Chances are, nothing will be updated until after June. I'm participating in a writing challenge, and I'll be very busy with it.

Identity Crisis

Chris Sharpe would make a nice target, Sean decided. No one really liked the dude, after all, and he didn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed. Therefore, Chris would (hopefully) make a good meal.

Chris was outside with his telescope when Sean approached the house. "Oogy boogizzle on the fly fo' sho'," he said.

"Huh?" Sean was confused--no, bamboozled. Bamboozled was a much, much better word.

"Doodle oddle yum yum."

Sean gave him a blank look. "What does that mean?"

"I have no idea," Chris admitted. "It's absolutely ludicrous babble that I make up on the spot."

"Oh."

"Care to come inside for a spot of tea?"

"Um, not really...?" But he did anyway.

"I want to make it in the DJ world," Chris explained, while he filled the kettle. "And with that world comes certain expectations. I have to dress a certain way, act a certain way, and speak a certain way. It doesn't matter that I read Shakespeare in my spare time or that I've had published short stories, or that I could ace my English exam if I wanted to. I have to maintain a certain image, or no one takes me seriously."

"Oh my god!" Sean said. "Me too! I mean, I'm a vampire, but no one takes me seriously. I don't know why. Wait--you read Shakespeare in your spare time?"

"Maybe because you don't look the part?" Chris suggested, ignoring Sean's last comment. "It's a matter of making a choice--do you want to be taken seriously, or do you want to be yourself? In an ideal world, you could have both, but our society is far from ideal."

"You're right," Sean said. "That explains it. Thank you!" Chris handed him a cup of tea and Sean took a sip, sticking his baby finger up in the air (after all, you're not supposed to crook it!).

"First off," Chris said, "I don't think a vampire would have perfect etiquette. You need to be rough around the edges man! Googledy izzle bob!"

"Uh, right," Sean said. "I think I know what I have to do." He downed the rest of the tea (and crooked his baby finger!), chugging at it as if it were the same cheap beer he was accustomed to. "Thanks for the tea, and I'd best be on my way--I mean, gotta go."

"Much better," Chris said. "But I suppose you're going to suck my blood first?"

"Nah. That wouldn't be fair of me. I mean, you just helped me."

"That's not a very vampire-y thing to say," Chris commented, then immediately shut his mouth, realising that it could spell his doom. "I mean, you're totally right. Better get going!"

Sean left, but only he knew the truth--the truth he dared not tell poor Chris. He knew that Chris would be dead soon. The only thing he didn't know was how he would die.

Sure enough, he heard a faint scream as he walked away.

"My eye! Woe is me!" And then he quoted some Shakespeare gibberish, and then there was a thump and Sean knew it was over.

"Vampires don't mourn," he reminded himself, but he couldn't stop the one tear from rolling down his cheek--a perfect, crystal-clear sign of respect and grief and stuff.

He headed home and set about his duties, trying to find the perfect costume for a vampire. No, not a costume, he reminded himself, a uniform. Yes, a uniform. That's what it was. Only fake vampires wear costumes.

He rummaged through his closet, and then Ellies, and managed to construct a pretty decent set of attire. With one final look in the mirror, he decided he was ready for the ultimate test--a confrontation with Alex Nunez.

Alex let him in, assuming he was there on official candy-bandit business, but then he took off the overcoat he'd donned so as to obscure the costume (uniform) for maximum impact.

He couldn't find Ellie's eyeliner, so he'd smudged some of her charcoal (intended for art) around his eyes, and over his cheeks in an attempt to make them appear more gaunt. He had succeeded in finding some cheap, bright red lipstick, although it looked as if it was several years old, and covered in fuzz. He'd coated his lips and even drawn a dribble of fake blood down his chin.

Ellie's boots were too small for him, and high-heeled to boot (pun intended) but he'd pulled them on as far as they would go, and stolen a long black skirt.

But the piece de resistance was his fancy cape--an old tattered blanket with a tiny spot of drool from the night before.

He was hurt when Alex died of laughter.