky???
Is you crazy?
The vampire approached 7‑Eleven. His arm trembled when he pointed at
something beyond the plate glass windows.
Renfield turned. “You mean the customer at the counter wearing a Mother
Theresa rubber mask? He looks fishy.”
“No, you numbskull.”
Renfield spotted the cashier,
a young woman with white lipstick and bright green hair, ringing up a pack of
smokes.
“Behold,” the vampire
announced. “She’s pure green lightning. Observe that column of hair shooting
skyward from her forehead—it looks like a cathedral’s spire made of sprouting
spinach!”
“It’s all the rage these
days,” Renfield squeaked. “Bangs heading in the wrong direction. A gravity-defying
hairdo.”
Ellsworth Bazarsky held up
his hands, clapped twice, pumped. “And those matching green stretch pants”—he
spun, squatted down, did a dance, sprang back up like a piston—“got-damn! She’s avocado thunder! I must have
her, Renfield.”
“Think she’s got a short
sister? Perhaps a half‑sister?”
“Alas,” the Master said, “a
vampire cannot enter the premises uninvited. You know the rules, Renfield.”
Bazarsky mentioned an
incident from the previous night when a taxi driver pulled over and said, “Hop in, Slim Jim, where to?” Bazarsky
happily climbed aboard and fanged him from the back seat—cabbie al dente.
The vampire watched the green
goddess. A cat beneath a birdcage. When the cashier glanced his way, he puffed
his chest and commanded, “Come hither!”
The cashier rolled her green
mascaraed eyes. She returned to Mother Theresa and her hands flew up, as if
singing in church.
Mother Theresa darted to the
front door and opened it, producing a pistol from his pocket. “Get in here,
gramps.” Then he snarled at Renfield: “You too, twit.”
The vampire addressed the
customer with a thin smile. “Are you inviting me in?”
Mother Theresa grabbed a fistful of the wrinkled raincoat.
“Sir,” the vampire asked, “is
this an official invitation?”
“Get the
hell in here!”
“Master...ahhh...don’t be
duped by this egregious dump of DNA.”
“Renfield, stop being so
judgmental.” The vampire’s eyes brightened. With a jaunty step, he brushed past
the robber.
Renfield followed, spotting a
squished beetle stuck to the glass door, which promptly disappeared in his
hand.
“Good e-v-e-ning,” the
vampire purred to the cashier.
“Zip it, pops—grab sky.” The
thief grabbed Renfield by the collar and bounced him against his employer. The
two stood in front of a shelf of groceries, hands raised like choir singers.
choir singers with upraised hands
(or 50 churchgoers held up en masse at gunpoint)
The cashier opened the
register. “Here—take it.”
Mother Theresa stuffed the
cash inside his jacket, turned to the elderly man. “Okay, pinhead, gimme the
green.”
Renfield looked up at his
employer and nodded.
The vampire fumbled inside
his raincoat and produced three wallets. A fourth billfold fell onto his shoes.
“Master Bazarsky!” Renfield
squealed. “Wow, busy last night, eh?”
“Memo to Renfield. We need a
comptroller, part‑time staff position.”
The thief inspected each wallet.
“Whatsis? There’s a blonde on the driver’s license, says ‘Judith Ann Jawicki.’”
“Judith,” the vampire
sniffed, “had a penchant for postprandial peregrinations in the park. She
invited me to sit and chat on a bench.” He clicked his choppers. “I did.”
The second wallet flapped
open. “This here’s...C. J. Harwood.”
“Erstwhile cabbie.”
And the third: “LaMont
Harrington Tithesdale, IV, Esq.?”
“A greeter at Wal‑Mart.” The
vampire shrugged. “Little shrimp, LaMont, a munchkin munchie. A morsel, not a
meal.”
Mother Theresa retreated a
step. “This ain’t right.”
The vampire faced Renfield.
“They all had one thing in common—they extended me an invitation. Friendly to a
fault. Thus, killed by kindness.”
“Master, you’re chewing up
all the nice people. Cold, selfish people are left untouched. Saved by their
inhumanity and me-firstism.”
“Alas, the world is getting
grimmer by the day. Because of me. I’m doomed to walk among my handiwork, a
growing population of unsmiling, heartless humanoids for eternity.”
“Whoa,” the cashier said,
“I’m surrounded.”
The thief pointed at the remaining wallet on the floor. “Pick it up.”
“I didn’t hear ‘please.’” The
Master advanced a step.
The gun jiggled. Two shots
rang out, ventilating the vampire. The bullets buzzed through his chest and hit
the shelf, exploding a jar of tomato sauce.
The vampire studied the
smoking holes in his chest. “My shirt is ruined. Young man, you’re beginning to
set my teeth on edge.”
The thief staggered back.
“Oh, miss?” Red sauce oozed
down the back of the vampire’s raincoat. “May I lick that mole on your neck?”
A police siren screamed
nearby.
Behind the mask, Mother
Theresa’s eyelids fluttered. He fainted into a rack of pretzels, then closed
the gap between himself and the floor.
“Reminds me of an Irish
proverb, Renfield. ‘May the floor rise to meet you.’”
Renfield tugged his Master’s
sleeve. “Master Bazarsky, perhaps another time.”
“A little peck on the neck.
Pretty please. Uh oh, Renfield, I feel woozy.”
“Woozy?” Renfield glanced at
the floor and read the label on the broken jar of sauce: oven roasted garlic. He applied hand to head. “Oh no.”
The cashier winced. “Buzz
off, you creeps, alla you!” She grabbed a box of Ding‑Dongs and chucked it at the senior’s head. “I oughta knee you
in the do‑da.”
“Perhaps another time,”
Renfield intervened, steering the unsteady Vampire Bazarsky from the premises.
Sirens wailed around the
corner. A tsunami of sound waves.
The cashier bade them
farewell: “Look at the mess! Die you dirt-bags!”
A police car and an ambulance
screeched in front of 7-Eleven. The
vampire and his right‑hand man stumbled outside into a crossfire of headlights.
Two cops and two paramedics appeared.
“I’ll handle this,” Renfield
whispered.
Bazarsky swayed in the
flashing blue light, buzzed on garlic. Behind him, a trail of red footsteps led
back to the store. “Renfield, I need a bio-shower.”
“Shhh!”
A paramedic ran up to the old
man. “Sir, you’ve been shot—get the stretcher.”
The vampire squinted at the
rear doors of the ambulance, spotting a plump technician. “Sir,” he slurred,
“are you…inviting me…inside?”
“Pardon?”
Renfield glared at his cross‑eyed
master, and removed his garlic‑stained raincoat. The effect was immediate.
“Is that an official
invitation?” Bazarsky inquired, perking up.
Renfield inched closer and
whispered, “Master, please. Not now.”
Bazarsky waved him off, and
was set on a stretcher.
Renfield watched the
ambulance exit the parking lot. Through the rear windows, signs of mayhem
erupted inside the vehicle. Fists flew. Screams. Red stains splashed the
windows like tomato juice. A grinning Master Bazarsky appeared behind the
glass, winking at his right‑hand man. Then the interior lights blinked out.
The ambulance careened up the
curb and crashed into the plate glass windows of:
Community Services
"It's Nice to be Nice"
The police stood and stared,
stunned, as Renfield escaped in the Chevy.
#
“That’s extraordinary,” the
reporter said.
Renfield crept into the lamplight. He paused, his nose and mouth
twitching furiously, then reached for the table lamp, removed the shade, and
raised it like a goblet. He appeared to be drinking from the glass globe.
Dead bugs sprinkled from the
bottom of the upturned lamp.
“Ah, Mister Renfield? Excuse
me. I couldn’t help notice, are you an insectivore?”
Renfield set the lamp down,
flicked his tiny pink tongue, and burped. “Oh my, look at the time. Goodness
me, I must run. The Master Bazarsky will be waiting for me at 7‑Eleven.”
“Seven...?”
“He’s gone back each night
for two weeks. He stands in the parking lot and waits till dawn. Except he’s
got a tiny prob—burp—problem.”
“It’s the girl, isn’t it? He
watches her through the window as she flips him off?”
“Worse. There’s been a turf
war. The greeter from Wal‑Mart—LaMont Harrington Tithesdale, IV, Esq.—has
returned from the dead with a wicked attitude. Each night he’s been showing up
at 7‑Eleven, wearing his little red vest, trying to get inside and fang the
girl.”
“Mercy!”
“Last night was the pits.
Including…um…a labor dispute…”
#
Reanimated prick and undead WalMart greeter, LaMont Harrington Tithesdale, IV, Esq.
(wearing his cherry-red vest)
“Beat it,” the eminent
Ellsworth Bazarsky told undead LaMont Harrington Tithesdale, IV, Esq. “I was
here first.”
LaMont countered: “Screw you.
I got dibs on the green gal.”
The Vampire Bazarsky stepped forward. “Young man, you’re beginning to
set my teeth on edge.”
“So? Thanks to you, I’m a
reanimated cadaver dressed in full Wal‑Mart for eternity. I’m a Wal‑Martian!
And you’re my undead deadbeat dad. Did I ask for it? No. Pick on someone your
own size, you bidentate brute!”
“Why you whiny little
misanthropic monkey.” Bazarsky’s face collapsed in concentration. “Hmmm.
Renfield, get over here.”
“Uh…yes, Master.”
“Renfield, I command you,
kick little LaMont’s deathless derrière. Make him scram screaming.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me, Renfield. Concuss the undead greeter. Renfield, wait! Get back
here, Renfield. Are you a man or a mouse? Renfield! Ren-n-n-n-n-n-n-field!”
- the end -
(The end? Far from it. Alas, with Master Ellsworth Barzarsky and LaMont Harrington Tithesdale IV, Esq. on the loose, the steady decline of nice people will continue exponentially.)
I’M THE STATUE OF LIBERTY!
Gimme your undead, your blood-sucking WalMart greeters?
Gimme LaMont Harrington Tithesdale, IV, Esq?
Is you shitting me?
Gimme a break!
