Blac Vampires of Canada

Night falls over the City of Ottawa, Ontario. Grant MacShane got up and stretched. Six feet two inches tall and dark-skinned, with a shaved head, clean-shaven face and faintly luminescent brown eyes, Grant looked no older than thirty-five. He'd been around that age when he was turned in the summer of 1902. The passage of time meant little to vampires, at least aesthetically. Barring stake, silver or sunlight, vampires are creatures of forever. Grant, an African American vampire originally from the Mississippi Delta, has been living in Canada for ten years. Canada welcomes many immigrants, and some of them got fangs. Get used to it.

"Same shit, different day," Grant said to himself as he sat on the couch and watched TV. CTV news favorite blonde female anchor was blathering on and on about the effects of economic sanctions levied by America against Canada. Grant sucked in his teeth and then drank from a mixture of cow's blood mixed with Hennessy. The week had been bland and boring. Grant works as an IT guy to pay the bills, preferring to work remotely. Most of time, plenty of companies were willing to hire Grant. Well, he'd been let go by the Emerald Bank and was now looking for a job. Go figure.

The Emerald Bank had a call center in the East End of Ottawa, overlooking the Blair area. It was at that place that Grant met a beautiful lady named Meloney Mabel. The tall, curvy young black woman was lovely, smart and actually a decent person. Grant had a devil of a time showing up during the daytime for the in-person portion of his initial training as an Emerald Bank call center employee. The black vampire had to operate very carefully in that environment. Thanks to some human helpers, Grant managed to get through it alive.

There are many things that authors and filmmakers get wrong about the vampire condition. For example, vampires age much slower than humans, but they do age. It is rare for a vampire to reach a thousand years in terms of lifespan because the world is a dangerous place, even for the undead. Vampires who push past the millennium point tend to be stark raving mad, a fact which ultimately leads to their destruction. The undead have been walking among the living for tens of thousands of years. The quiet ones last the longest.

Grant keeps to himself in his neat apartment, works from his laptop, maintains multiple bank accounts all over America and Canada, and doesn't make waves. A discreet agreement with a local butcher shop keeps Grant supplied in animal blood. While not as nutritious as human blood, animal blood does satisfy a vampire's most basic nutritional needs. Grant isn't starving by any means. The fellow knows how to take care of himself.

After taking a shower, Grant got dressed and headed out. Grabbing an OC Transpo bus, he headed to the Tunney's Pasture train station. From there, getting to downtown Ottawa was fairly easy. That's where all the cool night spots were. Grant has been a regular in the Ottawa bar scene for a decade. Few people ever notice that the tall, handsome and dapper black gentleman with the faint southern accent never seems to age. Getting off on Rideau Street, Grant walked through the mall. The shops were still open.

Grant remembered when the O-Train was but a pipe dream for Ottawa residents, and the public transit system's never-on-time buses were the main alternative. Ottawa has come a long way though it still lags behind major cities like Toronto, Montreal and Calgary. Grant walked past a certain Shawarma restaurant and stared at the lineup of attractive gals and guys trying to get into a nearby club. A long time ago, this club was called Mansion. It has changed names and owners over the years. Grant shrugged as he walked past it.

Crossing the street, Grant left Rideau and walked past the Scotiabank and the adjacent bar while heading to the By Ward Market. It was a warm evening in early June and Grant was definitely enjoying himself. The night was young and after a fashion, so was he. A smile creased Grant's face as he walked past a certain hotel. Across the street was the spot where a certain old man once offered pony rides to tourists and families. The old man and his horse were long gone. They'd been staples of Ottawa for years. The world forgets but Grant remembers.

Continuing upward, Grant walked past the Western Union store where desperate immigrants send money to relatives back home. Somalis, Lebanese, Turkish folks, Haitians and even Lithuanians and Greeks, they all did this. Every immigrant has some kind of relative who lives in the old country and depends on their hard-earned Canadian dollars to live. It's a tale as old as time. Grant smiled as he checked out the lineup inside the Western Union store. Poor bastards.

"Everyone's got a parasite," Grant said to himself. He thought of Western Burlington, the real estate company that owned two large buildings on Grant's street in the Nepean sector. Grant lived in the taller of the buildings, an eight-story brownstone that was a real mess. Property management sucked at its job. The fuckers didn't do anything to help their tenants but they liked to squeeze money out of them every chance they got. Grant longed for the day when he would have enough money to move out of that dump and into the Caribbean. Someplace like Saint Lucia or Antigua, or perhaps Jamaica. Grant had lived too long in Canada. Every vampire knows when it's time to move on.

As a vampire, Grant knew better than to make a fuss or attract attention to himself. The building was full of immigrants, minorities and others, along with their families. As a single man living alone, Grant already stood out. From time to time, Grant wondered what his neighbors thought of him. He spent his days either sleeping or working at his computers. He possessed four laptops, with multiple monitors, and pretty good high-speed web access. Everything a modern vampire needs to make a living in the scientific age. Or so Grant thought.

The vampire world is as diverse as its human counterpart, and Grant is considered an odd duck by his own species. Ottawa has certain spots where vampires congregate, but Grant avoids those. The African American vampire doesn't particularly care for the company of his own kind. Le Croc Bar, located in the environs of Gatineau, Quebec, is a mere twenty five minutes from downtown Ottawa but Grant has been avoiding the place for years. Vampires aren't good company, even for their own kind. Too much competition among the undead for the possibility of real connections.

Grant left the By Ward Market and resumed walking up Rideau Street, heading towards Vanier proper. Once he reached Montreal Road, he made a straight line for the bridge. In the movies, vampires have trouble crossing running water. In real life, that's total bullshit. Grant casually walked on the bridge, looking at the river below. Walking down Vanier Parkway, Grant headed for the Overbrook area. He had fond memories of the place. Once upon a time, Grant rented an apartment in a shoddy building on Donald Street, right across from the park. Good times.

Donald Street had changed very little since Grant's early days in Ottawa. The Lebanese Christian church was still there, next to the Islamic center. The neighborhood was full of Haitians, Arabs and Asians, and the only white folks were old-school French Canadians. Soleil Des Iles restaurant, a popular Haitian spot, was still the best. Grant smiled as he walked past the place. He once hooked up with a freaky Haitian woman named Anne Junie in the basement of Soleil Des Iles restaurant. Freaky good times.

The vampire returned to his lair in Nepean two hours before dawn. Grant returned to his sunproof basement. Drinking red wine mixed with rabbit's blood, he watched comedies online before dawn forced him to sleep. Lying on his bed, Grant slept in the deathlike sleep of the undead. He was a broke black vampire in the Canadian capital. He needed twenty grand to move to the Caribbean and he was short ten grand. Can this undead brother get the cash over the next six months? Fuck around and find out. Vampire economics are no joke, folks.