(Regarding chapter 39) Forgot to note it in the last chapter. For me, Seras wouldn't cry blood until she drank for the first time and became a full-fledged vampire. Sorry if it seemed odd. ^_^'
Have a nice day,
death-in-the-orchard
Three boys in barely buttoned jackets sauntered, laughing, towards the back parking lot behind the Math and Sciences building. One held up a carton of Marlboros and shook the contents as the other boys grinned. But their grins faded abruptly.
They stopped within yards of the rival trio, and assessed the differences in height and age, lumps forming in their 'bad-boy' throats. The towering giants were simply talking, even though one had seen and ignored the boys. It was the strange static between the men that made the scene difficult for the teens to grasp.
There was a pale janitor with wild 80's hair, standing quietly, seemingly not part of whatever was going on between the two meatheads. The self-proclaimed delinquents barely recognized Mr. Anderson, the calculus teacher. None of them took his class, but word about his dictatorship (and incredible bulk) had gotten around. They wanted nothing to do with him, but they wouldn't turn away just yet.
If there was going to be a fight among adults, or some shady drug deal involving a teacher (for this one their thoughts immediately went to steroids), they had to have their phones ready. Youtube stardom was a farfetched dream, but being a celebrity within the bounds of the boarding school didn't sound half bad.
Meanwhile, within the giant trio, Father Anderson assessed the basketball coach with mild perplexity. The coach didn't belong here, everything about his presence felt alien and absurd. But somehow the man was standing arrogantly within the company of two massive, opposing forces, completely oblivious of his precarious position.
Bob joined Father Anderson in looking the large, foreign 'object' over.
You don't belong here.
We don't want you here.
So go away.
Both the priest and the janitor had almost gotten what they'd wanted. They were nearly alone, almost out of sight, away from any interfering factor.
But the coach didn't catch on. He stood there, between them, as pompous as a plump pig, and gazed at them with dimwitted ignorance. First, the coach was smug. But then Mr. Anderson didn't get angry or contribute anything useful. This made the coach scowl, and he kicked the ground out of impatience. Clapping and then rubbing his hands together derisively, the coach smiled angrily at the teacher, his voice sarcastic and strained. "Could you just give me a minute here, alone with Bob? I really need to have a word with him, in private. I've got a ride waiting for me, so you should probably come back for Bob some other time."
The meatheads stared one another down, neither giving an inch.
The coach's expression clearly proclaimed, I SAW HIM FIRST.
Father Anderson's stolid hostility countered with a resounding, HEATHEN SCUM, I AM DOING GOD'S WORK HERE. I HAVE PRIORITY OVER YOUR NONSENSE.
Needless to say, the coach's reading of Father Anderson's expression was much simpler: NO I SAW HIM FIRST. And it made the man snarl and kick the ground again, glancing back at the door, fearing the arrival of additional obstacles.
Father Anderson frowned deeply at the angry coach, "Who are you supposed to be?" Get lost.
"I," the coach licked his lips, and then bit his cheek to remember his manners. "I am the Varsity coach of- a- another school." He left out the school's name, just to be safe. "We had a game today, more of a scrimmage, but whatever. It was important for preparing my boys for the play offs, when we face your school for real."
Suddenly, this seemed like an opportune time to make a case against Bob, in order to persuade Mr. Anderson (who clearly disliked the janitor) to give him the few minutes of privacy he had asked for so politely. Pointing rudely, the coach glared at Bob's uncaring face, "Bob here thought he'd get away with harassing me and my team. He went out of his way to delay us by refusing to unlock a door. And he shoved me." The growling man hissed with ample spittle as Bob's brow registered mild surprise and very, very faint humor. "Just to humiliate me in front of my boys."
The coach sought out Father Anderson's support, but nothing broke through Father Anderson's hardened dislike and impatience. So the coach raised his voice, "He thought he could get away with it! What do we do these days? Let them get away with it? I'm here to teach him how to respect people." The coach was faltering at every other word, but he covered it up with several snorts and an outraged laugh.
Five seconds into the coach's explanation, Father Anderson had stopped caring. However, the idea of this particular janitor shoving the man, and this man somehow not ending up halfway through a wall, and fully ejected from the world of the living, was immediately fishy. The priest checked on Bob, thinking he could confirm something from the hated, undead face. But Father Anderson ridiculed himself for his stupidity as the demon janitor smirked at him, goading him, prickling his nerves as usual.
Though the jumpsuit. It was doing all sorts of things to his fanatic blonde brain.
Somehow, the Vampire Alucard had become even more of an abomination (even if he was rightfully male). This Bob offended the priest's eyes, ridiculed his hatred, the Vatican's rivalry with Hellsing, the legitimacy of the undead threat that was constantly devouring innocents. It was revolting, and as though his thoughts had punched him in the gut, Father Anderson expelled his disgust quite freely. "What is all this? You weren't satisfied with your last uniform? You had to resort to this?" Bob's smile eased into a calmer, more thoughtful amusement. Father Anderson shook his head, looking at the janitor, finding new angles, but unable to grasp what it was that stood before him.
"It's- it's-" Father Anderson's hand physically reached for words that hung in the air, just before his fingertips. Then he sighed, hunched, too befuddled and aggravated to be somewhat eloquent. "It's stupid." The priest screwed up his eyes, tasting the name again, though he'd never put himself through the horror of uttering it, until now. "And 'Bob'? It's stupid. It's so stupid, how could you even think of it? Let alone implement it freely?" I don't expect you to be intelligent, but I don't expect you to be idiotic either.
"Well, Mr. Anderson," Bob the undead janitor hummed, quite contently. "We don't have the privilege of determining what our mothers call us."
Father Anderson's head slumped to the side, beyond comprehending the demon janitor. He wanted to slam a bayonet down Bob's stupid throat, although it wouldn't make any part of this situation easier to understand. At least it would make him feel better.
The coach once more interrupted the two monstrous forces with his petty, inconsequential presence. He cleared his throat, not having understood what was being said. It was all nonsense, and a waste of time, and he definitely had the better claim to Bob after this demonstration. "Mr. Anderson, I have a car waiting for me. Would you please give me a minute alone here with Bob? You can finish your conversation later."
His eyes flashing with an emerald glint, Father Anderson's frustration and disgust was turned directly onto the coach. The Varisty coach flinched, and blinked back doubtfully at the wide-eyed look that was somewhat intimidating. "Mr. Anderson-"
"Go. Away with you, why are you even here?" Anderson demanded sharply, flinging his hand in order to further demonstrate how the coach was supposed to comply.
Puffing up and growing pinker, the coach jerked his shoulders, then rolled them, pulling at his jacket. He chewed his lip, sizing the teacher up. The behemoth instructor had a few inches on him, at most only a few. He could take him. The coach nodded confidently, as though he'd announced his stupidity to the world. "What?" The coach goaded, challenging Father Anderson head on. He'd seen enough to know what the teacher wanted. "You want a piece of Bob? You can scrape it off the ground after I'm done with him. Now move aside, Mr. Anderson."
The coach went around Anderson and walked straight up to Bob, who looked upon him with distant skepticism. The coach snorted down into Bob's face, which removed a bit of the tolerance Bob had so graciously bestowed upon the man. Annoyance surfaced immediately.
But it was at this time that Father Anderson's teacher senses tingled, and he turned abruptly around to find the trio of self-proclaimed delinquents slinking along in the shadow of the building. One quickly shoved the cigarettes into his pocket. But he was too late.
"Hey!" The teacher roared, and the vermin-like delinquents scurried for their lives. "Come here! I saw you. Don't think you can outrun me. You can't."
"Let him chase you," Bob called out to the boys who had hesitated and were about to lose their chance to escape. "It's more fun that way." He watched, fully enjoying himself, and murmured when they chose to stay put, "Oh well… your loss." Across the parking lot, the priest dominated the rather timid 'bad boys' and easily convinced them to hand over their contraband, as well as their school id cards to prevent the teens from making up convenient aliases.
Bob met the coach's eye (which was less than two feet in front of his face), and his pale smile withdrew, his lips flat and bland while the coach scowled at him 'menacingly.' The coach leaned forward. His whisper wafted the scent of Mexican food that had been eaten two hours ago, into Bob's face. "You can't hide from me forever. Bob."
Bob took a breath, held it, as if tasting the man's idiocy like it was a three dollar convenience store wine, and then exhaled. "Where exactly am I hiding? …Unless you're visually impaired, I'm positive you will have no trouble finding me." Bob's mouth twitched, showing something other than impatience. His crimson eyes stared straight into the coach's dimwitted glower. "If you've pulled me aside in order to call me an asshole, I'm sorry to say but there are thousands who have beat you to it. And further exclamations or impolite name calling will serve no purpose. I know what I am. And you'll just have to put up with it. Unless you can force me to change my ways. But I doubt you can."
This appeared to be what the coach wanted, to be antagonized, riled up. His face blushed several shades closer to red, even while his sneering grin screamed out: TALK DIRTY TO ME. YEAH. GIVE ME MORE! C'MON. GET DIRTY. "That teacher doesn't seem to be very fond of you," the coach warned Bob, as though the janitor hadn't the slightest notion of Father Anderson's opinion of him. "He won't protect you forever." The coach nearly went down the homophobic route for insulting a male opponent, but then thought it was a bit too cliché even for his uncultured taste.
"Oh, Mr. Anderson?" Bob's lips almost formed a smile, as his eyes brightened from their stale state of encroaching boredom. "He is very fond of me. In fact, he can't bear to have me out of his sights."
The confused look on the coach's face was bypassed by Bob, as the janitor chuckled at the fuming priest who marched back to their group, the cigarettes crushed in his hands, resembling a cylindrical white cigar more than any other geometric shape.
With obvious pleasure, the janitor inquired, "So how were your little boys? Did you punish them? Make them repent for their sins? Judas."
"Quiet, Demo-" Father Anderson severed the name with a growl, glaring at the coach and blaming him for interrupting his exchange with the monster. "You," he pointed at the man, "Leave."
"What?" Appearing to be taken aback, due to his new tactless tactic, the coach looked betrayed and startled. But the act crumbled quickly, not being very compatible with the man's hot temper. "I've got business with him. Give us a few minutes, go back to your classroom and grade your papers or whatever it is you do there. And you can get in touch with Bob later, alright? I'm serious, I have a ride I need to catch in the next," the coach bent his head over his watch, and then straightened with justified impatience. "Ten minutes. Damnit. Ten minutes, come on-" the coach stepped up to Anderson who watched him with overt hostility. Their eyes were nearly level. "Listen here. Give me a few minutes alone, I'm asking for a favor."
"Secrets are no fun," Bob interrupted, though he could hear every whisper clearly.
"Shut up," the coach snapped, and he returned to Anderson. But the priest's patience waned dangerously. Father Anderson brushed the man aside, as easily as he might brush aside a pestering cat.
Anderson simply concluded, "My business is more important. What you want is trivial. Be gone."
"I have a time constraint, and a good reason-"
"Shoo."
Blushing still deeper, the coach tapped his foot, and then, cursing to himself, stepped hurriedly to Father Anderson's side. He laid a hand on the priest's arm, and ignored the infuriated dazzle in the green eyes that threatened to scorch his soul. "You hate him. I hate him. But I could actually get away with this. You-" the coach patted the arm that could so easily relieve him of his head, "You work here. How many opportunities like this do you expect to get? Let me teach him a lesson, Teach. I'll be quick. I promise."
"Well, well," Bob said, smiling. "I really do enjoy being so popular, but I prefer the calculus teacher. So, 'Shoo.'"
Finally undeniably red faced, the coach's eyes shook with rage, his teeth clamped, his fists tight.
Then the all-boys choir sang. And ushered joy into the world.
Joy~ to~ the world-
Bob could not keep his tongue still, or avert the thin grin that stretched his lips taut across his fangs. "So befitting a Catholic priest."
The Lord~ is~ come-
The fist dislocated the janitor's jaw on impact, and Bob staggered away with an uneven, revolting grin. His fangs were fully visible, but the irate coach was distracted by Father Anderson's glorious blow, envious of the teacher's success. Still the coach hooted, and clapped his hands loudly, living out his fantasy through Anderson.
-let Earth~ receive~ its king.
The music was pummeled into indistinguishable background noise by the coach's enthusiasm, "Yes! YES! Give it to him! This is exactly what he needs! Again! Again!"
A dull, irritated crimson eye rolled towards the coach, but the janitor's pleasure returned as soon as Father Anderson growled at him.
"It is what he deserves." No, it's far less than what he deserves. Father Anderson wanted to see the great Vampire Alucard's head rolling over the asphalt, collecting filth and debris, before finally crumbling into ash.
Bob smiled as he snapped his jaw into place. He worked his jaw experimentally, then stroked it thoughtfully. "That was very, very refreshing, Judas. I believe I'd like another."
The coach stood dumbfounded, mute, his mouth gaping indiscreetly.
Father Anderson tightened his fist, his knuckles crackling. "I have plenty more. Where would you like it?"
Bob tapped his other cheek, and smiled broadly. "Let us make it a bit more symmetrical. Though, truly, at times like these, it becomes apparent; as your Savior said: to turn the other cheek, he must have been quite the masochist. Wouldn't you say so? Juda-"
Bob nearly bit off his tongue as Father Anderson's fist slammed into his cheek, making the undead janitor stagger a second time. But when Bob, or rather, the Vampire Alucard, raised his head, his chuckling, bloody grin was victorious and his eyes burned, broiling with excitement and bloodlust for the battles he'd hungered after for so long.
"I didn't quite feel it properly, Mr. Anderson." The gloating demon devoured Father Anderson's delightful grimaces, "So please, Sir… may I have some more?"
But Father Anderson's flexing fist remained at his side, and the priest did not move. Soon, Alucard's joy ran dry.
Bob's no-longer-bloody mouth became flat, and his eyes dim. "Is that really all I've earned, Judas? Is that really- i-it?" Bob finished his question with his eyes on the coach, the man's fist frozen against the janitor's iron jaw, which had disrupted Bob's pronunciation briefly. By the man's pale and nauseous gape, the developing sheen of cold sweat on his brow, and his inability to recover his rage, something had broken. Or at least fractured. Gingerly, the coach withdrew his hand, staggering back in disbelief as he cradled it like an NBA trophy. Looking up, he stared emptily at Bob, then at Anderson, before returning to the inhuman janitor.
Bob finished watching the coach, and began a wholly unexpected and mundane conversation with Father Anderson, as though none of this had occurred. "So, grades then." Father Anderson rolled his eyes in disbelief, then shook his head as Bob spoke, "When I get back, grade my tests- Actually, let's include everything I turn in, to make things simple… Grade everything bearing my name, properly, and fairly. If the paper features the correct answer, then give it the credit it so rightfully deserves." His voice was very calm and reasonable as he argued for something that was utterly worthless in the scope of his undead existence. "And for the Police Girl," Bob paused to frown, while Father Anderson had never ceased to frown. "Do you grade her as unfairly as you grade me? Or is she truly stupid when it comes to calculus?"
The coach made a retching sound, which Bob found distracting, so he shushed the man who had crumpled onto the asphalt and was currently groaning in pain. "Don't be rude," Bob chided, then turned back to the priest and explained to Anderson blandly, "She may simply be unable to study as much as she needs to in order to do reasonably well in the class. I'm not sure how well she has been doing in other subjects, but math… It's so simplistic. I don't see why anyone could fail to succeed at it."
"C-call an ambulance," the man on the ground nearly threw up as he managed to get the three words out. He moaned in horror and pain, his eyes shut tight as he tried to simultaneously prevent his jaw from locking and avoid vomiting. Hopefully he would be successful with both, and not just one or the other.
"Oh, shut up," Bob hissed down at the asphalt. "We're busy. You've taken up enough of my time." Then he added, "If you could actually throw a punch, maybe I'd look your way. But, really, it's obvious that I'm uninterested. So leave me alone."
"Please," the man begged.
"No," Bob finalized with a shake of his head, disbelief and annoyance heavy in his scowl. When he looked at Father Anderson again, Bob paused, his face becoming inanimate as he stared into the priest's broad back and watched him walk away. "What are you doing?"
"I've got tests to grade," the teacher grunted without looking back.
Bob squinted, then ruffled his hair, a bit put off, and then a bit puzzled, even if he hadn't expected to get exactly what he'd wanted out of this. So he called after the priest, to give him a final reminder, "Well… Grade them properly! Remember, your God favors Honesty, Judas!"
The back of a most uncatholic-like middle-finger rose in the air, and then lowered as Father Anderson made his way around the corner, and was out of sight.
Unquestionably bitter, and prepared to blame the unfortunate coach for this rejection, Bob's shoes stopped mere inches from the man's bowed, buzz-cut head. The vampiric janitor in a blue jumpsuit crouched down to inspect the man, in the same way he might crouch to inspect a peculiar looking dog turd. He poked him, once, then twice in succession and heard the man groan for him to stop and call a f*cking ambulance already, for God's sake.
Too bad. I don't work for God, Bob blinked slowly, unsympathetic towards the man's pain.
When the coach finally raised his head, he was alone in the darkening parking lot.
…
…
But, fortunately, the coach's howls and his onslaught of deafening profanity soon brought him the aid he needed.