* * * UPDATED WITH CHAPTER ENDING * * *

  RELATIVE BLOOD

  It could have been any city, it wouldn't have mattered.  They drank their way through it, like the well-said phrase: Paint It Red.

    Belinda sat in an alcove snuggling the glass of her White Spider.  The foggy concoction of mixed white creme de menthe and Sky vodka, swirled with thawed ice.  The Last Depot, an underground nightclub, endorsed many life styles.  It was the perfect place for a vampire to circulate; dim lighting, solemn atmosphere, and a consistent flow of strangers.  Despite how much they drank, it didn't concern a city lacking empathy.  Anyone could go into a bar, take citizens home, and administer their fate.  It sounds fictitious, like the tale out  of a Dean Koontz novel.  The difference was, it was never . . . so real.

    An exotic convention of night movers increased with the dawning of midnight.  They only come out at night.  The children of dark and their melancholic opinions of daylight, roam the twilight hours seeking stability, in a world obsessed with ignorance.
    Belinda's usual indiscriminate thirst provoked the perimeter of her jaw.  The supporting gums of her mouth salivated with turbulent hunger that longed for bridling.
    Who could pass me up?  She thought, stripping off her sheer webbed blouse, to reveal a constricting scarlet dress.  A rapture of eyes moved along her body.  She excited herself with the images of a barbaric man buried inside her.  Belinda turned to a gallery of masculinities, an exhibition of male explorers.  One man in particular, she'd branded as Mr. Hollywood, surged and quickened his examination.  He had blue eyes, a good complexion, and the firm upper body of a Details Magazine model.  He combed his sweaty mass of waved brown hair, casting a fixed-look and determined smile at Belinda.  She stretched from the stool, arching her back, and fisted her drink.  The flirting was working.  Another tiny spoonful of tease, and Hollywood was about to have a new cast.  The chanting of Depeche Mode fit the approach of a man with self-assured intentions.
    He spoke hoarsely, ?I need cleansed.'
    ?Here.'  She said, handing him the White Spider.
    He swigged the glass.  ?Thanks.'
    ?Sure.  No problem.'
    ?Are you alone?'  He asked, lapping the Spider off his bottom lip.
    ?And what if I'm not.  What then?'
    ?I think you are, I observe people, and can rule them out pretty good.  I'm Robert, and your name.'  He said, pulling up his shirt sleeves, exposing his strength.
    She looked at the thickness of his forearms and  exerted veins.  ?I think you're obnoxious.  But cute.'  She muttered.
    ?So you do need company?'
    ?If you feel the need.'
    ?Thanks,' he said settling in the adjacent stool.
    ?So who are you here with?'
    ?No one.'  He smirked.
    ?Hmm.  You sure about that?  I saw you getting cozy with her.'  She referred to an alluring blonde haired woman, beyond the curtained dance floor.
    ?We just met.  We're not together.'
    ?Oh.  I see.'
    ?Something tells me, you don't trust me?'
    ?Define trust, and we'll see.'
    ?So, now we're playing judge and juror.'
    ?I don't play games.'
    ?Could have fooled me, but-'
    ?But . . . you can take the games, and the rest of the drink.'  Belinda said, leaving the stool.  She gave a simple smile, and walked passed the bar and its patrons.
    He noticed her stop at the window, bordering the exit.  She stared through the window pane, passed the Last Depot's red neon sign.  Across the street, the Midway Theater's marquee presented, the re-mastered version of David Lynch's ?Blue Velvet', at 1:00 a.m..  Robert heatedly followed her.  He couldn't figure why she concealed her motivations.
    He came up from behind, tapping her left arm.  ?You never told me your name.'
    She scanned the window, and said.  ?Despair, if I had one.  Only because, I assumed tonight would be new, but it's the same.'
    ?Why is it the same?'
    ?It never changes, the night is a cure for poison.'
    ?What poison?'
    ?Life.  You don't feel condemnation do you Robert?'
    ?I don't understand.'
    ?If you look at a cross what you see?'
    ?I see peace, a sign of hope.  What do you see?'
    ?My vision goes back to a time forgotten, when the crucifix dripped with the blood of unforgiven sparrows.  Where the sky fell bleak, and crow feathers fell upon the earth to absorb the sparrow's blood.  That's what I see.'
    ?Wow.  That's deep.  Are you a Poet?'
    ?No.  More a worldly synoptic.  I view the truth through other people's afflictions.'
    ?Your world sounds like a movie.'
    A David Lynch movie, she thought, but not as perplexing as Twin Peaks, and said, ?Have you seen Blue Velvet?'
    ?No.  Is it good?'
    ?Yes.  It imperviously admires human nature. Isabella Rossellini, plays the powerful role of a lounge singer, entangled between an obsessive lover and her imprisoned child.  The shift of a young fever-pitched college boy enters her life, and changes the events.  It's very moving.'
    ?Sounds it.'
    ?If the world could be that sketched.'
    ?Your world.'
    ?Any world?'
    ?I'd like to be a part of your world.
    ?You'd like to be, apart?'
    ?Yes . . .'
    ?Okay.  I'll tell you what, I know another after hours club, called The Lair.  We can go there and get better acquainted.'
    ?Fine.  Where?'
    ?Walk me to my car, I'm parked at The Hotel Farringtion.'  She said, pushing the bar door open.
    The bartender nodded to Belinda.  She waved her right hand behind her head as Robert followed her to the sidewalk off Biddle Avenue.
    ?Where's this club?'  He asked.
    ?1087 Broaddane Street.  You'll love it.'
    ?Cool.'
    ?Cool... so, you live in the city?'  She asked.
    ?Not exactly.  I live in Boston.  My mother fell ill, so I came to care for her.  I'll be leaving tomorrow.'  He said, with an honored look.
    ?Is she better?'  She asked, knowing he created a lie. He was a notable guest of the club every Wednesday.
    ?Ah, yeah . . . ' he mumbled, eyes wide, surveying the concrete path.
    Seconds later, they twirled a corner, and passed the yellow crest of The Hotel Farringtion, on the wall.  He trailed her steps down a flight of stairs.  She pushed open the garage door, it was quiet and empty.
    ?Where's your car?'  He asked.
    ?Over there.'  Belinda aimed into darkness.
    ?Where?  I don't like this.'
    ?Don't like what?'  An unfamiliar gruff voice asked, as the instantaneous hammer of a baseball bat, walloped Robert's right temple.  He gasped at a fantastic array of blinding pain that stunned his perception.  Robert grabbed his head, as another pulverizing hit struck his skull.  He thought of all the lies he told, and wondered if his dead mother, and God would for give him, as his surroundings dwindled.
    He fell to the ground, oozing cerebral fluid from his temple and nose.  Robert's face scraped the ground, shoveling grit into his wet orifices.
 
                               * * * * * CONTINUED * * * * *
                                                 
    Headlights blanketed Robert lying on the garage surface, projecting an exaggerated impression of his body across the white cinder brick wall.  He remained motionless as Belinda opened a black plastic bag above his head.  Her male accomplice knelt at the feet of the body and anxiously pulled downward on the bag.  Suppressed exhales liberated from the couple after the shimmering material consumed the man inside.  Beads of red glaze pulsated from a perforation in the body bag when it lifted from the surface.  The liquid gathered on a clump of pebbles, covering them in rich crimson, like bunches of ripe cherry tomatoes.

    While the bag passed by the headlights, a twitching from inside grew into kicking and struggling for freedom.  The man released the bag, formed a fist, and beat Robert to calm his movement.  After picking up the bag again, the twosome maneuvered toward the end of a metallic gray sedan, stopping behind the trunk.  With a turn of a key, an inaudible bass altered to a soothing Vivaldi's Four Seasons.  They lifted the trunk lid of the car and placed the limp carcass within.  A trail of blood slithered down the metallic paint.
    "Damn it.  Be careful," Belinda yelled.
    "What's your problem?"  He asked, tucking in the excess plastic.
    "You're spilling shit all over the car.  Wouldn't it be great if we got pulled over?" she said, exposing an ivory handkerchief, and removed the blood with one firm wipe across the bumper.
    They peered downward at the overloaded, coffin type compartment, grinning with zealous appetites in agreement.  The lid swished, violently slamming against the mound of bodies.  Storage space in the compartment had reached capacity, and the lid recoiled open. The abrupt impact triggered tormented whimpers from the debilitated bodies.  A bag at the bottom began to tear and a hand reached out, gripping the edge of the trunk.
    "They're starting to wake, do something," she said, grabbing the wrist of the escaping hand.  With a swift twist, Belinda broke the forearm and tossed it back inside.  They pulled the lid down, counting to three, and hammered it closed.  Crushing some of the bones, condensed the nightly collection and the lock appeared to fasten.  Rushed for time, the couple quickly jumped into the car and backed away from the wall. As the car turned, the headlights cast a beam of light across a pillar painted with bold yellow letters and numbers reading Parking Level 1.
    Gravel spewed across the asphalt of the dimly lit garage and the top of a ramp came into view.  Rapidly, the car passed beneath a sign stating: Hope that you enjoyed your stay at the Hotel Farrington.
On the street another sign instructed: All hotel traffic must turn right onto Biddle Avenue.  The driver wrapped his fingers firmly around the steering wheel in anticipation of relentless traffic.  A space came and the tires spun.  Rubber from the right rear tire grazed a curb that released the sedan's trunk lock.  Unaware of the compartment's freedom, the driver steadily moved onward.
 
    The sedan had traveled a good distance down the avenue, as conflicting movement within the plastic restarted.  Robert sluggishly lifted himself from the bagged cadavers, sliding closer to the airy opening.  A harsh turn launched his bag forward, suspending it above the shaky asphalt.  A section of torn plastic was at Robert's head, and through a damaged eyelid, he could conceive the frenzy road as it surpassed.  His physique bobbed up and down, scraping the street, and tumbled out.  The velocity of an oncoming car slammed him.  Tension from the tires forced his debris to spin, lashing a curb crippling his limbs.  Brakes squealed at the sight of jetting blood scattered along the street, like the spreading of a guest carpet.  A woman screamed and frantically pointed toward the tattered human remains.  Farther down the street, Robert laid, veneered in red from marred flesh, and blackened from road burns.  The gray sedan drove discreetly into the city.

                             TO BE CONTINUED...................     

 
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