Tales of the Slayer: Real Crazy Shit by Bookman (Novussibyl@aol.com)
Rating: R for language
Summary: An extremely unlikely crossover set in 1970s New York City.
Type: Drama
Author's Note: A crossover with what? Read on and see... Minimal series
content to be found, fyi. This story is another part of my vague
ongoing Tales of the Slayer saga (La Vérité Vous Affranchira being the
first part, and more to come, hopefully.)
Feedback is always nice. That's novussibyl@aol.com. Thank you.
Push the button, Frank.
Disclaimer: The Slayer concept is the creation and property of Joss
Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Lilliana Malick is mine, however.
-
New York City
February, 1974
-
I hate New York.
Not even a whole day I've been here and already I hate it.
It's cold and dark and so little like beautiful warm Beirut I could
cry.
Or it could be that this stupid fucking vampire won't come out is
what's making me cry. Halfway across the world I've followed it, from
Beirut to Alexandria to Marseille to Miami and finally to here and now
in this stinking slum, it decides to hide out?
Two hours I've been here, watching and waiting even after the sun sets
and it still won't come out of the little hotel where it is.
At least I'm not alone.
Of course I saw him. Two hours I've been watching cars and people go
by, and that same man has been there in that alley almost as long as I
have. The man pretending to be a bum but he's really watching the
hotel without trying to look like he is.
He is doing a good job, I have to admit. A policeman, maybe. Good
at surveillance, whoever he is. Nobody else has noticed him slumped
down there next to the dumpster with a bottle and a few cigarettes -
and the pistol right where it should be if he wants it in a hurry -
and it took me half an hour to really see him. My Watcher would slap
me if he was here.
But he's not here, and he won't be for days if I'm lucky.
And he's not my real Watcher. Martin is... Martin ya habibi...
Enough!
It's just me and the black man and this stupid fucking vampire who
won't come out! What is he doing in there? That suitcase full of
heroin, maybe, or what?
-
The chick's playing it real cool, all right. I might not've even
noticed her, except not too many white girls tend to hang 'round on
top of buildings in the ass end of Harlem at night. Especially white
girls scopin' out motels with fancy little binoculars that have to be
government issue. That kinda thing sorta sticks out.
Looks like I'm not the only one who's got a score to settle with
brother Khalid. I wonder what her beef is with him. More to the point,
I wonder what the hell she thinks she can do. Khalid's got the locals
running scared, that's for sure, and they say he even gives big
honkies with names like Fat Tony and Scissors Barone the creeps. And
he's only been in town for a week so far. A man's gotta be pretty bad
to get a rep that quick down in Harlem.
So why am I trying to bring this particular piece of shit in?
Easy answer to that, at least. I don't got time to waste waiting on
the cops to not figure out Khalid's the one that killed Johnny. I
liked Johnny, even if he was always getting himself in some damn mess
or other. Someone's gotta do for him, and it ain't gonna be some
white detective.
Twenty minutes later on, my ass starts to get numb. Been sitting here
on the pavement too damn long. And I got a hunch Khalid isn't warming
that particular motel bed any more, even if the lights are on.
I check that the pistol is still tucked in, just in case, and then I
do a little shuffle across the street.
The brother working the counter knows me and gives up the spare key to
Khalid's room for ten bucks. Up the stairs I go, quiet as a ghost or
pretty damn close, and it's only when I'm turning the key in the lock
that I stop and wonder again what crazy white chick's deal is, and
where's she at now.
-
The black man finally stands up and starts shuffling out of his alley.
I stay and watch... just long enough to see the lights in Khalid's
room go off the second the black man goes inside the motel.
Fuck.
I waste two seconds, maybe, thinking, then I go. Run across the roof
and jump over to the motel's roof and down the fire escape as fast as
I can.
Thank Christ that the stupid bloodsucker got a room right next to the
fire escape. I'm there at the window just in time to see the door open
and light come in.
-
The first thing I notice is that it's dark in the room. Dark as hell,
but he's still in there somewhere, and he knows I'm coming and he's
ready. All that flashes right through my mind.
That and 'fuck'.
I'm backing up, trying to make myself a little less of a big fat target
when I see something moving inside.
Turn and shoot without stopping to think. Usually it works. This time
all I do is blow a hole in a cheap TV as it falls to the ground.
Fuck. One of the oldest tricks around and I fell for it.
Then Khalid pounces at me like some kinda fucking jungle cat and I
fire again but he just laughs. I hit the freak right in the shoulder
and he just laughs.
-
Khalid laughs when the black man shoots him. If he - *it* was a human,
Khalid would be screaming and maybe wondering why his right arm wasn't
moving. But it's a vampire and all it does is laugh.
Fine. It laughs so loud that it doesn't hear me come in through the
window. The black man shoots again, then Khalid grabs the pistol and
throws it back.
Good. Khalid might laugh when it gets shot, but I don't. And who knows
where bullets will end up in a fight like this? It punches the black
man twice, hard, and then shows him just what he's fighting.
-
I'm getting my face pounded - like with brass knuckles, but I don't
see them - and then he smiles at me. And then he's still smiling, but
the rest of his face looks like something straight outta - hell, I got
no idea and I don't have time to think about it.
He's got fangs, though, and that's not good.
Seriously far from good.
I'd shoot him again if I had my gun, shoot him right in that
freak-face, but I don't and all I can do is give him a good ol'
fashioned headbutt.
He just laughs again and I know this is gonna end up hurtin' a whole
lot.
Then I see that white chick. She's got a knife in her hand, or
something, and she's getting ready to stick it right into him.
Fine by me. Just to give her a little hand, I kick the bastard in the
nuts. See how he likes that.
-
When the black man kicks Khalid right there where no man likes to get
kicked, the little maggot screams. I almost laugh. instead, I grab
Khalid by the hair and pull it back off the man.
It's still in pain. I give it a little more with a slap that knocks a
few teeth out. "Remember me, fucker?" I ask it, hissing a little, then
slap it again. I don't want to hear its answer. I just want to hurt it
for what it did to Martin. Hurt it the way it hurt him.
When it starts squealing like a pig, I know I'm getting close.
"Hey... enough's enough," the black man says. He's got the gun again
but it's pointing down and not at me. He puts one hand on my arm
instead. "Gonna be cops all over here soon."
"Right." I carve one last line across Khalid's face with the stake and
then finish it with one quick stab. It's dust and I feel a little
better. Just a little.
-
It's not a knife, it's a stake, and before I can do a goddamn thing,
she sticks it right into Khalid's chest.
"You crazy - "
Then he's nothing. Just dust and even that's gone in a couple seconds.
I let go of her arm somewhere in that long, long stretch of time.
"Shit. Crazy shit."
The girl smiles at me. "Yeah. Real crazy shit," she says with an
accent. Arabic, I guess, or something like that.
"You killed him."
She shakes her head. "Slayed. It."
"Slayed. It. Right."
I put the gun away. I ain't about to shoot some teenage girl. Besides,
something tells me she'd probably grab it before I could pull the
trigger anyway. "I got a feelin' my life would be a whole lot simpler
if I didn't ask what the hell just happened. Or even think about it
for a long, long time."
She smiles again. Not so happy this time. Reminds me a little bit of
some Vietnam vets I know. The ones who didn't exactly readjust to
civilian life too well. "Probably."
We stare at each other for a few seconds. What the hell else is there
to say here? "Cops're gonna be here soon. You should probably get
going."
"You too," she replies.
Neither of us move just yet.
She goes first. "Malick. Lilliana Malick." She chews on her lip for a
second or two. "Lilliana the Vampire Slayer."
Vampire Slayer. Hell, I knew it was something like that. I got eyes. I
ain't stupid. But still... "Shaft. John Shaft," is all I can say.
She nods and then we both hear the sirens. Not so loud right now, but
getting louder the longer we sit here staring at each other. Neither
of us wants to answer the questions the Man is gonna ask about all of
this.
Another nod and she's gone, and I'm going.
Crazy shit. Real crazy shit.
The End
(Disclaimer II - John Shaft is the creation of Ernest Tidyman.
Hopefully I've done the character a small amount of justice.)
Rating: R for language
Summary: An extremely unlikely crossover set in 1970s New York City.
Type: Drama
Author's Note: A crossover with what? Read on and see... Minimal series
content to be found, fyi. This story is another part of my vague
ongoing Tales of the Slayer saga (La Vérité Vous Affranchira being the
first part, and more to come, hopefully.)
Feedback is always nice. That's novussibyl@aol.com. Thank you.
Push the button, Frank.
Disclaimer: The Slayer concept is the creation and property of Joss
Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Lilliana Malick is mine, however.
-
New York City
February, 1974
-
I hate New York.
Not even a whole day I've been here and already I hate it.
It's cold and dark and so little like beautiful warm Beirut I could
cry.
Or it could be that this stupid fucking vampire won't come out is
what's making me cry. Halfway across the world I've followed it, from
Beirut to Alexandria to Marseille to Miami and finally to here and now
in this stinking slum, it decides to hide out?
Two hours I've been here, watching and waiting even after the sun sets
and it still won't come out of the little hotel where it is.
At least I'm not alone.
Of course I saw him. Two hours I've been watching cars and people go
by, and that same man has been there in that alley almost as long as I
have. The man pretending to be a bum but he's really watching the
hotel without trying to look like he is.
He is doing a good job, I have to admit. A policeman, maybe. Good
at surveillance, whoever he is. Nobody else has noticed him slumped
down there next to the dumpster with a bottle and a few cigarettes -
and the pistol right where it should be if he wants it in a hurry -
and it took me half an hour to really see him. My Watcher would slap
me if he was here.
But he's not here, and he won't be for days if I'm lucky.
And he's not my real Watcher. Martin is... Martin ya habibi...
Enough!
It's just me and the black man and this stupid fucking vampire who
won't come out! What is he doing in there? That suitcase full of
heroin, maybe, or what?
-
The chick's playing it real cool, all right. I might not've even
noticed her, except not too many white girls tend to hang 'round on
top of buildings in the ass end of Harlem at night. Especially white
girls scopin' out motels with fancy little binoculars that have to be
government issue. That kinda thing sorta sticks out.
Looks like I'm not the only one who's got a score to settle with
brother Khalid. I wonder what her beef is with him. More to the point,
I wonder what the hell she thinks she can do. Khalid's got the locals
running scared, that's for sure, and they say he even gives big
honkies with names like Fat Tony and Scissors Barone the creeps. And
he's only been in town for a week so far. A man's gotta be pretty bad
to get a rep that quick down in Harlem.
So why am I trying to bring this particular piece of shit in?
Easy answer to that, at least. I don't got time to waste waiting on
the cops to not figure out Khalid's the one that killed Johnny. I
liked Johnny, even if he was always getting himself in some damn mess
or other. Someone's gotta do for him, and it ain't gonna be some
white detective.
Twenty minutes later on, my ass starts to get numb. Been sitting here
on the pavement too damn long. And I got a hunch Khalid isn't warming
that particular motel bed any more, even if the lights are on.
I check that the pistol is still tucked in, just in case, and then I
do a little shuffle across the street.
The brother working the counter knows me and gives up the spare key to
Khalid's room for ten bucks. Up the stairs I go, quiet as a ghost or
pretty damn close, and it's only when I'm turning the key in the lock
that I stop and wonder again what crazy white chick's deal is, and
where's she at now.
-
The black man finally stands up and starts shuffling out of his alley.
I stay and watch... just long enough to see the lights in Khalid's
room go off the second the black man goes inside the motel.
Fuck.
I waste two seconds, maybe, thinking, then I go. Run across the roof
and jump over to the motel's roof and down the fire escape as fast as
I can.
Thank Christ that the stupid bloodsucker got a room right next to the
fire escape. I'm there at the window just in time to see the door open
and light come in.
-
The first thing I notice is that it's dark in the room. Dark as hell,
but he's still in there somewhere, and he knows I'm coming and he's
ready. All that flashes right through my mind.
That and 'fuck'.
I'm backing up, trying to make myself a little less of a big fat target
when I see something moving inside.
Turn and shoot without stopping to think. Usually it works. This time
all I do is blow a hole in a cheap TV as it falls to the ground.
Fuck. One of the oldest tricks around and I fell for it.
Then Khalid pounces at me like some kinda fucking jungle cat and I
fire again but he just laughs. I hit the freak right in the shoulder
and he just laughs.
-
Khalid laughs when the black man shoots him. If he - *it* was a human,
Khalid would be screaming and maybe wondering why his right arm wasn't
moving. But it's a vampire and all it does is laugh.
Fine. It laughs so loud that it doesn't hear me come in through the
window. The black man shoots again, then Khalid grabs the pistol and
throws it back.
Good. Khalid might laugh when it gets shot, but I don't. And who knows
where bullets will end up in a fight like this? It punches the black
man twice, hard, and then shows him just what he's fighting.
-
I'm getting my face pounded - like with brass knuckles, but I don't
see them - and then he smiles at me. And then he's still smiling, but
the rest of his face looks like something straight outta - hell, I got
no idea and I don't have time to think about it.
He's got fangs, though, and that's not good.
Seriously far from good.
I'd shoot him again if I had my gun, shoot him right in that
freak-face, but I don't and all I can do is give him a good ol'
fashioned headbutt.
He just laughs again and I know this is gonna end up hurtin' a whole
lot.
Then I see that white chick. She's got a knife in her hand, or
something, and she's getting ready to stick it right into him.
Fine by me. Just to give her a little hand, I kick the bastard in the
nuts. See how he likes that.
-
When the black man kicks Khalid right there where no man likes to get
kicked, the little maggot screams. I almost laugh. instead, I grab
Khalid by the hair and pull it back off the man.
It's still in pain. I give it a little more with a slap that knocks a
few teeth out. "Remember me, fucker?" I ask it, hissing a little, then
slap it again. I don't want to hear its answer. I just want to hurt it
for what it did to Martin. Hurt it the way it hurt him.
When it starts squealing like a pig, I know I'm getting close.
"Hey... enough's enough," the black man says. He's got the gun again
but it's pointing down and not at me. He puts one hand on my arm
instead. "Gonna be cops all over here soon."
"Right." I carve one last line across Khalid's face with the stake and
then finish it with one quick stab. It's dust and I feel a little
better. Just a little.
-
It's not a knife, it's a stake, and before I can do a goddamn thing,
she sticks it right into Khalid's chest.
"You crazy - "
Then he's nothing. Just dust and even that's gone in a couple seconds.
I let go of her arm somewhere in that long, long stretch of time.
"Shit. Crazy shit."
The girl smiles at me. "Yeah. Real crazy shit," she says with an
accent. Arabic, I guess, or something like that.
"You killed him."
She shakes her head. "Slayed. It."
"Slayed. It. Right."
I put the gun away. I ain't about to shoot some teenage girl. Besides,
something tells me she'd probably grab it before I could pull the
trigger anyway. "I got a feelin' my life would be a whole lot simpler
if I didn't ask what the hell just happened. Or even think about it
for a long, long time."
She smiles again. Not so happy this time. Reminds me a little bit of
some Vietnam vets I know. The ones who didn't exactly readjust to
civilian life too well. "Probably."
We stare at each other for a few seconds. What the hell else is there
to say here? "Cops're gonna be here soon. You should probably get
going."
"You too," she replies.
Neither of us move just yet.
She goes first. "Malick. Lilliana Malick." She chews on her lip for a
second or two. "Lilliana the Vampire Slayer."
Vampire Slayer. Hell, I knew it was something like that. I got eyes. I
ain't stupid. But still... "Shaft. John Shaft," is all I can say.
She nods and then we both hear the sirens. Not so loud right now, but
getting louder the longer we sit here staring at each other. Neither
of us wants to answer the questions the Man is gonna ask about all of
this.
Another nod and she's gone, and I'm going.
Crazy shit. Real crazy shit.
The End
(Disclaimer II - John Shaft is the creation of Ernest Tidyman.
Hopefully I've done the character a small amount of justice.)