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Tall, Dark and Slayer

by

Cheryl Steimel

Chapter 1

The tampon fiasco should have warned me that things were - pardon the expression - headed south.

Not my tampons.  No, sir.  For twenty years, I’d been more or less loyal to the brand I’d first purchased in a Sunoco ladies room the year I’d turned thirteen.

The tampons in question – Napa Valley No-Fuss, No-Muss, Self-Absorbing Tampons – were distributed by my company, Vamp-Aid, to my ladies - the vamps.  Women vampires.  Despite what has been touted in popular culture, ninety-nine point nine percent of vampires are women.

It’s a hormone thing.

Vamps aren’t immortal, don’t incinerate in sunlight and have no trouble seeing themselves in mirrors.  Instead, they suffer from a genetic condition that causes a hunger for blood.  And chocolate.  Both of which I sold to them.

But back to the tampon problem. 

If true terror exists, it’s during a full moon in New York City, when hundreds of cycles coincide and no-fuss, no-muss tampons start fussing and mussing.  And Vamp-Aid is the sole, Greater New York distributor.

I ground out my cigarette – number seventeen for the day -in the overflowing ashtray on my WWII-era, Goodwill-bargain, gun-gray steel desk and glanced at my watch.  Seven-thirty p.m.  Plenty of time for the L.A. branch of the U.S. Vampire Control Division to be in the office.  So why didn’t they answer the phone?

“This is not funny, Rudy,” I muttered, ignoring the flashing phone lights and the angry pings of incoming e-mails.  I’d clashed many times with Rudy Tolliver, primo slimeball purchasing agent.  He’d done this on purpose just to shave a few nickels off his cost.  If three-thousand miles hadn’t separated us, I would have gladly wrung his scrawny, lying neck.

I sure as hell would not let a little setback like this ruin Vamp-Aid.  I’d worked too long to create a stable, profitable business.  It was my home, more so than my apartment in Brooklyn, and I’d fight tooth and nail to protect it.

Someone picked up in the vicinity of the twelfth ring.

“U.S.V.C.D., Myrtle Holloway.  May I help you?”

I groaned.  Fertile Myrtle, so called because she was perpetually pregnant.  On her eighth or ninth kid by now, I couldn’t remember which.  She was clueless, but where better to put her than an obscure, secret government agency?

“Myrtle, It’s Betty Banks.  Get Rudy on.”  Why couldn’t she be on maternity leave?  I really didn’t want to hear what darling Tommy, or Sally, or whatever See-Dick-Run names she’d used, had accomplished in soccer/music/dance/vomit competitions.

“Betty, dear, how are you?”  The saccharin sweetness in her voice reminded me that we’d run out of Splenda®, and I’d had to drink my coffee – now cold – black.

“Never mind me.  Put that lying, weasily bastard on the phone.”  I fished out another cigarette – number eighteen - and tapped it on the desk.  How was I supposed to quit at this rate?

The phone clicked and some awful Barry Manilow tune blared.  Two clicks later and Rudy’s gruff, never-pleasant voice cut off Barry in mid-verse. 

Never known for my tact, I plunged ahead.  “Rudy, you horse’s ass, what’s the idea of sending me defective tampons?”

“Now, doll,” he began.  He’d heard my diatribe before and could usually outwait my temper with a continual stream of platitudes.

I wasn’t buying.  “I’m not your doll.  Rudy, all hell’s breaking loose.  Get me the right stuff.  Pronto, Tonto.”

He chuckled.  Somewhat evilly, I might add.  “Nice one, toots.”

My grip tightened on the receiver.  “I’m not your toots.  Send the Class A tampons by Fed-Ex and take back the Class D-for-defective ones p.d.q., and no restocking fees like you tried to pull last month.  I’m not paying for bad merchandise.”

Napa Valley No-Fuss, No-Muss, Self-Absorbing Tampons were invented by a brilliant feminine products engineer who should be awarded the Nobel Peace Prize.  Once used, the tampons are dropped into a special - and tastefully decorated - bag.  Chemicals inside react to the higher-than-normal iron content of the vamps’ blood and poof!  No muss.  No fuss.  A little red dust sealed in an unbreakable pouch.  No temptations for my vamps.

Yes, temptation.  They are vampires, after all, and – well, I’d rather not think about that side of their bloodlust.

Rudy chuckled again, clearly in a boys-will-be-boys and vamps-will-be-dames kind of way.  “So there was a slight mix-up and some of the sticks got coated with the wrong stuff.  You’d think you gals would want a few jollies in your life - ”

Red haze enveloped me, and it wasn’t from the burning embers of my cigarette butt.  “Jollies!  Damn it, they’re not supposed to implode while in use.  What do you think they are, vibrators?”

“Babe,” he said, drawing on something – a joint?  A hookah?   “The thanks I get.  And after I made you the exclusive, East Coast distributor of Heat-N-Go artificial blood?”

“Neither here nor there, Rudes.”  His point stung.  Individual servings of Heat-N-Go had single-handedly saved me from bankruptcy a few years back.  “Fix it.  Now.  And don’t call me babe.”

My growl must have intimidated him.  He sighed.  Grunted, actually.  “All right.  Give me a day or two.  For you, O, anything.”

He clicked off, leaving me fuming.  O!  How the hell had he learned the nickname the vamps had given me?

Ten years earlier, when I’d started Vamp-Aid, my clientele had warped my name – Betty Banks – to Blood Banks (hardee-har-har) to BB, then to 2B.  Naturally, that had led to Hamlet and from there to Ophelia.  Hence, my current handle of “O”.  I was happy they didn’t choose to call me Gertrude or Desdemona.

“O” has its problems, but so far – knock a wooden stake – nobody has called me “Big O” or deteriorated into any colorful euphemisms for female genitalia.  It was only a matter of time. 

I ground out my cigarette – number eighteen  – and composed a short, apologetic email to my clients placing all the blame squarely on U.S.V.C.D.  They may supply me with most of my stuff, but that didn’t mean I had to cover for them.  Bastards.

I resisted another cigarette, hard liquor and any recreational drugs over the next few hours as I put out fires left and right.  The only thing crankier than a tamponless vamp is a PMSing one or a ravenous one.  For the most part, PMS happened last week, and Heat-N-Go took care of the hunger problems.  I diffused most of the vamps’ tampon anger by offering ten-percent off their next order, vowing to subtly nudge up the prices in a month or so to those who’d complained.  Hey, business was business, and I liked the rent paid.

Besides, I don’t have a lot of scruples, thanks to premier conman Al Banks, the paternal half of my immediate family tree.  My mother, Maria, from whom I’d inherited my long black hair, brown eyes and olive complexion, had pulled her own con by dying soon after my birth.  Al had been stuck with me, and I’d been raised on the great American road.  There aren’t too many ethics lessons taught in the booths of truck stops.

Around eleven o’clock, the hue, if not the cry, had died down.  Thoughts of a hot, cheesy pepperoni pizza tempted me to close shop for an hour.  As a night owl, I figured eleven seemed a good time to break for lunch.

I’d snapped on my answering machine and had reached for my jacket to ward off the mid-October chill when my cell rang.

Not a lot of people have my personal number.  I checked caller ID and debated answering.  Jeremy Nolan.  Hunger beckoned, but he was my number one delivery guy.  I’d talked to him hours earlier about the tampon fiasco, so he must have another crisis on his hands.

“Jer, what’s up?”  I checked to make sure I had cigarettes in my pocket.  A shriek from the cell stilled my hand.

“Jer?”  The skin at the back of my neck tingled.  Hell, my whole scalp tingled.

A strangled cry answered me.

“Jeremy?  Where are you?”  I grabbed my keys and ran for the stairs and the parking lot one floor below.

“Ellen. . .”  The rest was lost in more shrieks – a woman screaming obscenities.

My mind skipped over the schedule I’d given him yesterday.  Ellen.  Wagner?  Good God, I’d sent him to Hormone Central.  Ellen Wagner was one of the looniest of the vamps.  Psycho.  Capable of ripping us Normals into ticker-tape confetti.

“Abort, abort,” I yelled as I took the stairs two at a time.  “Jeremy, get the hell out of there.”

“The bitch is crazy,” he yelled.