A/N: I did my best to make sure all the slang I used was period appropriate to the 1940s, my sincerest apologies for any anachronisms.
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Russian Roulette is an Immortal's Game. Anyone who tells you otherwise either has a death wish or is just flat-out fucking stupid. I've been both, I know the type. So, when this bitch with beady eyes and greasy blonde hair came into the warehouse, everyone could smell the mortality on her like the sound of a pulse in a den of vampires. Not that any of us were that kind of immortal. Well, one was but he had his own blood dealer that worked in the hospital.
Everyone stared at her. "I'm here to play Blackjack, am I in the wrong room?"
That was when the door closed behind her and I heard Andre lock it firmly. No way out now.
"Pull up a chair sweetheart, Mister Miles will deal you in." The Creole Bastard was always chewing on that stupid toothpick, the sound of it was grating to my ears. I glanced at my vampire friend and motioned for him to follow me into one of the backrooms.
I watched as he closed the door behind him, taking off my hat. "I need a hit, Johnny."
"So soon?"
"Yeah... I'm jonesing real bad. I'm starting to get sensory fried from all the gum-popping and toothpick-chewing and..."
Johnny held up a pale hand and unbuttoned the top buttons of his sleeve. "How much this time?"
"Oh, c'mon Johnny, the wrist? You know I like the more Southern flavors..."
The vampire's social mask almost slipped when he licked at his thin lips, a nervous habit when he felt his fangs want to slide out. He glanced at his watch, "Make it quick, okay? I don't want to get caught."
I watched as his hands went to unfasten his belt and then drop his pants. I scrambled to my knees before him - it was almost shameful but I didn't care - I had to have him. I took him in my mouth and I fed on his hard dick, sucking like there was no tomorrow. It took about ten minutes before he finally lost control and I got a proper meal of both blood and semen, a demon's delight.
He pulled himself together and smoothed a hand over his flaxen hair, slick with some type of product to hide the fact that it was really fucking curly without it. "That needs to hold you over for at least three weeks. I'm a vampire, I have limits that even humans don't. You really should find a human to feed from."
I made a disapproving face. "I need immortal energy. I get all the humanity I can stand when I taste your blood since you feed on them. I can't stomach any more than that."
"Then remind me to take you to New Orleans, sometime. There are more of us down there if only you'd be willing to leave your beloved New York. Come on, I got one-hundred-and-fifty large for the Roulette Game in an hour. I just bought a new Colt. Real beauty, I can't wait to break it in."
And so we rejoined the festivities. That was how it was. Every night. For weeks.
Neither of us had any idea how much that beady-eyed bitch would fuck up everything we loved and valued about our eternal existence. No idea, until it was almost too late.
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It was a long trek home when I came across one of the works of the infamous New York City Vandalist. Those who followed him called his vandalism, 'art.' I'm sure some Warhol-obsessed, snub-nosed, rich freak is paying some journalist to record all the quips into a dime store pulp novel, along with real photographs of the work itself. If not, in some media producer's wallet trying to eventually make some documentary about what most thought of as common property destruction.
He used fire to tag the walls so that you couldn't wash them clean or paint over them. No, it was ingrained in the fucking brick. I was almost impressed. Okay, I was impressed. I was so impressed, I became obsessed with finding him. I had to know who he was and if he was like me, an Immortal.
And finally, on the night of December fourth, I had my chance. I was on my way outside to take a piss because I didn't want to wait in the long ass line and my bladder was about to just use my pants when I smelled smoke, and --ignoring my bladder for a second-- I followed the scent of it. Some ways down the alley, I saw him and he saw me.
He was just a twink in ragamuffin clothes. His eyes were like bright blue flames and his hair was under a beanie cap. He smiled at me.
"You're the one," I said.
"Are you going to tell on me?" He asked, his voice older than he looked. It was heavy, deep, and accented in a way I couldn't pinpoint and the way he sang the words out at me was overt flirtation. His voice was like a teasing flame in a cold world that was starving for warmth.
"Not if you buy me a drink I won't." I felt clever for my retort.
He seemed to think so too. He smirked, "Just a drink?" He asked. I could hear the innuendo rising in his voice.
"Well, we can start with a drink... and see where it goes, how's that?"
"Hm. You can do better than that, but I'll let it pass this time," he flirted back.
My bladder pulsed reminding me of the reason I came out here in the first place. I nearly doubled over trying to hold it in. When I could stand more upright again, he was gone. I didn't worry too hard about how he was going to find me to get that drink and just went against the wall he tagged, and boy did I need to whizz.
Once I was done, I looked up at what he had carved into the wall. It said, 'Don't Be a Hero In Someone Else's Story; Always add Olives On Your Pizza.'
I laughed. He always writes the most chaotic nonsensical shit. But something about that in itself, the absurdity in the bleak world, made me smile. And maybe that's why he did it, sowing hope in an otherwise hopeless world.
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The taste of the metal in my mouth was making me hard, even before I pulled the trigger. The disappointing click made me lightheaded. I slowly pulled it out and then passed the gun to the person on my left.
Watching his body open in a wound and swallow the bullet made me clench my jaw. I should have doubled down, but it would have taken me six weeks to heal an upper spinal wound and Johnny was overseas in Spain these days, working on some special novel or some shit. I was trying to wait the three weeks he requested, but I was getting restless. I could have used the pain of a bullet tonight, but turns out Samael got it again this time. If I had an extra thirty grand to throw down - on top of the fifty to enter for supplying the weapon - I'd be fine. Unfortunately, I spent my last big bills tonight. I would have to give Montgomery a visit.
Now, Montgomery was the sketchiest bookie ever to walk the state of New Hampshire. He was always fucking someone or on his way to fuck someone. He had a higher libido than I did, and I am an incubus. The long drive to his three-room shack in a sea of tall trees was several hours too long, but I needed the cash so this was my alternative. I refuse to go on the straight and narrow. I would go full homicidal and that was something I was actively trying to avoid. I am an immortal, I would not want to serve a life sentence in some mundane lock-up. I'd never leave and it would be bad for my community. We thrive on the down-low. Once the mortals know for sure we exist, our times of peace would be long gone and I did not want the blame for that.
I could hear the broad screaming her lungs out when I pulled up. I stood by the door and calmly waited for them to finish fucking, because I may be a demon, but I have manners. Never disturb a man when he's balls deep in someone. Not unless you want to deal with the irritability and agitated mood from not letting him finish.
"Ohhhh, Monty, you certainly know how to treat a girl right," I heard the broad saying. She had one of those twangy, native New Englander accents. Probably Boston, I couldn't tell. I heard her footsteps click-clacking as she came to the door. Her eyes went wide when she saw me, then she smiled and very daintily walked away. She wasn't wearing practically anything, just some thin frock that made her tiny tits press noticeably through the fabric. It went just long enough to cover her ass and her heels made her petite frame look almost cartoony; especially the way she wobbled like she was either still feeling the aftershocks of cumming or she didn't know how to walk in the shoes.
"Sour Screw, what can I do for you?"Â Monty greeted me. I turned my head away from the woman walking and gave a crooked smile to the bookie I came to visit. "Hey there, Monty. I was wondering if you had any jobs that could benefit from my skill set. I am a bit low on cash."
"Roulette again?" he asked as he waved me inside. Thankfully, he was covered up in a silk robe. I could smell the stickiness of that woman all over him though. It was making my Hunger louder in my head and I tried to ignore it as I walked deeper into his humble abode. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watched as Monty arranged a small pile of white powder on a glass table into lines.
"Well, it's funny you should inquire about your skill set. There was something that came up on my radar a few days ago when I was visiting Chelsea. I know how much you love New York, so this may be right up your alley,"Â he said, then bent down to snort a line quickly before tipping his head back with a sigh. "Oh that's good," he groaned, feeling the effects nearly immediately.
Then he shuffled the short distance into a small kitchen with an attached office. "Some woman was looking for some help on this bank run. She needs funds to start this organization and she's too impatient to go to the legit channels. No one came to mind who would be good at a quick in and out other than you, Dante. If you're interested, you get forty percent. That should be more than enough to hold you over for at least a few months, right?"
"So, it's just a snatch-and-grab on some bank? Monty, any infant can do that."
"No, not just any bank, Donny. She wants every bank in the Manhattan area to get milked. That's why I thought of you. You don't necessarily have the same limitations as any mortal infant with a big shiny gun and a phony passport. Right?"
"Every bank in Manhattan?"
"That's right."
"And I only get forty percent?"
"Don't you go gettin' greedy, Donny. That's forty percent of all the banks in Manhattan. That's no small chump change."
I sighed again. "Fine I'll do it, but I want to bring in my own guys. There ain't no way I can do this all on my own."
"Sure, sure. It's your show. Here, this is her contact information."
I took the card he grabbed off his desk. "Betty Bulgaria."
"An alias, I'm sure. But you're no stranger to those, are ya?" Monty said with a smirk before tilting his head at me knowingly. "You need a hit, don't you? I can see the need in your eyes. How long has it been?"
"Just two weeks. I'll be alright."
"You know what your problem is, don't you? Feeding on that vampire all the time. If I didn't know you better, I'd say you're in love with the bastard. Gotta be careful or they'll start callin' you Coffin Bait."
"I can't stand humans. You can have all of them. They just give me indigestion."
Monty laughed, "Indigestion, sure. You like your food dead and cold. I like mine alive and writhing. But I'll tell you what, I don't trust vampires. So whenever that bastard said he'd be back in town, I don't trust it. And I don't want you driving up here until you get that job done. I'm sick of the bitch breathing down my neck about getting some quality criminals to help her fucking holier-than-thou mission. So, here is what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna lend you my girl, Melinda. You'll like her. She works up in the whorehouse outside of Queens just a little ways. Quality demon chi is what you need. She ain't a chi-feeder like you. She's just a demon bitch, but she's a Madam of that whorehouse. It's only a whorehouse to those in the know, like you and me, but the Mundanes... They think it's just some dive bar that serves really good hangover waffles."
"What's it called?" I was getting hard already, thinking about this demon.