Jack Be Nimble Dinner With Jill

Jack Be Nimble: 1997-Main Course

"The Heart's Filthy Lesson, with her hundred miles to Hell." -David Bowie

Hello Gentle Readers,

My, my, my, over a thousand views of my little recounting. I'm flattered. Granted it's not as oft-read as say "A. My name is Alice" (to say nothing of the votes). I find it deeply amusing to see Freud's Oedipus theory personified in this story's popularity. Kudos to all you wonderful little people who want to kill your father and screw your mother.

Sadly, no public comments, but then again like every guilty pleasure, few wish to openly acknowledge the fact that they got off on the recalling of a woman being tortured and raped.

Que sera.

At any rate, I hear that there is going to be a Halloween contest. Let me first go on the record as to say that I adore Halloween. When else can you be as monstrous as you want in both appearance and behavior and be applauded for it? One occasion sticks out in my mind, a charming Halloween party where I casually snatched up some young slip of a thing and sucked her dry in front of a cheering crowd which was firmly convinced that her screams for help and wails of pain and terror (and this woman had a delicious set of pipes) were all part of an extremely well acted Halloween act.

I wonder how long it took them to figure out she was stone dead.

At any rate, to all my loyal disciples, drinking deeply from my cup, here is the next sacrament. Enjoy.

J

* * * * *

1997

Well, that was fun. I feel energized and delighted. I am currently riding on the train away from where I was previously. No, I won't name the neighborhood, so everyone within in a five mile radius of Boston, sleep tight. I am casually flipping the woman's card between my fingers, sitting in a metal and plastic chair on this roaring heap of metal and glaring lights they call a subway.

Now, as I said earlier, the lonely business woman (her name is, I believe, Courtney, from her driver's license) was just the appetizer. I am over a century old and the vampire physiology can hold quite a bit of blood. I have, at several points in time, drained no less than eight women dry and still been willing to stop somewhere for a quick snack.

I imagine I could drain this city dry. But, let's not forget that gluttony is a sin. Oh dear, I'm getting religious. I wonder if Courtney was a "god-fearin'" woman. People here in New England seem to take their religion pretty seriously; granted, not as seriously as their sports teams, but still. For those who doubt the veracity of this claim, feel free to stop into any church on a Sunday when the Patriots are playing and you'll see what I mean.

I chuckle to myself, amused by my thoughts as my train pulls up to an ear-splitting, screeching stop. I sigh to myself; honestly if parking wasn't such an issue in this city, I'd steal a car. You'd be astonished at the number of uses you can get out of a pair of jumper cables, a battery and a roomy trunk.

I get off at a college. Again, I won't say which one. (Sleep soundly sweet co-eds of Massachusetts and take a look around.) It's still quite warm this August night. One would think that a campus would be deserted during the "off season" (as opposed to that time between September and June which I affectionately call "hunting season") but such is not the case.

Many students take summer courses and while actual academic buildings may be closed, there are still all those charming sports bars, liquor stores and night clubs all helping underage drinkers get boldly trashed to perhaps help blot out the daily hours of bone crushing, mind numbing curriculum they have forced down their throats on their road to become waitresses and mail room drones with diplomas.

If I sound a bit scornful, I have just cause. I once enjoyed a lovely dinner with a young blond...companion on campus, this time during the "peak season". Unfortunately, this young woman was taking several different amphetamines which saturated her blood quite thoroughly. My fangs were chattering for the rest of the night. The variety of things these kids shoot, snort or swallow in order to keep up with the demands their professors put on them is astonishing.

Thus, between the perils of hopped up blood and the crowds, I tend to avoid making colleges a regular pit stop during school time. Believe it or not, while the pickings are a bit scarcer, the lack of crowds (read: witnesses) during the off season makes it that much longer until someone notices that little Susie Sorority hasn't been around for the latest kegger.

And so I am here, at this campus. School is out and so am I. It doesn't take long to find a good spot. I swear the amount of noise you people make at night is staggering. I have heard more humans, stone cold sober, make enough noise to bring every predator within 15 blocks screaming to them. It's amazing any of these people make it home alive. Women tend to make a "whoooooo!" sound whereas the males tend to keep going "Yeah!" First rule of hunting, know the animal calls.

So, I perk my ears and follow the noise.

It's a typical little college bar. I'm sure it was similar to the one at your college, (or if you've never been, where you've been to pick up college girls). The men are all dressed in baggy clothes and oversized jerseys (When did dressing in the dark become the fashion?), and the woman are wearing as little as possible. Belly shirts, sandals, cargo pants, some skirts but not many; doing their best to avoid anything that smacks of originality in their fashion palate.

Speaking of palate, let's get on with it shall we?

There is a line, and, oh look, a great big walking cliché; the bouncer. He's got a black shirt, black pants, a brain as thick as his arm, with those beady little eyes that denote someone who is "on the prowl" for troublemakers.

I nearly swallow my fangs choking back a laugh at this thought as I approach.

Well, after scoping out the menu in the form of the line to get in (A good clue as to what lays inside any establishment, see what loiters outside trying to get in) I decide that no, I am not in the mood to wait in line. I casually brush past the masses which are now sending me dirty looks and muttering, brave people to whisper behind someone's back. I do so adore cowards.

The bouncer gives me the once over. I'm not dressed in any sort of obvious fashion that denotes wealth (which translates into a nice cover charge {read: bribe}) for him so his demeanor becomes very frigid.

"Back of the line," he informs me.

"Thank you, no," I reply just as calmly. He folds his arms, looking very intimidating. Uh-oh, I'm in trouble now. The big bad bouncer man is scaring me.

"Listen mister I'm telling you-"

"You're telling me nothing," I reply calmly, locking his gaze. Behind his façade of strength lurks the same confused bovine look I can easily attribute to most of your race.

I force my way into his mind (fairly easy, yogis have been cultivating the theory of focused thought for quite some time, they just stop short of mind control), and it is pretty soft and typical: his feet hurt, he's bored, he wants to fuck the redhead three people back up the ass. Pretty standard stuff, so it's not all that hard for me to enter his consciousness,

"You should let me in, right now," I inform him, matter-of-factly. Backed up with the identical mental statement inserted into his brain, he blinks a few times then gets the hell out of the way.

"Good luck with that redhead," I whisper to him as I pass, then laugh as all the blood drains out of his face.

Like the bouncer, the bar lacks any kind of originality. Two big screen TVs, foosball, pool table, dart board, blah, blah, blah. It could be any bar at any campus (Remember that kids.) I drift in, belly up to the bar. The girl working there looks tired (so much for fresh faced college kids staffing) and asks my order: time to get to work.

I order the best scotch that this place stocks. That's a bit of a challenge for a place that runs on Budweiser and peanuts but with only a little mental nudging on my part, I manage to quell any curiosity that might be lurking within ye old bar wench's consciousness as she hands me my drink. I stiff her on the tip.

Well, now that I'm drinking like someone who has a lot of money, time to throw out more bait: with some animals its chum, with others its urine, for this group, its money. Not essentially dissimilar when you think about it.

I sit down at the bar, by myself, sipping my drink. The cell phone is resting on the bar within easy reach of my hands as if at any moment I may be receiving an important phone call pertaining to a million dollar stock merger or some such.

How predictable.

And equally predictable, the bait works quickly.

My ears pick up a whispered conversation, I turn to spy a pack (or is it a herd?) of young women, sitting around a table, anywhere between eighteen and twenty-something, looking in my direction.

Time to begin the game. I smile at them, they laugh and pretend to blush (I think a woman's ability to blush went out with the advent of hard core pornography, but that's just me), I laugh, pretending to be flattered and mentally make a wager as to which one is going to have the nerve to break away from her tittering cohorts and approach me.

And I'm right: young, five foot nothing, ten pounds underweight (let's hear it for bulimia), dirty blond hair pulled back in a pony tail, tank top belly shirt that says "Goddess" on it, white bra underneath it, a pair of jean shorts, and some sandals. She managed to pick out a tank-top whose straps are thinner than her bra's. Tacky.

In other words, she's the human equivalent of the dollar menu.

After garnering the obligatory approval of her peers and building up her courage with the last of her wine cooler (and it just keeps getting tackier) she approaches, the glowing faces of approving female sorority behind her.

"Hi." She says shyly. I snort mentally; this woman has all the bashfulness of a five dollar whore.

"Hello there," I smile back. My smile is bright and winning, with just a hint of mischievousness: wholesome enough to bring home to mother, enough of a bad boy to be an animal in the sack.

Oh child, you have no idea.

"My friends and I were wondering if you'd like to come have a drink with us," she continues.

"Really? You speak for all of your friends?" I ask playfully. She laughs, pretending that I'm funny, I laugh back, pretending I believe her.

"Yeah, especially Christine," she confirms for me. Oh ho, it's this game is it?

"Really? And which one is Christine?" I ask her. She points, and another blond clone waves. Sigh.

"Well, I don't know, there's five of you and only one of me. I think I'm a little outnumbered," I comment in that self-deprecating way that modern women seem to adore. Oh yes, I'm helpless, won't you please take care of me?

"We won't hurt you," the girl assures me.

"Well, at least I should know the name of my hostess, don't you think?" I reply. She laughs again with all the sincerity of a carnie barker.

"My name is Jane," she replies.

"Ah, Jane. Me Tarzan," I quip. She laughs again, a bit more sincerely. I offer her my hand; she takes it and leads me back to her tribe.

After buying another round for the table (drunken friends make very poor eyewitnesses later) I wrap plain Jane around my finger. I introduce myself as Matt, I'm 24, studying to get into corporate law. A few of the girls exchange knowing looks; corporate law means money, which makes me somewhat valuable to them. I amaze them with stories about the places I've been (not the time periods however), I stop every now and then to make "phone calls" on my cell phone (once to talk to some people sanding my marble sinks, one to confirm payment for a new car and other meaningless tripe that nonetheless conveys an image of wealth).

Now that the bait is dispersed amongst the herd, time to throw out the hook. I confide in them that my girlfriend and I have been having problems and that she stood me up for dinner tonight at the Four Seasons, they are of course VERY sympathetic. I then casually ask Jane if she'd care to join me there in her stead for a late dinner.

This is the most delicate stage of the hunt, separating one's prey from the herd. While it is true that many women travel in numbers for the illusion of protection it provides, the fact of the matter is that women hate each other with a jealousy-fueled passion that is astonishing to behold, born from the notion that if they do not take a good thing when it comes, someone else most assuredly will.

This strategy works brilliantly, especially since I have been careful to hedge my bet, splitting my attentions between Jane and Christine, and the green-eyed monster has taken root in both of their somewhat-disappointing bosoms. Jane leaps at the chance to have me all to herself where she may then seduce me, ensnare me, and spend the rest of her life living in the lap of luxury, to the envy of her so-called friends.

Hook, line and sinker.

I am now playing the eager "oh boy, I'm going to get laid" part to a "T". She is amused, believing herself to be firmly in control. I am acting a lot drunker than I am, and she is a lot drunker than she would like to have me believe. It's great how much these people will drink when they are not footing the bill.

We're holding hands, she's buzzing in my ear about...something or other. I smile and nod and laugh at all the appropriate places, I've done this dance so often I could do it in my sleep. You don't have to be a hundred years old to pantomime interest in what a woman says; many men I know have been doing it for years and they are quite human. Basically, I am appearing completely typical in all respects and her guard is down, she's quite confident she knows all there is to know about me and has seen all the world has to offer. It is a mistake she will not live to regret.

Now, I mentioned earlier that I do work. Contrary to popular belief, with a little preparation (good clothes, sun block, umbrella etc...), a vampire can take quick jaunts into the daylight. He won't be throwing cars anytime soon but he won't burst into flames. With the easy public access, getting to and from my place of work is quick and daylight exposure is minimal. I work in the service industry for a variety of reasons: the money is good, the hours are easy, its very much beneath the radar, and all sorts of tasty morsels come wandering in, all too eager to hand out personal information, such as home addresses.

Unfortunately, every now and then one of those morsels gets a little too lippy for my tastes. Such was the case of a young woman who made it abundantly clear that I existed solely for the honor of serving her needs. The temptation to rip the bitch's throat out and gorge on her blood was colossal. As much as I would like to hunt her down and introduce her to whole new concepts of pain and violation, it would be too obvious. Her little hissy fit was done in front of several customers and co-workers, so if something very bad happened to her, eventually a detective with two brain cells to rub together (a rarity, granted but still a possibility) might eventually make the connection.

Better safe than sorry and so, a bit of transference. Jane here is going to suffer for this other girl's rudeness.

We are now crossing the street, entering a small garden near the hotel. She's far too dainty to be willing to cross the Commons (after all we know how viciously dangerous a half-starved homeless person wasted on mouthwash can be) but this neat, little, out of the way topiary garden with its quaint fountain spraying water into the summer night, she feels safe enough in. That's a mistake.

"And so, that's when I knew that my last boyfriend just wasn't going to work out," Jane finishes. I sigh and turn to her, her chattering has really gotten to me and I am now in a very good "bad" mood.

"Are you sure it wasn't because you jabber like a retarded monkey?" I ask her, now stone cold and sober. Jane actually looks surprised and I wonder if my harsh words have cut through that fog of cheap booze and self-absorption that she and so many like her dwell in.

"What?" she asks. Then I casually backhand her across the jaw. The pain I feel at the contact of my hand with her jawbone is like scratching an itch. Her pain, I imagine, is quite extreme because I believe I've knocked out a few of her teeth.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," she burbles through bloody lips. She looks up at me in horror and then I am on her.

I knock her down, flip her onto her back and drag her to the fountain. With barely a grunt, I push her head under the surface of the bubbling water, casually bringing all my weight down onto her spine as I drop into a sitting position upon her. She is thrashing, slim little legs kicking up and down, tight little college ass lurching, trying to buck me off. Her hands are trying to reach up behind her head, but her angle is all wrong. The water in the fountain, too dark for human eyes to see, is turning slowly red to my nocturnal eyes. She continues to struggle but, while starvation may work nicely when one is modeling bikinis, being underweight can be a real bitch when fighting for one's life.

Finally her kicking is starting to subside, and I haul her out. She's coughing and sputtering water, choking on it. Between being badly waterlogged and nearly having her jaw broken she's fairly pliable. I get off her and drag her up to deliver a quick blow to her solar plexus (not TOO hard, though) that deflates her lungs leaving her to choke on the water she's already inhaled.

On to business, I tear her "Goddess" shirt from her body, and her bra follows. Her breasts are small, casualties to the heroin chic look, with tiny pink nipples. I bend down to suck on one, then the other, flicking with my tongue, scraping my fangs against them. I want to feed from her, but not yet. Her blood isn't quite hot enough, but don't worry, it will be.

She's regained some of her senses, it appears, and is swearing quite loudly. I grab her mouth and envelop it in mine in a brutal kiss. I bite into her lips and her tongue, she's screaming quite a bit now, but I'm muffling it. Her blood flows into my mouth, not enough for a meal but more of a taste test, letting me know that there's still quite a bit of fear and pain we could put in this girl for optimal flavor.

I knock her down hard into the dirt, some of which has turned to mud due to all the splashing water. She groans, I imagine the rocks and sticks digging into her little plum-shaped breasts are causing her quite a bit of discomfort. Time to cause her quite a bit more.

I strip off my pants and unsheathe myself from my clothes. I command the blood I received from Courtney earlier tonight to flow into my manhood, and I am now ready to harm her.

"Why are you doing this?" she bubbles out. She's crying, blood mixed with snot from her nose, mixed with tears doing wonderful things to her face. The question actually gives me pause.

"Because I can," I reply simply, and then I tear her pants from her body. I have to bite back a laugh; despite all her appearances of being a trendy, nineties-college-girl/sex-goddess, she wears granny panties. Not quite as confident as she likes to make others think apparently. I tear them from her body quite easily. Her ass is slim but well-formed; she must walk to class a lot during the school year. Her pussy is shaved (hmm, why DID that boyfriend dump her?) and ready to receive punishment.

I slam two fingers up into her pussy; she wails in pain, but is still coughing up water so it comes out as more of a gurgle. She is dry as a bone, unsurprisingly, but you don't rape and ravage for the better part of a century without learning a few tricks to overcome such things.