Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 (3 page)

“That’s a little harsh,” Wendy commented.

“Harsh?” The ghost spit a glob of violet-hued mush at Wendy’s feet. “I don’t know ’bout that. Seein’s they’re the one’s suckin’ people dry. I’ll say it again. Piss on ’em.”

Up close, the ghost looked like a vagrant. His face was all scruff surrounding a nose the size of a kosher dill, his eyes obscured by thick tufts of brow hair. Dirt clung to his ethereal form in spots, as though even death couldn’t hide the residue of boxcar or alley dumpster. There was even a scent in the air, pungent and sour like milk gone to clot.

“You one of them fuckin’ vampires, boy?” He kicked at the back of Gil’s chair, foot moving right through and ending up somewhere inside Gil’s stomach.

“What if I am?” Gil stood and faced the bigot. I almost interceded but thought it might be important to witness some honest-to-God vamp bashing. If only just to say I had been there, and act disturbed and offended. I could give my report to the late evening edition of
Supernatural Seattle.
They love me.

“Then I got somethin’ fur ya. You stinkin’ mosquito.” The ghost started to reach down inside his pants.

We all gasped in horror. Well not all, Wendy seemed genuinely interested—craning her neck to get a good look—but she doesn’t count, being a slut and all.

A low scraping rose from beneath us, a lonely hollow scrabbling, as though rats were burrowing through
wood or Gil’s client had shredded the tufted silk of the coffin lid and was clawing through mahogany. Yeah. It was that last one for sure.

The noise drew the ghost’s attention, as well. He hiked up his pants and re-secured them with what looked like an electrical cord.

The scrabbling gave way to several deep thuds.

“Couldn’t we just dig him up and save his manicure?” I asked.

Gil shrugged. “It builds character. Besides do I look like I’m dressed for grave digging?”

Gil was up out of his chair, folding it and gesturing for me to do the same. I looked around for Wendy and to my immediate dismay caught sight of the homeless ghost. He stood atop the soon-to-be vampire’s headstone, pants unzipped, and dick in hand.

“
Ew
. What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like, girly?” He bounced on the balls of his feet in preparation.

It hit me then. “Oh … shit. Gil, he’s gonna piss on your guy’s—”

“Piss on ’em. Piss on ’em,” the ghost chanted.

Gil looked up from packing away the chairs just in time to catch Boxcar Willie pissing a steaming stream of ectoplasm onto the grave. It glugged from the guy like Mrs. Butterworth’s, glowing an enthusiastic obscene purple.

“Gross!” Wendy yelled from behind me.

“Jesus!” Gil dropped the folded chairs and made for the ghost just as the Beaver King broke ground. Markham breached the surface and was birthing straight through the manhole-sized puddle of ghost piss. Globs of the stuff dribbled down his arms and mingled with the mud on his face. The ghost shook a
few errant drops loose. They plopped on Markham’s face like thick blobs of mayonnaise.
⁷

“What the fuck!” The new vampire spat, scooping the ectoplasm off his face. It oozed from his hair and plopped onto the shoulders of an expensive pinstriped suit that really seemed like overdressing for either digging oneself from a grave, or pee play, for that matter.

Gil started backing away, and gesturing for Wendy and me to do the same.

Markham had extricated himself from his burial place; he stood there like Carrie on prom night: humiliated, covered in that obscene fluid. He swung at the ghost, pummeling the air with impotent fists. The hobo’s laughter echoed across the cemetery. The spirits playing poker by the mausoleum looked up.

One said, “Earl must have found him a vampire.”

Their laughter joined a growing cacophony, as news spread amongst the dead.

“Where’s that piece of vampire shit? I’ll kill him!” Markham yelled.

Those were the secret words, apparently. We took off through the graveyard like someone had announced happy hour, bounding over headstones, and skirting spectral presences. Wendy broke off a heel in a concrete vase holder. I nearly tripped on a wreath Gil knocked over in his mad dash for the car.

In the distance, Markham was still screaming. “Luxury my ass! I want my money back, vampire! Every fucking cent!” Despite being the evil villain type, the Beaver King couldn’t chase for shit.

I turned to Wendy. “Did Madame Gloria see that one coming?”

We barreled through tight residential side streets, skidded on mounds of soggy leaves at nearly every corner and churned through puddles at breakneck speeds, coating one unfortunate woman with a shower of mud so slimy it clung to her head like a veil. Wendy and I busted up screeching like school girls while the woman spat obscenities foul enough to make a two-bit crack whore blush.
⁸

“God, that was close.” The back of Gil’s head filled
the rearview mirror. He was noticeably shaking from the scene, but his hair looked great, thick and shiny. I let him be for the moment, rather than pointing out the understatement of the year. Wendy, unfortunately, had none of my restraint.

“You think?” She twisted around and jabbed him in the back.

“Ow!”

“What the fuck was all that, Gil?”

“What do you mean?
That
was us escaping from a psychopath drenched in ghost piss.”

“Don’t you mean
paying client?
” I shook my head. “You’re gonna have to straighten that shit out, Gil. He’ll badmouth your business into the ground, if you don’t.”

“Or worse!” Wendy crossed her arms.

Gil sunk back into the seat and covered his face. “Jesus.”

“Let’s just swing by the Well and talk to Ricardo, he’ll have some ideas.”
⁹

“Fine,” Gil said.

I suspected he acquiesced to shut me up, rather than from any real sense that Ricardo could help. I’d never seen him so downtrodden, and frankly, I didn’t care for it.
¹⁰
There was something defeated in his posture that had me wondering exactly how dangerous the stripper pimp was. Markham certainly wanted his money back, but would he really try to kill Gil? It seemed a tad petty considering the man’s business. I mean, honestly, what were a few golden showers to the
king of kink? It probably wasn’t even the first time someone had pissed on him.

Still. Gil was scared.

He’s a vampire, sure, but that doesn’t mean what it does in books, on TV or at the movies. Down here, in the real world, if Tom Cruise gets burnt to a crisp, he’s not going to show up shiny and new in the back seat of Christian Slater’s car.
¹¹
They’re a lot more vulnerable than you’d imagine and rapid healing only helps if there is something left to heal. I’d seen vampires pum-meled to death that didn’t make it back.

It wasn’t helping any that my driving was a tad erratic.

At the next intersection, I nearly clipped a faux-wood panel van filled to capacity with bouncing welfare children, fully unleashed from their seatbelts, their mother smoking away with the windows rolled up. It was embellished with those creepy stick figure families on the back window. Normally, I thought of those as menus, but this time, I was just happy to avoid another acci-dent.
¹²

“Jesus Christ!” Wendy screamed. “Bruises equal money, Amanda!”

I pointed the Volvo into a 7-Eleven and parked. Wendy snatched her purse from the center console and darted into the store. Gil and I sat for a moment, silent.

“Do you think he’ll really try to kill you?” I asked.

“It’s a distinct possibility. He’s not one of the good guys, you know?”

“We’re not, either.”

“We’re the good bad guys. He’s a bad bad guy.”

“Oh … got it. I’m glad we straightened that out.” I rolled my eyes.

It was then that a transparent head slipped through the windshield. “What’s with rong faces?” The ghost pointed his finger from Gil to me; the glow smudged the air a weak teal.

“Hi, Mr. Kim.”

The first thing you’d notice about my Volvo is its unusual hood ornament.
¹³
Most people have metal emblems festooning their cars; I have to have a ghost. ’Cause if anyone would be stuck with one, it’d be me, right? Mr. Kim is a permanent fixture in my life, since he died for the second time in the front seat of my car. It was about six months ago. I jumped in next to the zombie, who grinned at me through a trickle of liquefied brains draining from a hole in his forehead. He was gone.
Gone
gone. Or so I thought. A couple of weeks passed and there he was lying on his stomach on the hood, ankles crossed in the air and beaming, like a cheerleader photo.

“What got you upset?” he asked.

“Gil’s gonna get murdered.” I couldn’t resist a jab. He’s lucky I held off for as long as I did.
¹⁴

“Oh God, it’s true.” Gil reverted to his standby head in hand pose. “I’m dead.”

“No you’re not. I was kidding. Why would he kill you, Gil? What for? A little piss play? He’s probably cleaned up and draining hookers all over town, enjoying the dead-life.”

Gil’s brow arched and he allowed the slightest of
smiles to creep across his lips. “You’ve gotta admit, a hetero guy with an aversion to breasts is probably not the picture of mental health.”

“True. Let’s just see what Ricardo comes up with. I’m sure it won’t go any further than this. You’ll see.”

Inside the convenience store, Wendy browsed the aisles like a lazy Sunday antique shopper. I honked. She startled and scurried for the counter. I hadn’t really intended for any of us to go in, I just thought I’d stop to avoid another car accident. She plopped a hand basket in front of the cashier and eyed the car nervously.

Wendy was probably back on the Twix. I kept telling her that those candy bars would be the death of her, again. Doesn’t matter what I say, of course. Food addictions are strong among the undead, even though it is impossible for our bodies to process anything we eat. Wendy would just have to live with the residual splat-terfest. Oddly enough, she seemed fine with that. Didn’t mean I couldn’t fuck with her a bit. She opened the door and fell into the passenger seat.

“That’s a big bag you got there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.” Wendy shrugged, looked out her window.

“Did you get any Altoids?” I winked back at Gil, whose gaze said, “I’m on it.” He leaned in between the seats.

“How about some gum?” he asked, knowing full well that gum and mints were all zombies could feasibly get away with without an adult diaper. “Did you get some gum?”

“Nope.” The reflection of her face in the window moved into sour territory, so I was pleased.

“Hmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“She think you got Twix in there, Wendy. You got Twix?” Kimmy swept an ethereal hand through the plastic shopping bag. “I think I feel something.”

“Shut up.” Wendy snatched the bag from his reach and gave us cat anus face.
¹⁵

Ricardo lounged at our regular booth, his arm slung around my assistant, Marithé, in a loose comfort that I still wasn’t used to. She was laughing, gregarious. One of the few times I’d seen her break from true bitch form. And … if I can just say, the silly grin didn’t suit her. Not at all.

About a year after I was turned into what I am,
¹⁶
I cleaned house at my advertising firm. I bought out my partners—with the financial and mystical help of a silent partner—canned the entire staff, and groomed Marithé for undeath. She warmed to the idea almost immediately.

Almost.

In true Marithé style, she made me detail every element of the experience and provide written references. She planned for future body ornamentation, understanding that clit piercing wouldn’t heal unless she went through with it before I turned her.
¹⁷
Do you see my logic? I couldn’t afford to lose someone that upfront and organized. In fact, after her rebirth, she had Feral Advertising staffed with qualified supernatu-rals within a month. The turnaround was amazing.

Don’t let my admiration for the woman mislead you. Marithé is a real cooze, a class A bitch, and I’m not talking out of turn here; she’s won awards. Normally, I’d love that—look at Wendy. But I work with her and don’t care to see her socially. So you can understand my irritation when her interest in Ricardo panned out. The two were disgustingly inseparable. Touching each other, slobbering on each other like dogs.

Gag with me, won’t you?

The Well of Souls was crowded, despite the grand opening of Goblin Bar, two streets over. It was a real testament to the club’s appeal, and in no small degree to the great DJ Despair—currently spinning his own remix to
Fuck the Pain Away
by Peaches, in case you’re interested.

We scooted into the semi-circular booth, one after the other, forcing Ricardo and Marithé around until her ass hung off the seat. The handsome Latin snapped for a waitress who brought a pitcher of mojitos without all the pesky soda, sugar syrup and muddled mint.
¹⁸
Being a polite kind of gal, I poured.