Vampires by Dale Patrick Smrekar
“You look terrible for a vampire, Leopold,” Maurice said while strutting toward him in the dimly lit alley on his way to his next meal. He stopped and looked down on the resting Leopold, situated between two filled-to-the-brim metal trash cans. Old white meat wrappers, newspapers, and bits of lettuce and endcaps of cut vegetables were strewn about him on the ground. Every so often, a light wind sent the lighter objects tumbling and swirling about the alley. Poor Leopold’s head and shoulders rested upon the mildewed brick wall behind him, his arms at his side, his legs splayed to each side of his skinny body.
“Hate blood,” Leopold said, looking up at Maurice. “You know what that means?”
“A weak-ass vampire,” Maurice said.
Maurice stood elegantly dressed and obviously comfortable in his own skin, attired in black pants, patent black shoes, an open white shirt to the waist and a light gray jacket. His coal black hair was carefully groomed. He had a hint of neatly trimmed beard stubble about his face. His look enhanced his pale, almost translucent skin. Sometimes he glimmered when the streetlights hit him. Maurice screamed fashion model on his way to the clubs on this cool October evening.
A large rat crossed Leopold’s legs and paused for a moment on his right thigh. It looked around, sniffed Leopold’s leg then scurried off to find a better meal.
“Brave rat,” said Maurice as he watched it resume his journey.
“Hate rat blood, too,” Leopold said.
“Hate or just don’t like the taste?” asked Maurice. There’s a difference, you know. I’ve experienced those times too, when blood just didn’t do it for me. Same oxygenated, sticky blood. If you don’t get it fresh, it coagulates. Tastes like paste. Maybe that’s why in olden times humans referred to us as paste-eaters as we rummaged through the sites of mass casualties or wars, looking for our fix.”
“Paste eaters.” Leopold laughed, then picked up a small red balloon and blew into it, inflating it and then releasing the air. It squealed like a pig or a human when bitten wrong.
“Balloons, Leopold? You’re gonna give vampires a bad name. We’re not clowns.”
“Doc says I need to do this five times a day. Got a Eustachian tube issue. Ears. Causes tunnel hearing. Sounds like I’m underwater, in a tunnel. Mucus won’t drain, probably a result of what I’m eating. I’m also taking a steroid nasal spray and mucus medication. Still not fixed.”
“You went to a human doctor?”
“No, one of us. A fellow bloodsucker. Many of the doctors are blood suckers. You didn’t know that?”
“No. Walked this Earth for over a century, never knew. But I’ve never had a health issue. We’re supposed to be immortal. No health concerns for me, Leopold.”
“Well, no one told mucus. Or yeast either. Ever had a yeast infection?”
“What the hell is that?” Maurice asked.
“A skin issue caused by fungus propagating in the warm creases of your skin. Yeah, I know our body temperatures are lower than humans, but that fungus will make a home in lukewarm spaces too. Itchy and make you smell like dead stuff. You begin to stink, draw rats, sometimes even vultures if you lay too long in one spot. Here’s a news flash for you. Yeast infections don’t care if you’re immortal.”
“What creases? Hell, you’re skin and bones.”
“Groin area, Maurice. Sometimes between the genitals and the asshole. I got a bitch of one right now. Surprised you don’t smell it.”
Maurice leaned in and sniffed Leopold. “I don’t smell nothing. You sure you’re just not a hypochondriac? You’re always whining about shit. You’re the only vampire I know who has health issues. Most of us just eat and run.” Maurice chuckled at his comment.
“The yeast issues are real. Always lurking in my crevices. Used to be heavy before you knew me. It was a bitch then. I think I first started getting it from feasting on chubby people over the last couple of centuries. Everyone used to be chubby. Now, thanks to Ozempic, they’re all looking like fashion models.”
“You saw a doctor back then?”
“No, stopped biting chubby people and bathed a lot. Those humans never bathed back then. They used powders and perfumes; hygiene wasn’t the best.”
“I remember. I still like dining on chubby young women, but I’ve never gotten those yeast infections you speak of,” Maurice said.
“That’s cause the modern humans bathe constantly. Well, most do. You can still run into a ripe one here and there. But you can generally spot them or smell them.” Leopold said.
“I like chubby young women. They’re usually a little desperate and don’t mind hooking up with a vampire. Pleasant dispositions, and lots of blood. Now if they’re past forty, they’re not as tasty. Don’t know why. Dispositions aren’t pleasant either. I blame the men. Human men are assholes. They ruin the species.”
“Probably so,” Leopold responded.
“So, what did you do, go to a vampire doctor directory to find this doctor guy?” Maurice asked.
Leopold snickered. “There’s no directory. Doc was advertising a medical study, studying patient’s reactions to artificial blood substitute that acts like an O blood type. A synthetic blood type that can be used in mass casualty situations. Something everyone can use. A lofty goal. I figured blood, he’s offering a constant source of nutrients for us vampires. No more hunting down victims. Pick up a pint for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Door Dash it. Think of all the time we’d have on our hands if we didn’t have to hunt for our next meal. No more hungry evenings, hitting the bars or nightclubs for a meal…”
“Or libraries,” Maurice interrupted.
“Libraries?”
“Yeah, chubby young women, remember? They’re never in nightclubs, unless they’re with a bunch of friends. Then you can’t peel them away from the pack. If they’re hanging out alone in the bars, they’re likely lushes. Bleeding a lush is like drinking a dozen Manhattans. Dry mouth. No fun resting during the day with a mouth full of sand.”
“I remember… Well, those days will soon be over. I’ll have the time to write that memoir I’ve been thinking about. Three Centuries of Blood.”
“I like the title. So, you’re a writer now, Leopold.?”
“Been taking on-line courses. Writer’s Digest, attending on-line writer’s conferences. Even attended an AWP conference for writers. Preparing for my next life.”
“Leopold, you’re not a human. Snap out of it.”
“Hemingway was a vampire. So was Hunter S. Thompson.”
“You sure about that?” Maurice asked.
“Both blew their own heads off. That’s a vampire ending.”
“Where are you getting this shit?”
“I know things,” Leopold said.
“I’m not going to argue with some skinny-ass vampire with a bunch of medical complaints. I’m guessing since you’re sitting here splayed about the ground like a doped-up junkie, that the doc hasn’t yet solved the artificial blood problem or your yeast infection?”
“Nor my hearing problem. Still got tunnel hearing. Sucks. He says it takes about a month or two. Mucus is a bitch for vampires. Leopold blew up another ballon and let it whine out.”
“Remind me not to share any victims with you for a while,” Maurice said
“Those were good times. You on a neck, me on an inside thigh. Dinner just relaxed and moaning with pleasure.”
“That’s not happening anymore.”
“Nope, I guess not until I solve my health issues. Anyway, doc says he’s close to some solutions for my issues. When I walked into his examining room for my first medical study appointment, I instantly knew he was a vampire. Mainly because we always glare and show our fangs when meeting for the first time. I guess we’re establishing a pecking order or marking territory. Never figured out which one.”
“I think we do that to tell each other we’re not dinner,” Maurice said.
Leopold snickered. “After a few tests, he told me I had developed a hemoglobin intolerance. It’s sort of like lactose intolerance. After over three centuries of lead exposure, my system doesn’t handle lead well. Leaded hemoglobin, it’s like a hit of bad heroin. I become drowsy and often nauseous. Doesn’t make me high, just moody, and the joints hurt.”
He rubbed his elbow and slid his hand up and down his left arm, then sighed. “Maybe that’s why we never run into ancient vampires. They all croak from lead poisoning.”
“So that explains your interest in synthetic blood?” Maurice said.
“Yeah. He’s experimenting with taste too. Developing a pretty spiffy soda flavored synthetic blood.”
“Spiffy?” Maurice asked with narrow eyes.
“Yeah, spiffy, he’s a new age vampire. Uses valley girl talk. The new vamps are all talking in their odd new language. LOL, BTW, BRB, TTYL, IMO. A whole lot of weird stuff.”
“I guess that explains that BMH that sweet young thing screamed to me the other night.”
“Bite Me Harder?” Leopold asked.
“Yeah, I guess that’s what it was. Bite Me Harder.”
“Did you?”
“Had no idea what she meant. I thought she was screaming out for the cops. I fled.”
“Bummer.”
“You just going to keep laying here?” Maurice asked.
“Yeah, I fed on a young lady earlier this afternoon. Didn’t want to, but she insisted. Said I looked peaked. Monica knew what I was. Someone must have told her. She offered me her neck and said go ahead. I told her the inner upper thigh is better, that way she can hide the teeth marks.”
‘Please don’t drain me out,’ she asked before she lifted her dress and offered her thigh. I told her, no worries. Vampires don’t do that anymore; we manage our resources and only take about a pint at a time, like a human blood donation. She said go for it. Monica’s taking part in that blood substitute study with me. She’s human, says she has a blood issue and is hoping synthetic blood might help her. I’m thinking she’s a vampire groupie that gets off on being drained.”
“They exist,” Maurice said.
“I think doc has drained her a time or two. Now I’m kind of drowsy, my stomach’s upset. Same old lead poisoning reactions.”
“She going to let you feed on her again?”
“Doubt it, I threw up on her halfway through. She’s kind of pissed. Chased me out of her apartment. I thought she’d already taken a pint of that new blood substitute, but I thought wrong.”
“Well, before you totally gross me out with your puke story, I need to be heading out. Let me know how the synthetic blood thing goes.”
Maurice wasn’t truly grossed out, just bored. The conversation with Leopold just wasn’t going anywhere. He had no interest in partnering up for the evening with an old, emaciated vampire who’d probably puke his guts out when they found a suitable female blood donor. That wasn’t his idea of a fun night on the town. Besides, he had something else to do that evening.
Leopold watched Maurice disappear around the corner, then pulled out a pencil and grabbed a nearby meat wrapper swirling about. Gotta write down this exchange, he thought. I’ll use it in my memoir.
A few minutes later a sawed-off shotgun blast broke the still of that twilight evening. Maurice looked down upon Leopold’s headless corpse. Blood, hair, tissue and brain matter had splattered everywhere. Leopold’s hand continued to write away on the meat wrapper, then flopped down to his side. Maurice stoodin place for a moment, to make sure Leopold was actually dead, then smiled a toothy smile.
“Make it quick and painless,” was the order he had been given by the Vampire Council. Maurice understood his assignment.
Maurice stood silently by the headless corpse before him, paused for a moment of remembrance, then crossed himself and spoke, ““Leopold my dear old friend, I’m sorry. You screwed up by trying to write a memoir about being a vampire. That always gets a vampire killed.”
He pulled a baggie of dirt from his pocket and sprinkled it upon Leopold. “Dust to dust,” he murmured aloud and walked away, swinging his sawed-off shotgun at his side.
It wasn’t the lead content of hemoglobin that killed off the old vampires. Usually, it was the family’s doing. Once in the family, you stay in the family until the very end. Nobody retires as a vampire, nor writes a damn memoir about being a vampire.
This hadn’t been Maurice’s first hit. It had happened many times before. At least Hemingway was a man about it when his time came, Maurice thought. But Hunter S. Thompson… he just whined, Maurice especially hated the vampires who whined on their way out of existence.
Yes, hit vampires like Maurice do exist. They’re the daytime, all-the-time vampires who operate in the shadows and the daylight; no restrictions. For nature allows them to get things done; whether it’s creative endeavors or murder. They’re also the ones who take care of the family business when the time comes. It’s not all necks and the inside of thighs on dark starlit nights.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dale Patrick Smrekar 2026
Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com