"I hate you turn-bloods, you have no respect for anyone or anything, I'm going to kick your ass," said the bozo in the stylish dark gray Brooks Brothers suit, right before he came for me, flanked by three of his suited fang-mates. The bozo in question happened to be Russell Cores, founder and CEO of Core Villages, and a heavy hitter in Canadian Vampire society. Stocky, red-haired and perpetually angry, he didn't take lightly to my calling him and his goons a bunch of overdressed punks, and that's a crying shame.
How did I get into this mess, you may ask? Oh, innocently enough, I assure you. A few minutes before this mishap, I walked into the Sabretooth, a ritzy bar located not far from downtown Toronto, intent on getting a drink. The alcoholic kind. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Vampires can and do consume alcohol, and large amounts of it. It is harder for us to get drunk because of our inhumanly strong physiology, which renders us immune to the effects of aging, toxins, poisons and countless other things.
After a night spent roaming the streets of metropolitan Toronto, I was just looking for a place to chill and have a drink. It was barely eleven o'clock and much too early for an adventurous sort like myself to head home. I walked into this bar, drawn as I was by the presence of my fellow Undead, and a quartet of loud, well-dressed creeps just had to make my night more sour than it had to be. I called them out on their bullshit, and now we're here, about to get into it...
"Cry me a river," I replied, as I pulled out my Sig Sauer Pistol, and aimed it at Russell, and for some reason, he found it quite funny. I haven't been one of the Undead for too long, and have yet to let go of certain habits I had in my mortal life. I'm originally from the South Side of Chicago, Illinois. While hiding out in the City of Toronto, Ontario, I ran into a gorgeous lady named Nasra who turned out to be much more than she seemed. Long story short? She bit me and I became a Vampire.
"Oh, look at that, this filthy turn-blood boy has no idea that bullets don't do shit to our kind, what an absolute idiot," Russell snorted, and he actually turned to his buddies, who laughed along with him, flashing shiny white fangs. That does it. In mortal life, just like in my newfound Vampire existence, I can't seem to escape the disdain and disrespect that a lot of old white guys seem programmed to show toward young men of the African American persuasion.
"Well, shmucks, this boy is the MAN who killed you," I replied, and I squeezed the trigger, firing a silver-bullet right into Russell's forehead. The creep had the time to look surprised before he fell to the floor, and turned into dust. Our kind disintegrate after we die for the second time. With us, the second death is the final one, not the first. Russell's buddies glared at me, astonished by what I'd just done.
"Fuck, that punk just killed Russell!" The creeps stood there, gawking as though I'd just done the impossible. I guess they thought that their boss man Russell was invincible or something. He probably thought himself invincible, right until I showed him he wasn't. I took advantage of their shock to high-tail it out of there. They gave chase, but I hopped into an Uber that was just around the corner, and got away. Of course, my troubles were just beginning...
In case you're wondering who in hell this is, the name is Damon Clayton. A six-foot-two, beefy but solid brother with dark brown skin, a stylish Afro and a slick goatee, that's me. People say I look like rapper/actor Ice Cube, from his N.W.A. days, only taller. I was born in Chicago, and the winds of fortune brought me to the City of Toronto, Ontario. Adjusting both to a new country and my new existence as a Vampire hasn't been easy. One thing has remained the same, overall. My penchant for getting into trouble and pissing off the wrong people...
