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Who else would live here but a nice, hard-working family? The cement steps leading up to the porch of this semi-attached duplex in the Rego Park section of Queens, have a few cracks in them, but as a whole, the house looks pretty well maintained.
Through the front window of the living room I see three lovely Puerto Rican ladies from different generations watching Telemundo on a Sony 42” flat screen. I’ve been meaning to get one of those. The bulky rear-projection monster I have is taking up way too much space in my apartment.
Two little ones are seated on the floor in front of the television, a boy and a girl. On screen is a Sabado Gigante-type variety show like Don Francisco used to have. The host on screen is ogling the tits of the salsa dancer he’s introducing about as subtly as Benny Hill used to during his skits back in the seventies.
The little girl has a broken Barbie doll. It’s the Puerto Rican Dolls of the World Collector’s Edition from about twenty years ago. From the wear and tear I figure it belonged to the girl’s mom once. The dark-haired doll is wearing a white almost bridal-like dress with a pink cummerbund belt and a matching flower in her hair. This is apparently how Mattel pictured Puerto Rican girls in the late nineties. I guess someone forgot to do their research and actually go to Puerto Rico. The boy looks like he’s about the same age as what I presume is his sister. Maybe they’re twins. He’s got a toy truck in his hands and is totally undistracted by the dark-haired salsa singer and her impossibly tight body suit. Just wait a few years, bud. You won’t be playing with trucks anymore.
The music kicks in and the singer starts gyrating. It reminds me of when I was fifteen years old and I had a little portable twelve-inch TV in my room. We had trouble getting UHF in the Bronx and I had to move the TV antenna around the room to get Channel 47 so I could rub one out while watching Iris Chacón shake that giant ass of hers.
On the couch, the youngest lady looks no older than sixteen. She’s probably the older sister sitting with Mami and abuelita—a lovely innocent family quietly enjoying a peaceful Saturday evening at home. I almost hate to disturb them.
Like any smart family in New York they have the front door locked. Fortunately, the loud salsa blaring from the TV will drown out the sound of me turning the doorknob past its breaking point. During my living years, I used to go around with comfortable L.L. Beans on my feet, but these days I find Reeboks (which I have on now) or Nikes to be much quieter.
The wall in the foyer is decorated with achievement plaques from the New York City Police Department. It looks like the daddy of the household is Julio Miguel Rodriguez, a respected officer of the law. I wonder if he knows Dominic.
Thankfully, Officer Rodriguez doesn’t appear to be home. Having had a policeman in the family that was also my best friend, I always had great admiration for the police and wouldn’t want one to get in my way. I don’t like to hurt the good guys. He probably does know that his trombone-playing younger brother is a lowlife, but what he probably doesn’t know is that Mr. Roberto beat the mother of two young boys into a coma a couple of nights ago.
Hello.
The collective gasp from three ladies on the couch is an expected reaction to spotting a strange man standing in their living room doorway. What I don’t want is any unexpected reactions, which is why I quickly raise my hand and calm them. I don’t really need to raise my hand, taking over their minds doesn’t require that, but I remember Obi-Wan Kanobi doing it in Star Wars and I always thought it was kind of cool.
Strangely enough, the boy with the truck and the little girl with the doll don’t seem frightened. Is it a regular occurrence for unexpected strangers to just walk in here? Anyway, it’s not my problem. But rather than take a chance of any sudden change in reaction I’ll take over their minds as well, something I normally don’t like to do to children. Extended mind control can cause permanent brain damage, but if I get this done quick I should be able to release them with no harm done.
“Everyone please just relax. I will be out of your way in just a few minutes and you can continue to watch Telemundo.” Having to step over the toys on the floor brings back memories of our living room back at our house thirty years ago. I must have stepped on a hundred Hot Wheels cars back then yelling, “Davey, pick your shit up off the floor!”.
I kneel in front of the ladies on the couch to look less threatening. Again, isn’t really necessary but it does make for easier eye contact.
I address the children’s mother first. “Hola Señora, I take it the man of the house isn’t home?” Her eyes are blank, even as she nods. “A couple of Roberto’s friends said he might be staying here tonight. Is Roberto home?”
“Bobby?”
Oh, how sweet, they call him Bobby. “Yes, Bobby.”
Her eyes drift up towards the ceiling. “Bobby’s upstairs.”
A thunderous bang!
A jolt in my temple!
Almost simultaneous!
The force of the bullet crashing through my skull and burrowing into my brain sends me flying towards the flat screen, shattering the image of the sexy salsa singer into an infinite amount of pieces.
Why didn’t I hear him? Was it the salsa? My heightened sense of hearing should be at its peak after my Buffalo Johnny session with Veronica less than a week ago. How was I not aware of his presence? Did my genetic resistance allow my pent up rage to distract me to the point of carelessness?
The horrified screams of the Rodriguez family indicate that their minds are free of my control, not surprising considering a slug has tunneled through my cerebrum and exited through my cheekbone. This is the kind of encumbrance that comes with my genetic handicap. Another of my kind would have just fed on everyone before searching the house. Me, I can’t bring myself to harm an innocent family. Why should they pay for Uncle Bobby’s barbarities? They probably don’t even want him there.
“Die, you fucking freak!” Uncle Bobby, that ship has sailed a long time ago.
How stupid can I be? A cop’s house! Cop. Gun. Simple math, what’s the matter with me? Not that the bullet’s going to kill me, but I should have considered the fact that there could have been firearms on the premises. I also should have considered that, even with the entire living room having been in a trance, someone else in another room might not have been under my control.
If I was alive, the bullet obviously would have killed me. If that didn’t do the trick, the electrical current from the circuitry of the smashed television would have been the finishing touch. If somehow I managed to survive even that, at the very least, I would have ended up with permanent brain damage. But alas I am dead. And there’s nothing more permanent than that. And right now this dead man wants blood—Puerto Rican trombone player blood!
The shock of the bullet has not only cut off the spell I had cast in the room but it also knocked out my projection, which means now Bobby and the family are treated to the sight of broken fragments of cheekbone hanging from the torn flesh below my right eye. These wounds won’t heal magically the way they do in those movies you see on TV. They’ll heal somewhat but dead skin does not regenerate the same way it does among the living. When my projection is back intact, the unsightliness will be covered up, but for now it is all out for everyone to see.
“Demonio!” shrieks abuelita. Every superstition she probably grew up with has now been confirmed. The ladies pick up the kids and flee out into street screaming.
Roberto continues to still hold out his gun, petrified as he witnesses the freak he just shot rising after taking a bullet through the brain. From the smell of the room, I think he just shit himself.
That doesn’t stop him from taking another shot.
This time I’m hit in the forehead right above the left eye. For a musician, this fucker can shoot. Shoot all you want, you son of a bitch. Do your best, or do your worst, whatever that fucking saying is. Your life is ending tonight and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Too bad I can only kill you once.
Roberto fires two more panicked shots—one hits me in the neck and another gets me in the thigh just below my balls. The impact from the bullets sets me back a couple of steps but it doesn’t stop me from moving forward, to which Roberto reacts with a helpless whimper.
That’s right, buddy, the salsa party is over.
Roberto darts out of the house, following the rest of his brother’s screaming family out into the street. If the crap from the movies were true, right now I’d transform into a bat and fly past the frightened shitbag scrambling down the block. I’d then land in front of him and turn back to human form in front of his eyes.
Like I said before, I would fucking love that!
Too bad. Instead I just have to go run after him. And we don’t have super speed, either. In fact, we don’t run any faster than humans do. Our advantage is that we don’t tire. So a human can run from us all he wants but eventually he’ll get winded. We don’t. With our non-functioning lungs, that’s never a problem. If it weren’t for the daylight, I could run straight to California without breaking stride.
The only problem I do have right now is that all of the screaming has alerted the entire neighborhood. Curious neighbors are now in front of the house and a gang of young, Latino punks with baseball bats is approaching me with harmful intent.
Are you kidding me, guys?
They must be stoned out of their minds because I haven’t yet regained my human projection and they’re not even flinching at the sight of me. Maybe they think I’m made up for some kind of costume party.
What they don’t realize is that the real monster, the woman-beating trombone player, is down at the end of the street running his ass off. But looking the way I do right now, I don’t think they’re going to listen and help me with my chase, so it looks like I’m going to have to engage and kick some young Latino ass.
The first punk charges in swinging a stickball bat, which I easily catch and pull from his hands. This cues the rest of the gang to blitz and start pounding me. A couple of others, standing outside the melee, hold up their smartphones, recording the fracas on video. That’s going to be a problem. My projection still isn’t up. Even if my face is distorted to the point that it is unrecognizable as anything human, my clothes may be recognized as something that was seen worn by Jorge Sangría.
Usually pricks like these are looking for any excuse to get into some kind of free-for-all (I doubt if this is the neighborhood watch group), but tonight since I have my eyes on a different prize, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and assume their community spirit is sincere, which means I won’t kill them. That being said, at this moment I don’t have the time to reason or be gentle. That means some of these punks are going to get hurt.
My tightened grip on two of my attackers’ necks enables me to throw them from the pile as the rest continue to pummel me, not realizing that their punches and kicks are having no effect other than keeping me from my prey. A flurry of blows connects with each punk’s jaws sending them reeling back and knocking over one of those jackasses with the smartphone. Record that, ass wipe. I think now they’re getting idea that they’re dealing with something unusual. That’s right, fuckers, you want to take me on? Let’s go.
They haven’t exactly retreated, but it seems like they’re not too eager jump back in. Good, back off, punks. Consider yourselves lucky that—
Are you kidding me?
There’s always that one. And here he comes charging me with a yell. I never understood that. What is that supposed to do, scare me? Did you get a good look at me, idiot? The blitzing punk’s momentum is halted by my grabbing his arm and twisting it around his back, past breaking point. His tortured scream as I throw him face first against a parked car sets another punk off in our direction.
Man, these fuckers are dense!
The roaring yell of my antagonist shakes me up so badly that I take him by his shirt and guide his head into a parked car window, letting the shattered pieces of glass sprinkle around him.
Like I said, someone’s going to hurt.
Throwing the bleeding-from-the-head unconscious yeller to the street, I step towards the gang inviting any additional comers.
Anyone?
I didn’t think so.
Good.
Now let me go after my prey.
#
I smell his fear. I hear him hyperventilating. My senses are not yet as strong as I need them to be, but they’re slowly coming back. Roberto’s bullet had knocked the crap out of me and whatever was left was exhausted by my tangling with the neighborhood goon squad. And from the sound of it, they apparently didn’t get the message because I can hear them regrouping with intentions of chasing me down like the villagers in Frankenstein. The fact that they’re still a couple of blocks away will give me a little time, but I’d rather not have to scuffle with those imbeciles again.
My death face is still out for everyone to see. I can see it reflected on the window of a parked car. In order to kill that reflection, or to get myself out of sight I need to feed.
Now!
There’s a string of apartment buildings and alleys on both sides of the street. More often than not someone fleeing in fear like Roberto would probably duck into an alley, looking to break the trail. Instead I’m tracing his scent to the building in front of me.
But I’m weak. I’m losing focus. I can smell him but I can’t pinpoint where. Damn that fucking bullet.
Blood. I smell blood, sweet, fresh blood, of the quality I rarely get to enjoy. And it smells so fucking good.
I want it.
I got to have it.
I don’t care whose it is.
Through a window of the tenement in front of me, on the first floor, a lovely young mother, rocking her precious little newborn in her arms.
A young mother, the blood of a young mother.
Even more potent, the blood of a freshly born child.
So sad.
Wrong place, wrong time.
In the ongoing struggle between the monster and his genetic resistance, sometimes the monster wins.
The inside door of a tenement like this is usually locked. To get in you need a key or someone to buzz you in through the intercom. But many times in certain neighborhoods of New York, these doors, like this one, are broken by vandals. It’s a nice building, though, well kept. The lobby’s clean, well maintained. They’ll probably have that lock fixed in twenty-four hours.
The apartment that offers me the fuel I need to re-emerge is to my left. Inside, the mother sings softly to her child. The baby coos at the comfort of her voice. My shadow casts a looming specter in the otherwise empty hall outside her door, evidence that Death still lurks (we are not supposed to cast shadows).
The monster is exposed.
The monster must feed.
The door to the apartment is locked, but again I am able to force it open. Thanks to the Rebooks, no sounds are coming from my footsteps, only the sound of a nurturing mother and her angelic, dependent child.
It isn’t a large apartment. It’s more of a warm, cozy nest for a nice couple whose family just had an addition. The child’s bedroom has charming pink decorations on the wall. It’s a baby girl.
Mommy sets her little princess down in her nicely crafted Cinderella-themed crib. Sweet young mother, innocent child, you do not deserve this. But I hold no responsibility over what I am. I am Death. And I—
The slam of a door—five flights up, on the roof! It wasn’t vandals that had busted the door in the front of the building. It was Roberto! He had no keys so he threw his body against it to get through.
A grunt of anticipation escapes me.
The mother turns.
Her scream rattles the Disney decorations on the wall above the crib.
No way the neighbors in the building won’t hear that. I gotta get the fuck out. My real prey is upstairs, on the roof. The faster I get out and feast on the salsa playing brute upstairs, the better chance for me to avoid causing more trouble than I already have.
Fuck! What did I almost do? Never have I come even close to doing something like that! But then again I never had a bullet bounce around in my brain like a pinball before. I can’t believe what I was just thinking. What about my genetic resistance? Could a bullet through the brain have damaged me that much? As for you, sweet lady, make it a point never to miss another Sunday at Church. God just intervened for you in a very big way.
Leaping up the steps three or four at a time, I can already taste Roberto’s cerveza-soaked blood pouring down my throat. It reminds me of the feeling I used to get when I passed the Outback Steakhouse on my way home from work.
Too bad dead guys can’t participate in the Olympics. I must have made it up these flights in record time. The door to the roof has a sign that says open only in the case of an emergency. I think it’s a safe bet that for Roberto this qualifies as one.
The crisp, cool air of a New York City night kisses my ashen face as I step out on the roof. There is no hostess to lead me to my table but the whimper coming from the opposite end of the roof tells me Outback’s is serving cowardly woman batterer a la carte.
He’s winded, shivering on the roof’s tar surface in the fetal position. It actually surprises me a little bit, I expected him to have a bit more stamina. I’ve seen trombone players blow those things for hours without even taking a break.
Anyway, it’s not my problem. He’s got no breath left to run which means his only choice as he sees me approaching, is to beg for his life.
“Oh God, no, please. I’m so sorry. Please.” The last word barely gets out as he breaks into a pathetic sob. It is such fulfillment witnessing the fright of your prey before you feed, knowing that his body will be lifeless within the next few seconds. Genetic resistance or not, when filth like Roberto is about to become your next victim, it’s easier to understand the joy of the kill.
Roberto clasps his trembling hands together in prayer as I kneel before him. “Ay, Jesus Crísto, Santa Maria. Ayudame, Dios, por favor, ayudame.”
It shouldn’t bother me since God and I aren’t exactly on the same team these days, but it does. God steps in to protect young, innocent mothers and babies like the ones downstairs, not a worthless piece of shit like you, you fuck. You have no idea what I almost did because of you.
“Stop praying. You have no right!” He’s not hearing me. His hands are still together, eyes closed, lips moving. “Stop it, I said. Stop praying, now!” He tapers off a little, but not completely. “NOW!”
This time I got his attention.
The prayers stop.
Good.
Say goodbye, fucker.
The sickening wail of the fallen abuser resonates through the rooftops of Rego Park as his unearthly executioner gnaws like a rabid Rottweiler. Below on the street, the Rego Park vigilantes arrive, wondering aloud where the scream is coming from. The whole neighborhood in itself is already in a stir, having heard the scream of a young mother, fearing for her life and that of her child.
Heads pop out of the windows looking at the commotion forming on the street.
A vigilante punk wanders in circles, waving his arms maniacally. “Anybody see anything?” Surely somebody did. It’s not like the street was empty. But being New Yorkers, some crazed guy running away from another is probably nothing out of the ordinary (assuming they didn’t get a good look at my face).
“Where did he go, where did he go?” he asks to anyone who will listen.
The answer arrives in a splattered thud on the street, twenty feet behind him.
“Holy shit!”
The gang members gape at the gored, headless torso before looking up and spotting their targeted subject on the roof. “Get that motherfucker!”
Like the Keystone Cops, they charge the entrance of the building seeking another round with the Rego Park demonio.
When they finally make it up here, they won’t find him. Instead they’ll find the head of a woman-beating trombone player with his mouth wide open, paralyzed in fright.
Okay, so it was reckless kill on my part, no question about it. And it was in New York, out of my territory. Nonetheless, it had to be done.
No doubt Travis and Donny will be pissed. They will have sensed this one as it happened and they’ll know it was me. And if that’s not enough, there are going to be smartphone videos all over the ten o’clock news tonight showing a street brawl with some young punks and a guy that looks like he’s auditioning for a Bruce Campbell movie.
It’s the second ruckus I’ve caused in their territory in less than a week. Yeah, Travis and Donny are going to rip me a new one for sure.