In order to shamelessly promote Thursday’s launch of my novel “Vampire Apocalypse”… below is an excerpt from chapter 2…
“I’d give four million dollars just to be able to take a piss without it hurting.”
– Hyman Roth
The Godfather 2
– 1 –
“Okay Concubine. I’m ready. Get up there good and deep,” said the vampire Anghel “Fezziwig” Belasco, as his concubine named Starr prepared to give him a prostate massage. Fezziwig was on his side on the bed, his six-fingered hands pressed flat on the sheet, his cheek resting against the pillow.
“You know I always take care of you, Master,” said Starr snapping a rubber glove on. Starr was a beautiful, 24-year old woman who lived with Fezziwig in his Alaskan cottage outside of a small town called Bramstoke.
“Thank the LORD, this will feel so good…” moaned the vampire.
“There Master, how is that?” said Starr, massaging Fezziwig’s softball-sized prostate.
“Better… much, much better. Now… milk it…”
“Yes, Master.”
Over the past 60 years Fezziwig’s prostate had started to give him trouble. Even when he could sustain a boner long enough to bed his young concubines, he felt an agonizing pin-prick pain when he ejaculated. And the constant urge to piss – all the time – was maddening. As soon as he sat down to watch another exciting episode of Miami Vice season 4 or his favorite movie Men At Work, he suddenly had to piss. Every time. Without exception. It was a sudden, uncontrollable urge that felt like he was going to go in his pants. It was so intense he usually thought he would not be able to even get to the bathroom in time. So he’d jump up, shuffle over to the toilet, and stand over the bowl for several minutes, with nothing coming out but a few drops from his wrinkled, flaccid penis. It was frustrating and painful. And he’d usually moan and yell and pound the wall with his fist next to the toilet.
Fezziwig was on multiple prostate drugs. But the only thing that gave him a little relief were Starr’s prostate massages, during which he enjoyed lecturing her all about how much being a vampire sucked at his age.
How it hurt to piss.
How it hurt to shit.
How it hurt to have sex.
Even how it hurt his back to sit in his chair watching TV for more than 10 or 15 minutes at a time.
He had over a dozen other health problems that would flare up if he drank anything but Type A negative blood: Like diarrhea. Hemorrhoids. An itching, bleeding rash on his butt crack. Flaking skin on his eyelids kept falling into his eyeballs. And the list went on.
It was the ultimate paradox:
He was always in pain, yet he couldn’t die.
If he was cut or hurt in a fight, or wounded, those would heal quickly and efficiently. But that wasn’t the case with his internal body parts. He just kept living as his organs and nerves got inflamed and diseased. He often fantasized about the good old days when he was younger. He was still mostly as strong as he was back then. Still just as fast when he needed to be (but would feel it the next day if he got too crazy, and be sore for weeks after). And had mostly just as much energy. But there weren’t any prostate problems or blood intolerances or other old man aches and pains back then.
But that was a long time ago.
And he accepted the fact those days weren’t coming back.
Fezziwig (he preferred that name over his given name “Anghel”) knew he was the oldest living being on the planet. He’d been around for thousands of years and had seen a lot of history unfold.
He witnessed the birth (and death) of Jesus Christ.
He fought in the Babylonian, Persian, Greek, Roman, and Eastern European wars.
Fezziwig had even watched the waters rise when Noah and his family boarded the ark. He still didn’t know why he was allowed to live through that flood. But the LORD told him what to do to escape it, and he listened, and was still alive after everyone else he knew had drowned.
Fezziwig had lived a long life, but also a painful one. Especially as the world became more industrialized, and as toxins and poisons and chemicals brought on more diseases, cancers, and other ailments. It took just half a century for his body to break down and start developing health conditions nobody had even heard of in his younger days.
And now, as he got his regular prostate massage from Starr, he wished someone would just kill him and put him out of his misery.
Where is a Predator when you need one?
No, he couldn’t count on anyone else to do it.
He’d have to do it himself and he would do it soon.
He’d already been making preparations for suicide in his mind for months. Including how to do it in the least painful way possible. Yes, he had it all planned out, he thought, as a fanged smile formed on his face. Until, as he lay there, Starr massaging away, lost in the suicide fantasy, the voice – his voice – came again, for the first time in three weeks.
“Starr, stop!” said Fezziwig.
“What is it, Master?”
“The LORD is speaking to me again. Shut up!”
The novel launches Thursday.
