comic book to prose story wasn't particularly hard for me to accomplish, since the original script for the comic story was extremely detailed.'
The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says lounge . The johns are always backing up and the place perpetually stinks of piss.
During the week it's just another neighbourhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies. Not a Bukowski among them. But, since the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea change come Friday night. The bar's clientele changes radically; growing younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven's booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. Still not a Bukowski among them.
This Friday night's no different from any others. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the kerb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands as they talk among themselves. Amid all the bad Cure haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.
Normally I don't bother with joints like this, but I've been hearing this persistent rumour that there's a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such rumours for myself. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing, but occasionally there's something far more sinister at the heart of urban legends.
The interior of the Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far stranger and more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T- shirt, I'm somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code.
I wave down the bartender, who doesn't seem to consider it odd I'm sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn't bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it's not like I'm going to drink it.
Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low-down in places like this isn't that hard, really. All I've got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I've developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once — sifting the meaningless ones aside without even being conscious of it most of the time, until I find the one I'm looking for. I suspect it's not unlike how a shark can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from miles away.
' told him he could kiss my ass goodbye '
' really liked their last album '
' bitch acted like I'd done something'
'. . . until next pay day? I promise you'll get it right back '
' the undead. He's the real thing '
There. That one.
I angle my head in the direction of the voice I've zeroed in on, trying not to look at them directly. There are three of them — one male and two female apparently in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypal Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie and wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily applied make-up doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she's probably a natural dishwater blonde.
Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she's shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with an ornate tattoo at the corner of her left eye, which I've been told is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than as tribute to the Egyptian gods. She's wearing a man's riding derby draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.
The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle and a leather jacket. He isn't wearing a shirt, his bare breast bone hairless and a tad sunken. He's roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-coloured hair out of his face. It doesn't take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat Tanith, and that the boy is Serge. The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann-red hair and a nose ring. She is Shawna.
Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for sign of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. Oddly, this piques my interest. I move a little closer to where they are standing huddled, so I can filter out the Marilyn Manson blaring out of the nearby juke-box.
Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she's being goofed on or not. 'Cmon — a real vampire?'
'We told him about you, Shawna, didn't we, Serge?' Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elbow. Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.
'His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He's 300 years old,' Sable adds breathlessly, 'and he said he wanted to meet you!'
Despite her attempts at post-modern death-chic, Shawna looks like a flattered schoolgirl.
'Really?'
I can tell she's hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won't take much more work on the trio's part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather-clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats then set out after them.
As I shadow them from a distance, I can't shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Although I seem to have found what I've come looking for, something's not quite right about it, but I'll be damned (I know I'm being redundant) if I can say what.
In my experience, vampires avoid Goths like daylight. While their adolescent fascination with death and decadence might, at first, seem to make them natural choices as servitors, their extravagant fashion sense calls far too much attention to them. Vampires prefer their servants far more nondescript and discreet. But perhaps this Lord Rhymer, whoever he may be, is of a more modern temperament than those I've encountered in the past.
I don't know what to make of this trio who seem to be acting as his judas goats. Judging by their evident
