Enclosed is the following investigation for the magazine Macabre Monthly: Vampires In Santa Carla
"Dolly, you gotta be shittin' me." I chucked the tabloid article aside, watching as the new girl winced and quickly went to gather the papers back into the security of those skeletal arms.
"I'm sorry James-- Mr. Derson. I just thought, you know, a lot of people have claimed to see them. There might be something to these reports," she said, her voice barely above a mouse squeak.
"Dolly, how many times do we have to go through this. You can call me James; I'm not some arrogant prick who spends all his time drinking coffee and sitting around on his ass doing nothing but watch Jeopardy," I said, raising my voice just a little in hopes that Mr. Kinsely would hear.
The bird that sailed across the cubicles told me that he had.
I smirked. "And further more, UFO's aren't exactly horrific enough for our magazine. We want the supernatural, not the extraterrestrial. Stuff like werewolves and zombies and--"
"Vampires?" she finished.
I laughed. "Sure, vampires. Just something that doesn't have me spending all hours of the night on the hood of my car with an antenna attached to my head, trying to pick up vibrations in outer space. Got it?"
She nodded feverishly. "Right. Got it. I'll go look for something else and bring it back immediately."
I couldn't help but stare at her ass as she walked away. No wonder Kinsely had hired her on the spot.
Sighing, I leaned back carefully in my five-dollar garage sale chair, putting my feet up on a ten-dollar clearance desk and stared towards the blank type-writer at the other end. Business as usual, though we were heading into the slow season and stories were becoming harder and harder to find. At least, with those who have very little imaginations, like myself.
Though, I prefer to look at it as "honest journalism." The kind that is rarely found in tabloids and the real news itself. The kind that isn't speculation and more based on hard, uncompromising fact with enough evidence that leaves the reader doubtless to every word you write upon the page. Sue me for moral judgment, but that's not the way most people roll in this business and my methods are often being confused with simple laziness.
And I guess in some ways, they are.
But what the reader doesn't know, won't hurt them.
"Arrogant prick?"
The voice was a deep, guttural drone that often reminds a person of a bullfrog's mating call. I didn't need to glance around to see who it was, though I suspected he would tip me over in this cheap, barely balanced chair if I didn't. I was met with the hard, black eyes of a man whose life hadn't quite gone the way he'd planned, though retained a sense of good humor to laugh about it in front of the eyes of others.
I really didn't care to know what he did behind closed doors.
"I outta fire you right now," he said, taking a sip of that infamous coffee.
"And who else are you going to find willing enough to be strapped in leather restraints and proclaim themselves a 'bad boy' over your desk while you beat them with a two foot wicker stick?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.
I was speaking figuratively, of course. But if it meant getting a raise…
Unfortunately, the old man only chuckled. "You're an ass, James. But your stories get the highest reviews by our highly sophisticated and colorful audience."
I couldn't help but feel that this flattery was somehow a ploy. Goddamn the old bastard.
He was an English man, surprisingly enough. Left London with his father during the war and came across to America where his family set up a print shop and began to make the first tabloid magazines. He's dreams had always been bigger, of course. A journalist who worked for The Wall Street Journal or Times Magazine. Obviously, he hadn't made the cut and was now the meager manager/owner of an occultist magazine that produced everything from fan fictions to the General Horror Report (number of murders in a month), to specialized stories in which investigators like myself were sent out on the field to bring the full truth on the weird and wild speculations of the public.
Legends of ghosts, black apparitions in the surroundings forests and mermaids caught up within the tides---I've seen and heard it all.
And so far, I believe in nothing.
But the things I have seen provide the readers with what they want to hear and hence, I've managed to keep my job for almost ten years.
Personal sacrifices have been made, but that's the life of a journalist; a proverbial seeker of truth. AKA Someone with no life.
"You know, she may be on to something."
"Who?"
"Dolly. About the vampires," he said, taking a delicate sip of that blackened brew.
I made a face. "Vampires aren't really my thing."
His sigh brought a burst of acrylic acid into the air. Old man's breath. "C'mon James, open up a little. I know you were scarred as a child by a black and white Dracula movie, but that's no reason to closed all together to the ideas of the undead."
"Hey!" I snapped. "I was four and it was scary as hell. You should have heard that organ playing and seen the look on the woman's face as she died. Fucking creepy as shit."
I wanted to punch him as he rolled his eyes. "Really James. An organ? Don't they play those in church?"
"Like I said, I'm a bad boy so I wouldn't know."
"You're being ridiculous."
"I told you when I started here that I wasn't interested in these blood-drinking freaks. Most aren't even real vampires, just people with a strange fetish for sucking up bodily fluids."
"And what if I were to offer a little compensation for your troubles?"
I could feel that black gaze grinding into the back of my head, willing me to look towards him and take the bait. The pen hooked between my fingers and I fought him for as long as I could.
"Compensation? Is that layman's terms for a raise?" I asked.
"I suppose. You've been here what… ten years now? You're very popular in our magazine and your investigating is thorough enough. I suppose I could add a zero or two to your paycheck."
He was making it very difficult to resist. But still, I had my pride to worry about and the notion that if I looked him right in the eye, he might try some kind of voodoo mind trick and get me to do the story for free. Thirty years in this business had given the man insight on some pretty fucked up things and I for one, was intent on keeping my distance.
Too bad no one could say the same for poor Dolly.
"Look James," he started, coming around my desk and catching me off-guard. "There's been a lot of rumors circling these past years. Vampires living in Santa Carla, people disappearing without a trace---the work is already done for you, all you have to do is go and collect all the information and bring it back for us to sort out. Vampires are the new fad for these kids and already there are several legends about them."
"Legends?" I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
"I don't know, something about some kid that use to live in Amber Oaks trailer park who supposedly went crazy and killed both his parents, drinking their blood and becoming a vampire. Look, all I'm asking is for you to go out and do a little snooping. Interview people, get the facts and then do what you do best."
"And what's that?" I tried so hard to ignore his smile.
"Find the truth. You don't make your shit up, James. You may give it color here and there, but the basic facts are real and the readers respect that."
"And what happens if I'm suddenly caught in the cross-fire?" I asked, finally lifting my eyes up to stare into the man's own. "This isn't like digging up graves or spending five hours talking to a homeless man whose claimed he's seen Jimmy Hendrix ghost. Some of these people are seriously deranged and as much as I love having you kiss my ass, there is a serious risk involved when I go to interview them."
He seemed to think for a moment and I used the distraction to tear my eyes away.
It was no use.
"How about I add an early bonus?" he asked.
I could feel the weight of those eyes baring down all the more, forcing me to sigh and drop my pen back to the desk. The man knew how to get what he wanted, how to grope and twist people in just the right way.
"Fine. But I also want any damages to my vehicle, my house and possible hospital bills, paid for."
His smile voiced his victory. But he was a man of old customs and thank god we weren't in the medieval ages where promises were signed in blood. The stuff actually makes me queasy.
His method, however, was a simple handshake. "Fine… deal?"
I hesitated only once before reaching out and taking hold of those meaty, sandpaper fingers. My answer was more of a sigh.
"Deal."
