Musings of a Postmodern Vampire Read online

  MUSINGS OF A POSTMODERN VAMPIRE

  A novel by

  P.J. DAY

  Acclaim for the novels of P.J. Day:

  “Mr. Day stands out as an absolute prodigy in talent. His writing is intelligent, smooth and incredibly creative. He tackles the biggest themes of all with a brilliantly acute eye.”

  —IND’TALE MAGAZINE

  “Musings of a Postmodern Vampire is atmospheric and extremely memorable.”

  —INDIEBOOKSPOT.COM

  “Hip. Relevant. Darkly funny. Day’s vampires offer a unique perspective on what it means to be human. A fantastic new series.”

  —J.R. RAIN

  Novels and Stories by P.J. Day

  Musings of a Postmodern Vampire

  The Sunset Prophecy

  Mercy’s Magic (with Elizabeth Basque)

  The Last Rhino: A Short Story

  Musings of a Postmodern Vampire

  Copyright © 2012 by P.J. Day

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  To my beautiful baby girl, I thank you for perspective.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to H.T. Night, J.R. Rain, Eve Paludan, Sharon F. Stewart, and Scott Nicholson for all their help.

  Musings of a Postmodern Vampire

  Book One:

  Vampire Revealed

  Chapter One

  When one hears the word vampire, evocative images and words like blood, immortal, fangs, and wooden stakes begin to gird the mind. Vampire lore has existed for many centuries now, and has become intertwined with Western culture akin to Santa Claus, Mickey Mouse, and Big League Chew. I have a package next to me, love the stuff; don’t ask.

  They say we are over-sexualized, supernatural beasts that stalk young women at night (Cougars, you’re looking good too... keep it up... some of us have a penchant for a more aged, marinated plasma!), sucking up every single last drop of blood from their limp, barely conscious bodies.

  We are exploited in film, books, and television; continuously portrayed as vicious killing machines, or teen heartthrobs that sparkle like disco balls. Your children use our mythicized personas for learning tools and garish costumes for Halloween; the one day a year I can go around smiling in public without a care in the world.

  Yes, we do carry quite a reputation, and our stereotypes might be based on some reality. However, you don’t really know us, and you especially don’t know me. I am well over a hundred years old, and the only way I could have made it this far is to emulate your kind. In this fast-paced world, where everyone knows your name, everyone knows where you live, and everyone knows who you know, only the crafty ones can survive in this age where everyone’s life can be judged by a single .jpeg file.

  My life has slowed down some. I guess you can say that in my earlier life, I was somewhat of a savage; one with a moral compass, but a savage nonetheless. Life back then was a bit more unforgiving. Lack of information, knowledge, and proliferation of media tended to keep a lot of our demons open for business. The erosion of privacy, while carrying a hefty dose of concern, has kept everyone pretty damn honest and put to rest some of the fiends that have victimized so many in the past. This is true for most politicians, the power elite, citizens, and especially, for yours truly.

  So, here I am. I have decided to take a giant leap forward. It is time to spew my thoughts. Few know my identity. Luckily for me, I have made superb choices on those who I have been candid with about my true nature; men and women who are impervious to the temptation of a quick buck and quick, fleeting fame. I feel very secure in slowly revealing who I am to the world, because I am certain I have a wonderful circle of friends, which I trust with my life, and I know their loyalty surrounds me like a protective, secure ring of fire.

  Ted, my best friend, who is like my brother, would fall on a sword in order to keep me from ever being harmed. I would never hesitate to do the same for him. Cassie, whose relationship with me, although complicated, is my lifeblood in more ways than one. Samuel, who I am writing these memoirs for, has been my confidant for many, many years. It is time I rewarded his loyalty with my thoughts. What better way to reveal my existence, to the global consciousness, than through the penmanship of one of the leading human rights and social justice columnists of the new millennium. Lastly, I just met a girl, a very pretty one. She was taking pictures at an evening function for our company. Holly is her name, and there is something about her. I can’t quite put my finger on it. She has all the qualities, at first glance, that all of my most loyal friends, past and present have shared. Well, I asked her out, and luckily, she said yes. It takes an experienced, creative mind to plan out a single date with a beautiful woman. I haven’t stopped thinking about how I am going to make a first impression.

  First thing first, though. Samuel has given me a list of things that he wants me to explain. First, he wants to know what a person of my advanced age thinks of today’s world with all of its technological advances and so forth. Then, he wants me to talk about love. He wants to know if vampires are truly driven by blood and libido. Finally, he wants me to disclose my past. This one, I must admit, will be quite difficult. Like I mentioned earlier, I fear my quest for the world’s tolerance of my kind will be slightly fogged up by a collection of painful details.

  I will do my best for Samuel. I’ll try to be as honest as possible. Also, I know for certain that my work and life will prevent me from finishing up his requests in a timely manner. I hope he’s as patient as he is cavalier.

  ***

  I wish I had an amazing singing voice. Look how beautiful and fresh-faced these kids were. Mira was gorgeous with her gleaming, creamy, white neck—the way her common carotid artery bulged out on her neck in a beautiful bluish-green glow whenever she belted out Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

  There was not a single decade of my life that I wouldn’t have traded to be in the dressing room with her after her lovely song. I bet she was all sweaty, too. I could smell her from here... hmm.

  I needed to vote... where was my phone?

  “Menstrual Mime!” I shouted.

  Ah, there it was, under my rank pile of clothes! The crappy find-my-phone app makes my phone ring so loud, I’m certain it would make banshees squirm, once the secret word was uttered. Unfortunately, “Menstrual Mime” was the only phrase that yielded 100% accuracy.

  Okay, it was time to vote. Mira... Mira... Mira, what text-your-vote code were you? This was the reason DVR was invented; that, and for recording surgery procedure shows that aired on the Health Channel. I loved it when a veteran surgeon didn’t care about a little bleeding, and let the artery bleed just a little more than would a typical overcautious surgeon. Blood was my pornography! Blood was my visual stimulant! Blood was my joy of existence. Blood was why I paid that extra eight bucks a month to DirectTV for high-definition reception. Let the blood-letting of televised surgeries splatter across my 46-inch LED flat-screen, vainglorious in full, uninhibited high definition!

  You know, those Snuggies weren’t that bad if you thought about it. I knew they looked ridiculous, but they kept one warm when watching TV, and usually, no one was around to see how stupid and ridiculous we all looked wearing them. The only risk that one took with a Snuggie was looking like a homeless Jedi in front of your cat, and in return, you got a cheap, Chinese, polyester-mix sheet that kept you all snuggly-wuggly warm through half a bloodless winter. Yes, times were tough with a Snuggie.

  I found the text-your-vote code for Mira! Oh, why lookie here; her code was the y
ear I was born; 1867! ‘Twas fate!

  Mira, I hope my little vote goes a long way in securing your fate as America’s next pop-orific talent winner! A world of half a million hits on the internet and gossip of your severe dyslexia in supermarket rags awaits you!

  I thought long and hard, as I usually do whenever there is a full moon outside my window. Television had really made me think a lot faster. My mind, in 2011, compared to the one I had in the late 1800s, was like Alzheimer’s in reverse. I think the rapid, ever-changing images, from years of watching television, had helped me to bridge gaps in my memory of past events, as well as gave me the big picture of current world events. It was as if tiny little bridges of surrealist paintings made me recollect events, people, and places that otherwise would not have been recalled, if it wasn’t for television.

  I remembered watching my first episode of the Howdy Doody Show. As soon as I looked into that puppet’s eyes, I remember waking up and seeing a Roble de Sabana stake poised in a shaking hand that hovered two inches above my chest, wielded by none other than Antonio Villaverde, vampire killer. Antonio had one of the ugliest faces I had ever seen a 12-year-old boy possess. He was a red-headed, freckled Mestizo. As rare as finding a wayward vampire in a Central American jungle.

  But there we were, two unlikely cosmic coincidences of paradoxical proportions, ready to cancel each other out over the perceived pish-posh value of survival.

  Luckily, his big sister Luz had run into the room and slapped Antonio five feet across the room into the nightstand, knocking over the candle—my notebook burst right into flames! Luz had saved me from the stake through my heart, but it was the notebook that detailed all of my travels in South and Central America, the one friggin notebook that had all of my handwritten research on vampire bat anti-coagulation, the possible cure for my ailment, and all of the writings that I had about my time and experiences with my sweet, beautiful, gorgeous Nora. Oh, I missed her with an ache. So much precious research, and memories of Nora, were gone in an instant. To this day, I equate TV’s Howdy Doody with the burning of the Library of Alexandria.

  No, I’m not that old. I was not an eyewitness to one of the worst historical tragedies ever, but being a little over 140 years old gives one a warped, methodical, and melancholy perspective on life that makes relating to every human being feel like a game of chess, even on the most mundane of topics.

  Human beings in the twenty-first century, compared to humanity a century ago, are practically a different species. One hundred years ago, I could look into someone’s eyes and—judging by a blink or two—I could make the immediate determination if it was okay to sit down and talk about each other’s origins in the most candid way. Within the first thirty minutes of conversation, I knew everything I wanted to know about a person, from their place of birth, to their most cherished recollections of their parental upbringing, and finally, discussions in vivid detail... the acceptance of a posthumous, guiltless death.

  When conversing with humankind today, death isn’t even mentioned. Mortality isn’t even alluded to. It is as if everyone in today’s world is an immortal supernatural creature of cunning grace, and death is only talked about out of necessity, a week before one’s vital organs start shutting down and a hospice is called to come with bed pans and morphine.

  There is no time for reflection, but there is plenty of second-guessing. Regret is the price they all pay for the constant streaming of new experiences through technology, instead of flesh pressed against flesh, word bartered for spoken word, and eye to eye contact to exchange the true light within all of us. The personal connection between people is being steadily replaced by… the progress of civilization, technology’s automation, and a jaded outlook almost completely devoid of social consciousness. Let me a take a deep breath... did I just go full Unabomber? Sorry...

  It’s becoming increasingly difficult to live in today’s fast-paced, information-addicted biosphere, though I wouldn’t let a balding scalp, burning chest, rapid palpitations, or an occasional blackout get in the way of my Facebook status posts. It is the worst of times—and the best of times—to be a vampire, but I guess I could really say that applies to everyone. Less personal privacy... but man! It is fun to be alive in these times. I love the challenge of it.

  In some ways, I can relate to this evolved state of heightened human existence. When I was young in vampire years, I remember walking through the old Panamanian countryside, thinking about one thing and one thing only: Where am I going to get my next fresh, juicy, exquisite drop of blood before my last fingernail detaches from my frail, translucent hand?

  Okay, so my brain is a little scrambled because of television. So what? Whose isn’t? I think it’s for the better, quite frankly. Yes, people in the past seemed more folksy and articulate, but media has been able to bind people from multiple regions into a more coherent culture, which at times makes them more relatable. Even if that cultural glue is reality shows, eeek!

  Ah crap! The sun is coming up! I always leave the shades opened just about the time the sun rises above the Santa Monica Mountains. Time to close up shop and hit the coffin! Just kidding... who the hell came up with the idea of vampires sleeping in coffins? I get a stiff neck just thinking about sleeping in one.

  Chapter Two

  Television is considered one of man’s greatest inventions; what about man’s next great invention? The one I feel will eclipse television, in terms of a medium that will—and has—connected the world in ways we never anticipated. How do I feel about the internet?

  Well, for starters, I don’t have to call anyone. I don’t have to pick up the phone, dial some numbers, think of something witty to say, break the ice, say, ‘Hey, how you doing,’ and then finally let the person know what I want to talk about.

  Now, with little nodes of data that are sent, I can effectively communicate without being considered rude by today’s standards. Just 20 years ago, if I walked up to my dear friend or family member and handed them a piece of paper, without saying hello, and on the little piece of paper, it said, ‘You are invited to dinner Friday night, bring Katie’ and just walked away promptly, they would think I was either festering up inside for being wronged or I that was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome and was inviting them to Brainwash Fest 2012.

  Having the ability to communicate on a whim, in an instant, and on demand, has certainly made humanity more efficient in relaying their needs. Technology has created a shortcut to the human psyche. Case in point: my texting relationship with Cassie. Now, don’t judge me yet. I like Holly a lot, but keep in mind, I have needs in more ways than one. As of today, I am a free agent.

  Cassie is a 5’6”, 24-year-old, blond stunner of classic proportions. She’s married, but her husband is a douchebag. Let’s call him Larry Herschfeld, and let’s say he works at Continental Bank Group, falsifying documentation for underwater mortgages that would paint the bank legally scott-free, even though they foreclosed three homes in the past year, which they never owned to begin with, and two of the three homes were already paid off by the owners. Larry also has plenty of tail on the side at his job and is brazenly unfaithful to Cassie. On any given night, one of my texts from Cassie reads: ‘He works till 10 p.m. Come over now.’

  This little snippet of thought translates universally from the language known as texting into, ‘I want you to come over and fuck my brains out while my piece of crap husband is banging his secretary.’ I text back, ‘Coming over,’ which translates into, ‘I have a smile from ear to ear and I am 10 minutes away from being with a goddess for at least 20 minutes tonight. Oh yeah!’ There might be a little neck feeding too—I hope.

  Communication is so fun nowadays. There is so much that can be implied with just a few words. Here is the kicker though: If this were done twenty years ago, and I was in the same situation with Cassie, we would talk this over on the phone and I bet you a hundred years of my life there would be a 50 percent chance of her talking herself out of this if she so much as sensed even a quiver o
f doubt about the whole situation in my voice.

  Smartphones, computers, and the internet have cut out the middleman, Mr. Superego, and empowered the reptilian wunderkind that is the Id. We are more animalistic than ever, and yet feel more advanced than ever. Sophistication and our brutish needs have officially compromised.

  Social networking sites like Facebook, YouTube, Tumblr, and other look-at-me websites, as I like to call them, are also other forms of modern communication that have rendered human behavior to a predictable art form for even the most non-astute observer.

  For example, Mary has a severe case of duckface in this picture. Her lips are scrunched together as if someone pumped collagen and lemon juice in them at the same time. She is doing this for attention and thinks men will find it cute. Yet, she doesn’t realize there are 30 other, younger, attractive females doing the same silly, puckered face in each picture all over my wall.

  If you are going to make a face that you think will attract members of the opposite sex, how about making up another goofy face, which by all accounts will probably not attract a suitor, but will at least keep those who find you ridiculous, entertained. How about a smooshy face? What about pinching and pulling your cheeks apart and making them flap like seagull wings? I know, why don’t you grab your upper lip and lower lip pull them apart and show us your gums? Healthy gums can show the world how disease-free you truly are! A gum grin will surely give us a better picture of your virility than a duckface.

  In the end, it truly doesn’t matter. If you are attractive, no amount of pushed and insincere silly faces is going to take that fact away.