An off-the-wall take on the old vampire story.

   He felt high now. Her blood was coursing through his body, giving him energy. He was intoxicated with it. But like a depressive drunk, the effect soon had him in a state of despair. He slumped against a wall, tears dripping from his eyes. Russel wanted fresh air, so he headed for Hampstead Heath. Parliament Hill was high and out of the fumes.
 
" 'Ere comes one. Look at his pretty-boy face and long hair. He's a fuckin' uphill gardener if ever I saw one," whispered one lad to his mates.
   "Right, let's give the fuckin' queer a right fuckin' kickin'."
   "Yeah, the fuckin' pooftah bastard," agreed the third.
   Russel didn't know what had hit him. Blows rained on his head and shoulders and then he was on the ground, being kicked by heavy boots in the ribs, the stomach, the genitals.
   "Fuckin' dirty bastard poof!"
   "Yeah. Kick the fuckin' queer in the ballocks!"
   "Yer won't fancy no more boys, yer git, not wiv' fucked-up balls!"
   It was all of ten seconds before Russel realised what was happening and by that time, he was already badly beaten. But being undead did have its benefits -- like possessing superhuman strength when it mattered.
   He quite enjoyed the fear on the lads' faces as he got up casually, smiling at them so that his extended fangs glinted in the moonlight. He was wild now; attacking all three viciously and swiftly disabling them. Then he took each in turn, slowly breaking fingers, arms, ribs. As each watched in terror, he bit through another's throat, ripping flesh and spitting it out. He would not ingest the blood, this bad blood. Soon, the revenge-lust was spent. With the last one, he simply jerked the head round to break the neck.
   Russel limped towards the lights down in Hampstead village. He needed a drink.
 
The barmaid in the dimly-lit wine bar did not notice at first that he was dishevelled.
   "Yes?"
   "I'll have a ... phew ... I don't know -- give me a bottle of Becks, please."
   "Bottle of Becks? OK."
   As Russell fumbled with his money, she realised that his lip was bleeding, his face bruised and his clothes were revealing the obvious signs of his having been attacked.
   "You OK?" she asked.
   "Yeah."
   "Don't look it."
   "Well, I've just had a bit of a kicking from three skinheads. Up on Parliament Hill. They thought I was gay. Queerbashing, I believe they call it."
   "You wanna call the police?"
   "Nah. I've ... dealt with them."
   The barmaid cocked an eyebrow. A slender artistic-looking boy dealing with three skinheads? She'd like to know how.
   Russel took some swigs at his beer. The alcohol made his lip smart. He flinched. She noticed. As the barmaid served, she cast Russel the occasional glance to check if he was OK. He noticed.
   She had on men's combat trousers and a tight vest-type top. Her face was quite round and her hair closely cropped. Russel noted she had unusually strong shoulders for a girl. She probably worked-out. On her shoulders were tattoos. Her ears were pierced with numerous studs. He was jerked out of his thoughts by his throbbing body. Christ, did he feel rough.
   She came over. "You sure you're OK?"
   "I do feel a bit fucked-up. But I heal quickly; it runs in the family."
   "Annie!" called the barmaid, "Take over will you? I'm going for a break!" She addressed Russel. "I'm Mandy. Look, come into the back room and have a clean up, then sit down. I'll make you a coffee or something. And don't get the wrong idea - I'm not going to seduce you."
 
Mandy switched on a kettle.
   Russell washed his face at the sink, dried it on kitchen paper then slumped down into a threadbare armchair.
   "You from round here?" she asked.
   "Swiss Cottage."
   "What do you do? I thought you look like an artist."
   "I ... er ...I work at home. Writing and stuff."
   "So you're indoors all day? And go out at night?"
   "Yeah, but not for what you think. I'm not gay."
   "I know; as they say, it takes one to know one. So why the heath at night?"