CLOSING IN ON A SAD, LITTLE, BASTID, VAMPIRE GAL

Sarah and Tomas walked the streets. Sometimes they detected signs. Aromas and auras lingered on her trail. They felt heat...not much, but enough. It rose up from the sidewalk, marking random footfalls. But Annie's solitary jaunts were anything but linear. She wandered. She stared. She tasted. Sometimes the little bitch sat in a bus shelter for hours, watching a street corner and waiting for a perfect victim. Annie tried to be good. She heard what Tomas said, but she just didn't listen. 

One night she told Baylah (our Beyonce-esque, piano bar owner) she had a plan...... Go into a late night, fast food joint. Turn the biggest, dumb, goof they had.... Go to another late night, fast food joint and do the same.... Keep it up til there was like a hundred of them. Of course they'd need a place to sleep. She figured the mole people would help out with that. Lot a room in those deep, dark tunnels. After like a training period, she'd play Rosa Luxemburg and march 'em off to conquer the world, or at least a snug, little chunk of it. Said she got the idea from Freebie and The Brain.... whatever that is.

The two elferino-vampirinos went out looking too. Roland and Albion had a list. The caretaker's wife tore it from a phone book back at the cottage, deep withing the tombstones of Laurel Hill. Every furrier in the city was on it. They'd flit... They'd flit through the inky sky from point to point.... quickly descend to the sidewalk and investigate. Elfin noses are keen. If the vampirina known as Annie was inside they'd smell her. Even among all the dead, dressed mammal skins, they'd smell her.

Unfortunately, none of them knew this furrier's was extent. It was dead. It was but a memory. Yet the cold-room, prison lived on. And that's where she was... semiconscious, sprawled on a table, wrapped in two or three moth-eaten mink stoles and mumbling to some shadowy, 'momma' thing.

A thin, rubber tube fed blood, drawn from her neck, down into a small, plastic, beach pail on the floor. I think it was a Ronald McDonald beach pail. Her two captors, the pumped-up mafia princes, sat in the front room on an old, curving, pink, velvet sofa. That room was the 'salon.' It's where they showed the coats. The curtains were drawn and a little, thirteen inch Daewoo TV hooked up to some CVS converter brought in a few fuzzy channels of disgustingly free programming. Soon the pail would be filled.... And they would not need her anymore. Initially they wanted to keep her and milk her periodically. Shot-up bastids would pay plenty for genuine, miracle vampire blood. Still, that might prove too complicated, 'cause they didn't know what little vampirinas could actually do. Shakin' down restaurants was easier. It's what they knew. It's what they liked. They'd go back to it.

Already had a plan. Gonna burn her up. Fill the old, cold storage room with newspapers, sprinkle liberally with charcoal grill fire-makin' stuff. Light it up. Run out. Lock the door (it was like a big, nineteen fifties refrigerator door. all chrome and fancy). Loose the little bastid and collect some insurance money. Investigator don't look too hard at mafia 'lightning.' He know which way the wind blow. 'Sides, once they get the check.... he gone get half. 

Shadow 'momma' thing like that. She (it?) lickin' Annie's face, pattin' her arm..... tellin' her how great bein' all dead gonna be.... But she cold....And she dark..... Not night dark..... forever dark...... And Annie might not like that.

Hope they find her. Sarah do feel somethin'... but she doan know.

Edith home cryin'.... Ate up all her pumpkin pie. She go in the livin' room an' sit down. Gone watch television. But when she turn it on, she doan see no HGTV. She see a face. She see a gray face. It old. It dead. It talk. Say somethin' Hungarian, I think. I once heard Zsa Zsa Gabor talk that talk in a hotel on Bourbon Street.... so I know.

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