Sunday, October 14, 2012

Example Post for Maxwell

There had been worse instances in which to hear that loathsome drumbeat he'd set for Carmelia's ringtone, but none of them was particularly welcome. He'd been in the middle of another visit to the supermarket when the call came, meaning to pick up some nicer versions of the things one of his housemates had bought for himself. He knew that, if he openly offered the man money for such things, he'd never accept, but he wouldn't let food already in the house go to waste, either. "A giant dog?" he'd sighed, inclined, as ever, to question why it was always him, why just one of these things couldn't be pawned off to the same people who'd drag the dumb bastard in. They're vampires, for fuck's sake; they can't pulverize a corpse?

Some accusations of being a whiny bastard who was forever trying to shirk his duty later, he'd put everything back and climbed into his forgettable sedan, trying to lift his mood--and possibly better prepare himself--by fastening that big military duster of his around his shoulders. Television said that every good adventurer needed an outfit for the occasion, after all, and the WWII artifact's appeal there outstripped any monetary value he could see it having in the future, at least in his eyes. There was some irony to the comparison of the two things, really. . .he drove that stupid, weak foreign car because it was what everyone in town seemed to drive and so, describing it would be of help to no one unless they remembered the plates, yet he had no problem dressing in a way that everyone who saw him would remember. It had worked out for him so far, at least. Perhaps he was doomed to crash and burn at some later date but, if so, he had no intention of blaming himself; he'd put it all on the plate of that sheriff of his, who'd strong-armed him into this job in the first place. However much Dean might praise his skills, he'd sworn even to him that this was not his identity-that he was a singer, or a teacher, never some fucking hunter.  It was, of course, equally possible that time would lead him to stop resenting this work, but that had yet to arrive.

When he pulled into a spot at the club, he found himself needing to sit in the car for a few minutes first, girding his loins. He could hear the music already, pumping and obscene. The hate he felt for it then was foreign even to him for, put him a few years into the past, give him a manufactured heartbeat, and he might have been right in the middle of it, smiling blissfully as the beat of a few hundred hearts in unison sang to him, like some mass offering. . .this, though. Vampire clubs. He swore he'd never walk into another one, after the first time. Stupid girls asking to see his fangs. Stupid boys asking what he could do to them. Reckless vampires dragging those foolish girls and boys into bathroom stalls. And the music, always the music. One would expect, having been in a band like his, that it wouldn't infuriate him so, but it all came together into one loathsome aesthetic. . .this idiotic package that club owners sold to particularly self-destructive elements of counterculture. And, of course, these were the same people who'd become addicted to V, desperate to more closely resemble the vampires they admired, because they just couldn't find someone willing to bring them over, to give them the gift. He knew he couldn't walk in with this loathing written all over his face. When the culprit owned the fucking club, he had to look like he was there for the atmosphere.

Eventually, he climbed out of the car and plastered a confident grin on his face, making sure to lay his feet down heavy to accentuate the steel-toed boots he wore; he had airs to put on, if he wanted to get this done any time soon. He strode straight past the line, knowing that, if this was like any other vampire club he'd ever heard of, they wanted him there more than any of the humans waiting in the increasingly chilly night. "I'm here for the party," he declared to the bouncer, clapping a long-fingered hand on his shoulder and maintaining that grin like a champ. Pale blue eyes flicked, unblinking, from the shell of the man's ear to the eyes of a couple girls waiting near the front, and he gave a suggestive twitch of his eyebrows that made one of them giggle and the other shift uncomfortably. Said bouncer being a vampire himself, of course, he knew immediately what he was, and beckoned him inside.

His grin dropped off like a discarded mask when he stepped inside, but he managed to replace that with the expected curiosity of a man strolling around a topless bar, rather than the bitterness which continued to gnaw at the back of his brain. The old coat defined most of his appearance for him, closed over all but his faded black jeans and boots. His dark hair was kept long, falling near the end of a long, slender neck in waves and loose curls that, to most estimations, were artfully tousled, rather than simply being messy. He had a distinctive sort of nose, rather long to suit the way of his face, and coming to a slight hook at the end. A strong chin and an intense gaze pulled him together in a way that was, to most, passably handsome. It got him by, where finding his meals was concerned; that was really all he needed.

He found a booth in which to drop himself and, shortly after that, one of those waitresses found him. His eyes gave an expected sweep of her chest, suitably admiring without fixating in a way that would mark him rookie, finding her face in time for her to ask him if she could get him a drink. "I'll need TruBlood, thank you," he replied, pleasant enough; something about actually being in here, looking into the prospect of having to choke down some synthetic blood in the name of keeping up appearances, really cut into his enthusiasm for putting on a good face. Once she departed, his attention worked his way over the crowd. Were any of them being led into the back? Were those that were employees? Did any of them seem excited to be guided back there? It went without saying that this bastard would be promising them a good time. It's possible he even believed it himself. Enough nesting habits, enough years, or simply an ugly enough personality, and the sadist could believe that his every victim harbored deep masochism that would have them begging to be torn apart for his amusement.