Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Extended > Blood Sport: Chapter 2
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 1449 guests online and 3 members online |
Extended Work
| print friendly version | |
| Blood Sport: Chapter 2 | |
| By tup_bup | ||
| 26 May 2008 | ||
|
I've tried to do something different with the idea of how a vampire feeds whilst in keeping with the tradition that the encounter is sexual. I don't want this scene to become too graphic however, as I don't want it to be one of those novels! Vincent inhaled the aroma of stale smoke and beer as he wiped the glasses with a greasy cloth. He despised the taste of sterilised bars; the air, the glasses, the chairs. His mind hearkened back to the era of sticky floors, cigarette burns in carpets, glasses that threatened all kinds of bacteria infections. The world was too safe; like a giant crèche for adults. No wonder why, in the age of bubblewrapping, was prey so easy to come by. They literally planted themselves in alleyways and waited to swept off of the face of Creche-England. Sinful idiots. A face framed by two cupped hands to block out the late afternoon sunlight pressed up against the whitewashed glass of the door to his bar. The shadow looked immensely tall on the slimy wooden floor. Vincent thought he recognised the figure but he chose not to open the door. Regulars knew the boundaries, daytime was his time. If they wanted beer they had to come and pour it from the pumps themselves and serve themselves at the till. Vincent proceeded to retrieve a mop from the back room. The mop bucket was a cocktail of beer empties, spit, cigarette butts and disinfectant. The combination reminded him of the bars from his own childhood, pressed up against long leather coats and a face full of greasy, long, headbanging hair. Eventually the person leaning against the door came in. “Afternoon,” he said as he entered. Vincent merely lifted his porcelain-white brow to nod at Godfrey. Godfrey retrieved a grease-smeared glass from the bar top, sniffed it and smiled satisfactorily. After pouring himself a beer he plonked his obese behind on a forgiving wooden high-backed chair. He exhaled loudly. “How was last night?” Vincent continued to mop the old bar smell onto the not-yet-scuffed wooden floor. Once it was scuffed the smell would sink into the cracks and he wouldn't have to mop it as frequently. "You know,” Vincent replied. Godfrey seemed satisfied at this answer and returned to his beer. He sat through the rest of the afternoon alternating between quiet contemplating and thumbing through a small book. As it got towards seven o' clock, Vincent prepared himself for the onslaught of small-talk and servitude to the drunken masses that were drawn to 'Vincent's'. When Vincent came up with idea of opening a bar where drinks were not cleaned up as soon as you spilt them, or where you couldn't eat off of the floor for fear of accidentally ingesting some small shards of glass or A-Class drugs, he had no idea the bar would be so popular. He had been fooled into thinking that the country was happy with the bubbles of cleanliness that surrounded them. He quickly realised that quite the opposite was true: the city, and the country, was more riddled with sin than ever. The evening passed away into late-night without event. His regulars filled his head with stories of their families, jobs, extra-curricular and illegal activities. He agreed to purchase some beer that had been smuggled in from Russia, formerly known as Europe, and marijuana that had been smuggled in from Germany, formerly known as France. At around 11:30 Vincent noticed a group of people coming in through the door that he had never seen before. It was unusual for people to just come to the bar without being brought by someone who knew it well. The bar had gained a reputation for being a bit 'rough'; never had a brawl broken out, it was the bouncers who the city was afraid of. Poor Birmingham, still infantile in its fear of the unknown. The bouncers are there to protect the punters, not kill them. The group of men consisted of four, they were all well over thirty. They tried to squeeze themselves discreetly into a vacant booth near the windows, however it was impossible to not be noticed in the bar if you were an unfamiliar face. Vincent watched them, trying to keep his face impassive – he knew there would be as much attention on himself as there was on the unknown men. The tallest of the three, a grey-skinned man with thinning brown hair and watery-blue eyes approached the bar. Vincent had watched as they discussed who would be best to go, his acute hearing picking up even on the most whispered conversations. “What can I get you?” Vincent asked before the man barely had time to rest his finger tips on the bar. He looked slightly taken aback, as though it was unusual to be offered something in the bar. He quickly recovered himself and asked for three bitters. Definitely corporate men. Only men pretending to be men drank bitters anymore. “Right.” Vincent busied himself at the pumps and did not offer him the small-talk. That was not given away lightly, people had to initiate it. “Nice bar you've got.” Vincent looked at him quizzically. “Thanks.” “Did, erm – Did you start this bar yourself or did you just move in?” “It's mine.” Vincent paused before stating: “You haven't been here before.” “No, I haven't. I heard about it though and thought it sounded interesting.” “Interesting, yes ...” Vincent considered the word 'interesting' for a while. It was not necessarily a compliment. “It's aimed at a niche market,” said Vincent as he handed over the three pints. The man handed over his Visa, which was quickly swiped, deducting close on fifteen pounds from his electronic bank balance. Paper money did not exist any more, something to do with ecology. The man took the pints quietly and wondered back over to the booth. Drinking and conversation carried on normally, the men had lost their interest once it was established that they were not dangerous. Vincent also lost interest in them; probably doing market research into sub-cultures. A young girl approached the bar who filled up his vision until closing time. Her hair was long, down to her waist, dark brown and curled into delicate ringlets. Her eyes were framed with thin black eyebrows and her eyelids dusted with a smoky grey. Her eyes themselves were a piercing blue and her skin olive, probably fresh from the tanning-spas that run at full power through the winter. “What can I get you?” “A Bloody Mary.” She smiled knowingly, revealing an impressive set of strong, white teeth. Not a nip out of place. “You know Dion,” he said, rather than asked, as he prepared the cocktail. The girl looked over her shoulder to the group she had been stood with. Dion nodded at her. “Yeah, well, not really. I only met him tonight. He told me about this bar. I'd heard there were bars like this but just never knew where to look.” Vincent's eyes were trained on the eyeliner around her eyes. He traced their curved line down into the swirls she had drawn at the corner of her eyes. The make-up reminded him of the posters taped to the boards outside the bar, it was as though her eyes were an exotic letter drawn in calligraphy. An artist, thinks everything is a performance. That's why the bar appeals, she thinks its pretend. Vincent handed over the drink offering it on the house. She accepted and Vincent smiled. You could never buy a girl a drink when you worked at a bar, it always seemed like it was a favour. A small circle of pink appeared on each of the girl's cheeks. She did not make a move to leave the bar. “I'm Vincent.” “Louise.” She made a move as if to offer her hand but quickly took it back. People didn't shake hands in a bar. “We're having a lock-in tonight if you're up for a late one.” Louise cocked her head to one side as she requested another Bloody Mary. The contract was sealed.
*
As Ray was plagued with dreams of a shrivelled corpse so Vincent was engorged with sin. Louise had indeed been a Bloody Mary-virgin, never before entertained in the way that made Vincent famous amongst his regulars. Louise squirmed and arched her back on the red silk sheets, her own crimson blood painting it an ever deeper red, half suffocating in Vincent's blond hair as he bit at her neck. Vincent drew a line with his razor sharp tongue from the top of where the dark stubble threatened to push through her delicate skin to the bottom of her navel. He parted the skin, fresh blood oozing out. He held in his hands a small red sack, about the size of a fist. “You sure?” He asked, his lips, nose and chin all stained with her blood. She nodded emphatically, biting her lip and digging her nails into the side of his face. Vincent bit into the organ and a low moan escaped Louise's painted lips. Another one for the dumpster.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||
Next item
|
|---|