Suicidal Vampire Out of Options

Immortality comes back to bite a despondent blood drinker.

One hundred thirty eight year old David Hollowell once savored the idea of living forever. Born in the French Quarter of New Orleans in 1867, he grew up in America's flourishing southern city known for its music, food, and extravagant night life. In the city's most famous cemetery, the Saint Louis, Hollowell drew his last mortal breath at the tender mortal age of 33. And for over a century he never regretted his choice to hand over mortality for an eternity of pallid skin and blood breath. But recently his situation has turned grave. He joined me for an interview from his exquisite Broken Springs two room Main Street Apartment.

"The hardest adjustment," the tall vampire told News from Broken Springs, over a bottle of Sangria Wine, "was sleeping in a coffin. I can't tell you how many nights I awoke with a stiff neck and aches in my lower extremities. Luckily the one who made me had a brother who was a Chiropractor, and his sister's nephew through marriage was a carpenter. He built me a coffin with extra leg room. I'm eternally grateful. Proper bedding is so important when you intend to live forever."

Once his daytime sleeping arrangements were set, Hollowell had to adjust to his new plasma diet. "The first taste is always the best," he explained as he casually flipped his cape off his left shoulder. "It's intoxicating. When I lost my vampire virginity, I drank way too much. The blood just rolled down my throat like elixir of the gods. I felt like a baby at a titty bar. I just couldn't stop. The next night I woke up with such a hangover. I didn't get out of my coffin for a week. My undead buddies still tease me about it, even though that story is so last century."

Life for the undead Hollowell soon improved as he grew accustomed to the nocturnal routine of vampirism. He recalls that as the years flew by, New Orleans grew into a bustling city of culture, tourism, and blood. "The city was literally bubbling with life," he reminisces with the hint of a small tear trailing down his pale cheek. "Especially during Mardi Gras. I can't tell you how many breasts I saw on any given night. I gave the ladies more than cheap beads for a little flesh," he said with a wry smile. "It was a splendid time, if you could stand the crowds and public urination."

"I was even the top recruiter for my coven three years in a row." He looked down at his Dolce and Gabbana black velvet cape. "I won this in 1992, because I recruited 348 new vampires that year. Oh sure," he said with a shrug, "Anne Rice and her alcoholic ramblings helped. But I did all the dirty work."

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably as he spoke, and he flashed a toothy grin. "Don't worry. I've retired from recruitment. Anyway, you wouldn't last a decade with those ears. You're safe. Plus, I'm on a diet. Been feasting on too many fatties lately. I'm starting to get a blood belly."

Nervous laughter spilled into the room and he continued his tale.

"The 21st Century arrived, and New Orleans began dying on the vine. With the election of George W. Bush, and his thirst for blood of a darker color, the City that Care Forgot began living up to its nickname. Federal monies for social programs were siphoned into the unjustified war in Iraq and tax cuts for the rich. And, as we all know now, in June of last year the Bush Administration sucked over $70 million from the budget of the New Orleans Corps of Engineers, which prevented the proper maintenance and upgrade of the city's levee system. I might bite a lot of necks, but George Bush is the real vampire," he said, almost poetically.

A bit of empathy peeked out from behind his fangs. "Many of the city's wealthiest residents moved to higher ground, and Hurricane Katrina hit, leaving the black urban poor bathing in their own death. Not wanting to leave my home, I nearly starved, unable to find any victims. All that I found had already been sucked dry."

"By the government, you mean?"

"No, by other vampires. I survived solely on looters but they left a bad taste in my mouth." According to Hollowell, his situation got so bad he eventually had to leave his hometown. He migrated north to Broken Springs only because he heard it was a good place to be bored to death.

Noticing my empty goblet, my host slowly poured another glassful of Sangria as the dawn began peeking in from behind the posh curtains in his flood damaged dining room. We tipped our glass to forget about the plight of New Orleans and the continuous suffering in the town we both now call home. The wine flowed down my throat like warm blood on Halloween night.

"My shrink says I'm suffering from post traumatic depression, a disorder not uncommon to vampires for obvious reasons. He wanted to put me on anti-depressants but my stomach rejects everything but blood. Unfortunately I'm scared to death of needles. There's only so much death and destruction an immortal man can take. There's no hope for me. My existence is dreary and full of despair. Undeath is not worth living anymore. Therein lies the dilemma. How does an immortal man kill himself? How can you kill someone who's already dead? Where's that bastard Van Helsing when you need him?" The vampire put his head in his hands and began weeping tears of blood.

That was when I noticed the sharp wooden stake laying on the windowsill. It was suddenly clear to me why Hallowell had granted this interview. Still weeping, he was oblivious to the stake raised before him. But upon attempt to drive it into his chest, the Sangria made me quite legless, so I missed his heart completely and my assassination attempt resulted only in a wicked wooden splinter.

"Oh, thanks for trying," he said while picking wooden shards out of his skin. "You're too drunk to drive home. You're welcomed to sleep in my guest coffin," he commented nonchalantly as he corked the wine and closed the curtains.

"But if you get up early, don't wake me," he warned. "I'm a late sleeper."

Oops

There are unbleeped versions on Youtube...

Potent and Impotent

Things have quieted down on the local front, ever since the Underground went underground. Police Commission meetings have gotten so tedious I’ve opted out of them the last two months. What can I say? Times are busy. Other obligations arise. My life has lately been consumed by real politics, work, and the fall season premiers of my favorite television shows. Oh yes. It’s a strange time in life when your favorite actor on tv is a presumed dead member of the mongoose family.

In the neighboring town of Buckville, they’re about to make the same mistake we made last year in Broken Springs. The school board is negotiating a contract with Laidlow Inc., a private company originally from Canada which will bust up the driver and custodial unions and therefore save the school precious dinero. This is much preferred to cutting the pork out of the budget for the higher ups on the totem pole. If anyone cares enough about the safety and well being of local children, they might want to attend the school board meetings next month on the 13th and 20th in Bucktown. They got the guns but we got the numbers, as a long dark haired beauty once sang…

Our local pols and pol wannabes got down and dirty recently at the League of Lady Voters sponsored debate. I believe all the candidates officially came out against trash (bold of them, no?) but the trash I’m interested in removing from the state currently resides in office.

Speaking of unnecessary pork, Neo Nitzi was the only candidate to publicly support privatization if it saves the school districts money. This is just a hunch, but I’m guessin’ the little Neo Nitzis in his family are all home schooled. Newsflash to Mr. Oink: Privatization is always cheaper, at least to begin with. But no one seriously should consider going to the prom wearing a halter top bought at Walmart.

Do yourself a favor. Get familiar with this issue. Privatization is unfortunately becoming the new American way of life, but at what cost?

Until next time,
Downward and backward!

B&E Sting Botched

Turns out “burglar” lived there…

When part time Broken Springs officer Keith Mauve noticed a dark skinned male moving suspiciously on the property across the street from where Mauve was moonlighting as a very tardy gas man, he thought he was witnessing a crime in progress. But his impromptu sting operation fell apart when he discovered that the cell phone clipped to his belt was dead. Frantically, as if he’d inhaled too many gas fumes, he pounded on the door of the house where he was working, but to his dismay the single woman inside wouldn’t let a stranger like him in to use her phone. Not wishing to blow his undercover status as a police officer, Mauve withheld his true identity and attempted to push his way into the house anyway. But thanks to Geritol, the tiny woman was stronger than she looked and he was unable to carry through with his plan. Frustrated, he told her she was going to blow everything and because he’d just installed a gas line, the woman thought he was threatening to blow up her house if she didn’t let him in. When she called 911 on him, he didn’t stop her because that was who he planned to call all along.

Officer Scroggins arrived at the scene in a very quick 25 minutes and when he did, the suspected burglar was still maneuvering across the street. Officer Mauve explained to his younger, slimmer co-worker that the man had been over there nearly an hour, snooping about, mysteriously moving furniture from his truck bed into the house, rather than the other way around. This was, as Mauve explained it, a possible decoy, just like the puzzling act of letting the dog out of the pen in the backyard to feed it.

“Clearly, the guy’s up to no good,” insisted Mauve to Scroggins. “He’s probably a terrorist or at least a burglar. Possibly both.”

But when Scroggins approached the suspect, one hand on his holster and the other on his inquisitional mag light, the officer learned the embarrassing truth. His fellow cop was an idiot.

The “burglar” in question turned out to be the property owner who’d just been hauling a recently purchased sofa onto his porch. When asked why he suspected the innocent homeowner of home invasion, especially since burglars usually haul furniture out of instead of into a house, Mauve insisted that criminals nowadays are often more clever than the cops trying to catch them. But others in the neighborhood suspect that Mauve had been burning the midnight oil that night with a fellow named Walker. Johnny Walker.

Despite the humiliating tale, Chief Kingston took the opportunity to applaud his department over the incident, making the following argument, “My officers are ever vigilant and devoted to protecting Broken Springs residents, even if only from themselves.”

For his vigilance, Mauve was awarded his long awaited Police Academy stripes and he was also given a raise. He plans to use the extra money either on a spare cell phone battery or another fifth of scotch. Possibly both.

Police Commission Meeting

There was a packed house for this month’s meeting. It was standing room only, but only because there were no chairs. Other than the three commissioners (plus the secretary and the attorney) there were five audience members. Next month they should consider charging at the door.

Mayor Jan Chaddwick was absent. Probably had another stroke.
Commissioner Bob Frugal doesn’t sound so good either. They said he had shaking grapes syndrome.

Amidst all of this excitement, the minutes from the last meeting are accepted, as are the bills. The financial report was thrown out the window, though. Just kidding. It was accepted as well.

Chief Thief Kingston says that complaints were up 3% this month, most of them probably about the police department.

Attorney Amnesia then talks very boringly about retirement funding. His discourse is so boring, I want to retire. He insists that the police department is under-funded while the fire department is over-funded. Personally I’m just dum-funded. Everyone knows that firemen are hotter than police officers, therefore they should have a better retirement fund. Amnesia, perhaps because he knows something the rest of us do not, speaks in hypotheticals, assuming the worst. He keeps saying things like, “If the department is still here…” Where else would it be? Neptune? Uranus?

Kingston then expresses his ambitions to get his hands on a fingerprinting machine here. Apparently they cost an arm and a leg, and we currently resort to using Niles’s facilitities. LSD’s machine is not good enough, obviously because they weren’t even able to screen the private company currently putting their handicapped children at risk. The commission decides to share Anthonys University’s fingerprinting machine. AU will bill us by the fingertip and round to the nearest digit. But first we must get an okay from the state of Michigan.

Rob Fishnet has proven that education pays off (it just sometimes has a bad exchange rate) when he caught a fourth offense DUIer. And another of our brave police men even worked… brace yourself… a ten hour shift and miraculously lived to tell about it. It included a 6-7 hour round trip to Detroit.

There was a drug prescription pad stolen. Someone forged the doctor’s signature and the thief was only caught because his forgery was legible.

Some idiot bank (you choose) in town cashed an $8,000 rubber check for a guy with no account. With the money he bought a car in Chicago, and a license and insurance with more bad checks. But the good news is he saved a ton of money on car insurance with Geico.

There have been robberies galore in Broken Springs!
The Dairy King robber is still at large.
Family Penny’s robber is still at large.
McHeart Attack’s robber was at large until he was supersized.

In fact, Broken Springs has had so many robberies, police are now mistaking ordinary citizens as robbers in their own houses.

There was another incident of kids causing trouble at Anthonys University. They were trying to eat pork in the parking lot and a riot ensued.

The mother of a sex offender was caught in Rob’s Fishnet when her crashing car came over the hill. She’s also the daughter of a man who’s fished all his life without a license. And her third cousin once sodomized a pumpkin.

Someone who’d rolled down Niagra Falls in a barrel has been attempting to steal identities. Sandy Quarts thinks she got an email from him about transferring money from one of his accounts. BS Police are planning on tracing the email.

The Pollack cop who we recently traded to the Sheriff’s Department (for a minor league cop to be named later) pulled over a man traveling not only with a known felon but several baggies full of marijuana and money. The Pollack cop smoked the money and turned in the marijuana.

All of this is proving that times are tough in Lil Chicago. The Chief Thief insists that this is reason enough to purchase an extra squad car. But Commission Chairperson Ernie Hildecrust wants to downsize to three cop cars, from four. Kingston protested, saying that with only three cars, only three quarters of our town would be covered. Furthermore, the ole Green Machine is so over driven he doesn’t even use it for patrol anymore. He only uses it to go back and forth to work, not counting the trips to Weedway Gas Station to load up on Gatorade, hot dogs, and scratch off tickets.

Sandy insists we need lots and lots of cars, the more the better. The more we have, the safer we are. She prefers a fleet. Jimmy says the cars we already have are beat to death so we need new ones and we need them by the first of the year. Ernie insists that this is not the time to spend money foolishly even if the people of Broken Springs are foolishly throwing gobs of extra money their way.

Sandy Quarts points out the cop cars go 100 mph, which is almost as fast as they go at Indy and Daytona.

Tempers begin to flare as the two sides butt heads.
Ernie just wants to be seen by his constituents as a fiscally sound representative.
Jimmy just wants more toys, and lots of them.
Sandy just wants Jimmy to get whatever he wants.
Phil Ruse just wants to get home in time for Wheel of Fortune.

Ruse, back from his temporary visit to Saturn, makes a motion to pass the budget, which includes $44,000 for two new patrol cars. Since we learned last year that a new Impala costs $17,000, we can now assume that the bubble gum lights and XM Satellite radio costs an extra five grand per car.

There’s more jumping back and forth, which makes me wish I’d actually attended this meeting instead of getting my butt kicked on the pool table.

It seems that whatever Jimmy wants Jimmy gets but not this time. Phil Ruse had misunderstood what he was voting on and called a “do over,” at which time he voted with that anti-cop sourpuss Ernie Hildecrust. Rock on, boys. Make Jimmy earn that extra set of wheels.

Meeting adjourned.