Fiction that explores the monsters and strangers among us.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Don’t Cry Over Spilt…

Police Detective Larson’s Irish green eyes didn’t light up when Primerot explained the reason for our late night gatherings of the Fox River Writers Group. Larson apparently had no experience with horror novels or the creatures who create them. His interest was that huge blood stain to the right of the bar at Murphy’s tap in St. Charles.

Morty the barkeep tried to explain that it was his fault the blood was spilled, but Larson didn’t get it. What’s not to get? We all have our little accidents. People are so data-focused these days, not like frontier times when a little bloodletting was a normal part of life and nobody much cared unless it was their own blood.

When Larson asked to see the liquor license, Morty laughed. “I don’t sell alcoholic beverages in this establishment, detective.”

“What do you sell?” Larson rubbed his hand across the pull tap for one of the kegs under the bar.

The rest of us laughed except Primerot who took notes for her new novel Bloodlust.

I tried to be helpful. “You may have noticed, Detective Larson, that we are not exactly like the people you meet every day in your job.”

Larson had enough of us. “Pour a glass of whatever brew you have in this keg.”

Morty snatched a beer mug from the warmer oven. He raised the glass high in the air. Our entire writer’s group including Primerot, Nosebuster, Suckbreath, Dimsnort and me craned our necks with eyes the size of silver dollars, for those of you who remember silver dollars. Anyway, they’re big.

Morty grinned a little wider than most people’s mouths will allow. This little trick made Larson’s eyes light up. Certain he had the detective’s attention; Morty pulled the tap, filling it with red joy.

“What is that? Some kind of wine?” Larson had not yet made the connection between the sweet aroma of fresh kill and the rubicund liquid Morty handed to him.

The link became obvious when Larson gawked in our direction. We, who couldn’t resist that flavorful scent, had our mouths open wide enough to expose the full length of our three-inch needle sharp incisors.

Larson pulled his handgun. I think it was a Glock, but what do I know of weapons other than my own fangs? As for the blood stain on the floor, Larson should have arrived earlier when we wrestled for the privilege of licking it up.

Despite Larson’s tough guy exterior, we each had a share with Primerot taking the devil’s portion. She is, after all, our leader.

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