Picking Up Chicks, for Dummies
Mike Shaw, copyright 2008

You walk into the club. Your Wingman follows. A survey of the scene reveals two Bogies dead-ahead, and one of them appears to be the Hindenburg. There is a moment of worry, but your Wingman knows his job; he takes point without a word, and glides in to ask the blimp for a dance. As the Wingman dips and weaves around the zeppelin’s amorous advances, he signals you to engage your target, the more...aerodynamic...of the pair.

        You try to cool off. Is the club’s heating on too high? you wonder. No, it’s not. Stop making excuses. You begin your approach. An attempt at smoothly meandering your way over is foiled when you realize she’s been staring at you for some time. Damn. A seat is available beside her at the bar, but an intoxicated young man comes in hard for a crash landing and ejects the contents of his stomach all over it. Double damn.

        You look down at your clothes to make sure you aren’t speckled with vomit instead of looking up at the girl, who had risen from the bar and parked herself in front of you, smiling. You’re startled to see her there and, “Hey...” is all you can manage.
“I’m a bit thirsty,” she says, and patiently waits for you to get the hint.

        You get the hint.

        As drinks are drunk and playful banter about your “long-range missile” and her “impressive landing strip” is exchanged, you receive a text message on your cell phone. Your Wingman informs you that he has taken extensive damage and has no choice but to land behind enemy lines in the blimp’s apartment, and adds that a rescue mission will not be necessary until morning. Humph. You didn’t need him anyway.

        The girl squeezes your arm and asks, “Can we take this party back to my place?” Stunned by her forwardness, you mumble something semi-coherent. She assumes you meant, “Yes, that sounds lovely,” and drags you out the door. You offer no protest.

        As you walk, the girl points to a dark alley and proposes that you travel down it together. You ask, “Why? It seems dangerous.” Not to sound like a prude, you add, “I wouldn’t want someone as sexy as you walking down a dark alley—we can have fun in the dark at your place.” You feel cool.
“I think alleys are hot. The danger turns me on,” she says with a teasing smirk. You feel even cooler, and suppose that you’re willing to play her game for just a little while.

        In the alley, she pushes you against the wall of an ethnic grocery and wraps herself around you. She giggles as she guides your hand over her body. You lean in for a kiss, but your lips glance off her cheek as her lips latch on to your neck. The fangs go in, and you crumple to the ground. The vampiress walks back to the street, and out of sight.

        You lay unmoving in the filth, and ask yourself the cliché question: Why me? It’s a good question to ask, since you really didn’t deserve this. You’re a kind person overall, and very honest too. You like small children, and are a promising young bio-physics major at the university.

        Then again, you’re also a dummie.