Peter actually made it to the appointment with the stage manager the next evening completely by accident. His subconscious must have had the name of the restaurant where the meeting was to take place and automatically directed him there. By another stroke of coincidence, he had spent the last of his cash on some new clothes, therefore he was actually looking somewhat presentable. His old clothes and coat were crumpled in the shopping bag he was carrying and he planned to dispose of them after dinner.
"So what's your angle? I hope it ain't white tigers 'cause its been done."
"What the -," Peter caught the word before it flew into the manager's face, "What do you mean? Angle?"
The man leaned forward, a smug smile on his face. "Like what's your act? Your gimmick? Your signature?"
"Oh, uhh" Peter wracked his brain for something, anything.
"What's your mission?" the manager asked, still rattling off rephrasing of his question.
"Vampires," Peter blurted the word involuntarily. He definitely did not intend to say that outloud or had even thought about it and was starting to freak out a little.
"Vampires? As in you are a vampire?" The man looked incredulous, but slightly interested.
"No, I hunt them," Peter was speaking without meaning to again. He waved the waiter over frantically and ordered a drink, trying to keep from having a panic attack. Was the creature doing this to him?
"Vampire hunter?" the stage manager's eyebrows shot up, then lowered in a pensive expression. "Yes, that sounds pretty fucking cool actually. Get some of the younger people into the casino. They love all that vampire shit."
"Oh yeah, I bet," Peter sucked down the drink in one swallow. He grabbed the waiter's arm before he could step away and ordered another drink. A double this time.
"Mr. Vincent, I think we can work something out," the manager leaned across the table and grinned widely.
They spoke for a while longer about contracts, props, costumes, and the like. Luckily for Peter's sanity, there were no more incidents of speaking without intending to. After he had a few drinks in him, Peter was starting to feel more mellow. It was also starting to dawn on him that he was actually being booked for shows in a casino. A shitty casino, but still a Las Vegas casino.
"See you in two weeks, Mr. Vincent," the stage manager nodded to Peter as he gathered his coat.
"Yeah, see ya," Peter waved him off, nursing his last drink.
"Oh and Peter," the manager called to him. Peter turned and faced him.
"What?"
"Don't fuck this up," the casino man smiled and left. Peter let forth a string of stinging swears under his breath but soon realized that the manager was right. This could be the foot into the door, he really should do everything possible to not fuck up this opportunity.
Peter had been approached and even booked to perform before, but he would always get distracted from it. Whenever he tried to strongly focus on a job, or anything really, he would have vivid nightmares about the night his parents died and the monster that killed them. He would wake up covered in sweat, feeling like his chest was ablaze. Sometimes he would wake up outside or on a bus. He was being compelled to pursue the beast and exact his revenge, and the desire to do so consumed him almost completely. Peter never followed through. He was too scared. He was scared of the monster, scared of the way his insides burned with hatred, he was scared of dying. His fear always brought him to the liquor store, then straight home to drink himself to oblivion.
"Anything else, sir?" the waiter asked, clearing the empty glasses from the table.
"Nope," Peter picked up the shopping bag and headed outside.
He found a dumpster around the back of the restaurant and proceeded to toss in the bag containing his crumpled, bloody clothes. Peter walked back around the build and was about three blocks away before he found himself running back to that dumpster to fish out his long, brown coat. Peter was extremely fond of this particular piece of outerwear and he did not exactly know why, but drinking until you black out on a regular basis will do things to your memory.
He inspected the coat, glad that it had not been bloodied from the horror of the night before and put it on humming "Me and Bobby McGee" as he walked down the sidewalk.