The Port at Porto

"IT SIMPLY DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY. CAN'T WE TALK?"

"As to the matter of host bodies and providing me with a respite from the eternal search for blood, you have served well, but as for the matter of making my work impossible, decimating the population of potential nourishment sources, increasing suspicions, and setting every potential predator on my trail, no I cannot truthfully say I am satisfied with the results."

"Well, I'm new at this. You've been doing it for hundreds of years. I've only had a decade."

"There is the matter of your assassination attempt."

"Competition is an issue. I never thought you'd be satisfied being human. It's not easy being mortal. There was always the risk you'd stage a comeback."

"I wouldn't be staging a comeback as you put it, if you had exercised a bit of discretion. There is simply more to being undead than ripping apart someone's throat, sharpening nails on spines, and leaving fingers and genitalia in the street. One might just as well write on the wall of the courthouse: NOTICE UNDEAD FIEND ABOUT. PLEASE LEAVE OR PREPARE TO DIE. Haven't you heard of subtlety?"

"I was hungry!"

"Dogs in heat have exercised more restraint."

A pause was in order. I reflected on the day's events. As I was walking down the old cobblestoned alley in the dusky dark streets of Porto, Portugal, I spied the old nineteenth century Sao Bento railway station, a prominent hub of the city. I could see Christine in her pastel grey hat from a distance, her nose still had that customary wiggle, and despite my dark glasses, the fedora, the linen suit, I knew that she knew me. As I grabbed her hands she reached to kiss my cheek. I could feel the Japanese tanto blade tactically pressed to my groin. I pried it from her hands. It dropped as my other hand inserted the needle into her neck, I doubt if she felt the pressure as the narcotic entered her system. And then, blackness. No one likes to admit to mistakes, but Christine was excessive. If she had been human, they would have sent her to a fat farm, but as it was, she had opened her own blood bank.

"I did it for you."

"Please. You use them like paint brushes. You lop off a head and decorate the walls. This experiment is over. I need an appetizer. You will do nicely."

"You forget, you gave up your prowess. I'm undead. You're just a muggle."

"You would taste maker's flesh?"

Christine snapped the thick rope holding her arms and legs like toilet paper.

"My problem is I'm hungry. I'm always hungry. I can't help it." She wrinkled her nose. She paused to scratch it. "You look like a tasty Meunster." Christine vanished at the edge of the room and appeared at my neck. "Perhaps a Cheddar." It was exhilarating, inspiring. All my feasts returned to memory.

"Look Christine, the Portuguese Women's Lacrosse team is arriving . . ."

She turned for a second, I could see the saliva running from the sides of her mouth in thick streams. In that instant I snapped my fingers. Poor Christine. A creature of habit is no match for a thing of magic. But I bear no grudges, no ill will. Some things are just meant to be what they are.

I am near the port at Porto. 'The port at Porto,' how droll. Today, the women's lacrosse team IS arriving and the boat is docking. I greet them wearing a starched collar, an Italian Boater, my first in years, and a red and blue-stripped bow tie. I reflect upon myself in the water. I am quite the dandy. I can't see these athletic young ladies keeping their hands off me . . . or I from them. It will be my first, well . . . in ages. I hear Christine in my pocket. She squeaks and squeals as I pet her. "Soon, soon, mi pequeña mascota."

THE END

Bio: Professor Lenig is a popular culturalist at Columbia State. He writes about media, film, and music and plays incredibly loud electronic music on weekends.

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