Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 1: Why it is a very very bad idea to cockblock a vampire slayer

Sex. I'm a firm believer that drugs were invented especially for those who weren't getting enough of it, though I have to say, no drug I've tried so far has had even half of the pull exerted by my addiction to the flesh. It's better than lithium for getting you out of a funk, and I think more doctors should prescribe it- fucking my way out of the depths of depression was by no means sanctioned by mine, but it certainly did me the world of good. There is nothing like a good fuck to get rid of all that nervous tension, and generally give you that sense of peace that I know I've only ever felt post-coitally. Beats the hell out of meditation if you ask me, and it's a hell of a lot more fun.

I “lost” my virginity at the age of 17 to the first nice boy I had dated for any decent amount of time... actually, the eight months I went out with him were the longest I've ever been with one partner. He was a lovely guy, sensitive to my feelings, we always had a fuckload in common, and we were pretty damn compatible too...

And then he got killed, and I got angry.

But I don't really want to talk about him right now, I'll tell you about him later.

Back to my favourite topic.

Let's just say that when it comes down to it, nothing beats the real thing... all these “aids” you hear about? They have no personality, and a heap of them are frankly pretty icky- I mean, seriously, you don't even want to know. The internet is educational, but it's usually in all the wrong (so so wrong) ways.

So anyway, that's the first thing you gotta understand about me- I am a connoisseur of the sexual experience because I'm just wired that way.

I blame genetics.

Depending on your beliefs and values, you might be shocked to hear that once upon a time, I was convinced I was going to keep myself “pure” until marriage. My parents did their best to bring me up religious, and all in all were very nice people, dedicated to raising me and my younger sister, and paying regular visits to my Romanian maternal grandmother, whom I was named after.

My grandmother and I always had a lot in common, now even more than ever, as before she had fled from the Russians, my Grandmother had been a successful manager of a small brothel, working at the place her mother had inherited from her grandmother- all of them bearing the surname Vigu, not because they didn't know who had fathered their children, (though I am sure that happened at least once through the generations,) but simply because the surname, translating as “happy” in Hungarian, was the family joke, and besides, naming their daughters for their fathers would have given the men the wrong impression that they had any sort of pull over the Vigu women.

With the family brothel and reputation left back in Romania, however, my grandmother had decided that her daughter would be better off growing up respectably. This was in spite of the fact that she herself subsidised her daughter's education by being the mistress of at least three different wealthy men, calling herself a widow to maintain a veil of propriety for the benefit of my mother and “people who should be minding their own business”.

Nana Isabela always said that virtue was a luxury.

My mother never knew all of this- I'm inclined to think that she wilfully ignored it. Born five years after my grandmother had reached Australia, she took the lessons her Catholic nun teachers gave her to heart, and if she was confused as to why her mother refused point-blank to enter a church, and had more than a few shocking suggestions about contraception and technique when my mother wedded my father, she never spoke of it.

I found this out not long after my twentieth birthday, when my grandmother announced that she was well aware of what I was up to, and gave me a few pointers in keeping my lovers under control.

Good old Nana Isabela didn't even try to dissuade me. Even when I told her, the only family member I ever told, what I was really doing, she was darkly amused at the idea, despite the fact that she said that if I screwed up and got myself killed, she would never forgive me, and that if I gave her more wrinkles from worry I was dead meat.

It's been a long time since I slept an entire night through without a partner in my bed, and to be honest, I don't tend to sleep well without one- my poor parents sent me to a shrink at one point, because they were sure there must be something wrong with their little girl's head to make her so promiscuous. They thought it was some weird response to not being able to cope with Tao's death or something, so about a year and thirteen boyfriends (that they knew of) later they sent me to a psychologist.

I liked Dr. McRay. We had a lot to talk about, and I actually ended up giving her a little advice. She did attempt to convince me that having such a lot of casual sex comes with major risks, both physical and emotional, but in the end she gave up, partly because unlike many other sex addicts she's treated, I am discreet, I keep my sex life and my social life compartmentalised, and I am extremely meticulous about protecting myself- Nana Isabela gave good advice when I asked for it.

And in the end, let's face it, it's just sex, it's not like I'm some sort of sociopath or something- I don't chase people who are (to my knowledge) taken, I'm not an exhibitionist, and I have a really finetuned sense of what is and isn't socially appropriate.

And I might be a nymphomaniac, but I have standards.

In any case, back when I used to date (okay and fuck) exclusively humans, I used to like to think I was doing a community service by reducing the number of sexually frustrated people around me.

Think about it, there'd be many less problems in society if there were less sexually frustrated bastards running around trying to prove something.

There'd be less speeding red sportscars or Volvos on the road for one thing.

It occurs to me I should probably explain that “exclusively humans” comment. If you picked up on that, then well done, buy yourself a lollypop for picking up on my implied statement that not all of my bedmates are homo sapiens. Before you freak the fuck out and think I'm doing something gross like bestiality or some similarly fucked up shit, I want to set it straight that I have never had sex with anything that wasn't shaped like a human, and that wasn't animate. I don't do dolls, I don't do corpses, and I certainly don't get any urges to bang the family pet.

That shit is gross. Seriously, you had better be joking.

The very thought of that kind of fucked up shit makes me shudder, and it's definitely not the kind of shudder I usually get when I remember some of my conquests.

I discovered when I was about 20 that the best lovers that I have ever had, and am ever likely to have were only chasing me for my body. Or more specifically, my blood. I hate vampires. Fucking hate them. I hate them for what they do to innocents like Tao, I hate them for what they've done to the victims' families, and I hate them for their fucking effortless grace.

But damn if they don't make me feel goddamn awesome sometimes.

When I embrace these feelings, eradicating them is easier than one might think. It always shocks them to bits when they realise that they've become the prey, and I mean that literally, because once I've staked them, they tend to turn to dust.

Unless of course they aren't that old, in which case it tends to be messier- the inside of a vampire is a slowly mummifying corpse, and it is only the curse that keeps them looking like they did when they were first bitten. Stake them too early, and you might as well burn the mattress, as nothing gets the stench of rotting flesh out- believe me, the first time I tried and failed miserably.

Yes, my name is Isabela Hagelow, and I am a nymphomaniac vampire slayer.

Man I love saying that- you should see the reactions I've got the whole three times I introduced myself to others in the “business”. If only I had had a camera...

I'm sure I just shattered the reality for some of you, so let me give you a couple of fun facts.

People go missing in big cities all the time. My city of Sydney is no New York, but there are places that no smart person will walk around after dark. Some of the predators are human. Some of them are very definitely not.

I should probably back up a step or two, for all you people out there who just went “wha...”

The bottom line is that most things that people think are myths? They're real. To a degree anyway- usually the stories make up all sorts of bizarre details, and I am yet to meet any so-called Igors that might trail after their cape- flourishing masters.

Vampires. They don't fry to a crisp in daylight, and they sure as fuck don't sparkle. It's just that night suits them better, as vamps have very light-sensitive eyes. This is why you don't find so many in the snow slopes or on the beach- they really REALLY loathe the reflected glare, which is why if you ever wish to find slayers on holiday, the Solomon Islands and Antarctica are equally likely places to find them.

They're also not allergic to silver or garlic. Garlic only works occasionally because what vampires do have are extremely enhanced senses. Their hearing and vision is akin to that of an owl. Fortunately for me, their tactile senses are also in overabundance, which makes them far easier to distract when I'm about to go in for the quick stake.

The best you can do with a bit of silver is distract them. They like pretty things, and if you polish up a nicely-designed pendant or brooch or whatever, they might gaze at it for a bit to decide if they want to pilfer it. Most of them will try to get that sort of thing as a gift from their victim before they off them, as it's a matter of pride that they can get whatever they like from most of their prey before they kill them.
I usually indulge their whims before I stake them- it keeps them from detecting that something fishy is going on, and besides, I can always get the shiny thing back after I've dusted them.

It is a bloody pain in the ass trying to polish all the ash out of the crevices though, I can tell you that.

What you should know is that vampires are one of the worst varieties of “things that go bump in the night” a.k.a. “bumpies” (you stay in this business long enough, and teasing the paranormal serial killers becomes a perk). Vamps are extremely dangerous to deal with but it's not because they're powerful. I mean, they are, but it's mostly just because they have epic levels of experience, muscle control, and an addiction with withdrawal symptoms that make heroin look like caffeine.

That, and they can attract humans like a Venus flytrap pulls flies.

Vampires have always been famed for their seduction techniques. Goths and their commercialised black sheepish inbred cousin emos both think that these bloodsuckers are extremely sexy, and so attempt to emulate them in one way or another, usually by wearing a lot of black, reading a lot of morbid poetry about death, listening to angsty music and occasionally indulging in “blood play”.

Personally I think they tend to go about it the wrong way- sheesh, even most vampires don't find blood that sexy. As far as your average vamp is concerned, it's food, not lubricant (I always found this idea to be disgusting), or (necessarily) an aphrodisiac. It's like how a fair number of humans aren't interested in licking chocolate off one another mid-coitus. For some it is an enhancement, whereas others are left wondering how the hell they are going to get this shit out of the sheets.

Vamps find it amusing how well they can drive their potential victims wild with ecstasy before they go for the big suck... the older ones in particular like to play with their food, though I've had a few nearer scrapes with the younger ones who got a little over-eager, and who haven't yet learnt to savour their meals.

I tell you what though, a century or more of experience in the bedroom shows. The stories I could tell you about the hot nights I've had from those bloodsucking demons, ooooh baby. Vampires as a whole tend to be perfectionists with everything they do, and generally, they have had all the time in the world to learn a few tricks that can surprise even someone who has had as many bed-mates as me.

I understand them.

As a sex addict, I know what it is to woo a person, to seduce them, lead them softly, dominating them without them noticing, letting them think that it is their idea to have a torrid one-night stand with the stylishly dressed woman in the knee-high, blood-red stillettoes. To know that if it wasn't this particular person, it would be another, and that patience, patience is the only thing needed to get what one wants.

Knowing how they think makes them easier to vanquish.

Unfortunately (or fortunately if you consider my modus operandi and not the level of peril involved) the thing about vamps is that generally if they're experienced lovers, they're even more experienced killers. Depending on the vampire in question, the habitual number of kills can range from one a month to at least one or two a week. This sort of deathcount can really add up over the centuries and so I am yet to ever really regret staking my demon lovers post-coitus.

I give them all a fighting chance- I warn them all “no biting” just before the clothes come off... If one of them ever manages to leave my bedroom without trying to attack me, then I have made myself a promise to let them live. Restraint must be rewarded, though Dr. Phyllis would no doubt mutter something about negative reinforcement being less useful than the positive type... particularly since I would never tell them that they were being rewarded.

You're probably thinking that this sort of game is pretty damn dangerous, and if you aren't then you're an idiot. I said it before, I'll say it again. Vamps are predators. They want to eat you and your children, and if you somehow survive an attack, chances are you'll turn into one of them.

The fact that I can guess how old a vampire is down to the decade by the style and length of their foreplay is a skill that I have never seen duplicated, and frankly, I half hope never will be.

I like being unique- no other vampire hunter has my modus operandi, and frankly, I freak most of my so-called colleagues the fuck out.

Which is pretty funny really. All vampire hunters have serious personality “quirks”, dark pasts, and an overwhelming sense of self-righteousness. If they've been in the business for more than a week, generally they can also kick some serious ass. Some of us think we're Batman, others think they're Buffy.

Me? I'm more of a Mata Hari. That's what they call me behind my back- I know this because I've fucked a few of them in my time as well, and it's amazing what you can get out of a person when they're mindless with sex.

The fact that I take advantage of my prey, using the vampires like they would have used many of their victims is something that your average vampire hunter finds... disconcerting, to say the least.

Well I have to get something out of it. It's not like there's a wage in this line of work. There's no sickness benefits or maternity leave, and the only dental plan is the possibility of getting fanged.

And it's not like my method isn't effective- I spike an average of five vampires a week. It would be more, but occasionally I like to have someone warm-blooded between my sheets, who won't try to kill me before the morning, and sometimes, I'm simply not successful in finding a vamp to bone and stone.

But when I am successful in bringing a vamp to my bed, they never leave.

Sulfuric acid in the lampshade, a large knife and high-voltage police-grade torch under the pillows, rosary beads strategically sticking out of my drawer, and a jar of pencils and stakes on my bedside table. I also have a few stakes hidden under the sheet on the sides of the mattress, and a garrotte or three loosely laced into my mosquito netting, not to mention blades in my boots and a crucifix charm on my bracelet from the Vatican. Crosses are generally only good for shock value on the older vamps, or to make the younger ones sneer and pause so that they can monologue about how stupid you are for thinking a pathetic piece of twisted metal might hurt them. This usually gives me enough time to reach for one of my other weapons, and stab the vampire in the throat. That shuts them up pretty quickly.

And if the cross doesn't work, well, one of my other charms has a tiny measue of smelling salts, and vamps with their enhanced senses tend to find Eau de Rafflesia (an Indonesian fly-attracting flower that smells godawful) to be pretty overpowering.

When you're sleeping with vampires, there's no such thing as being over-prepared... but the adrenaline hit you get. Man, there is nothing else like the realisation you're still alive after a vamp has given you a neck dive... though to be honest I'm getting so good at this, the near-misses are getting less and less these days, assuming nothing out of the ordinary happens.

Well, nothing out of the ordinary for this business anyway- long term dealings with the Bumpies will tend to skew a person's definition of what “normal” is.

This was the thought that occurred to me as I watched Sylvia, the local succubus dancing on one of the tables at one of my favourite nightclubs. It's called Spark, and its mixture of steam-punk décor and surprisingly decent dance music is a major draw for all the humans in the area, be they Blinkered or Aware.

The ones I call “Blinkered” are your average people. People who think that fey folk and zombies and werebeasts are all a load of shite concocted specifically for bedtime stories. Ironically, these often include geeks who consider themselves to be quite knowledgeable of certain varieties of monster, and yet are convinced that there is no such thing. This kind of self-delusion has always astounded me, but each to their own, I suppose. The trouble with being Aware is that once you really know, once you open your eyes and see what is really out there all around you... you can't go back.

I mean, sure, you can pretend that everything is hunky dory and that you didn't see that weird glow coming from your next-door neighbour's cat, and that you are unaware that that appalling brat you babysat the other night was actually possessed by a minor poltergeist... but that's just irresponsible, not to mention stupid. Supernatural beings have a knack for spotting Aware people, mostly because Blinkered ones often don't see what is right in front of them since it doesn't fit their schema of how things are supposed to be.

Like right now, from my stool at the very end of the bar next to the mirror-wall, I can see a group of girls dancing with glowsticks. What no one else seems to have noticed is that at least one of them has glowing fingers. Of all the Bumpies, Fey are the best at integrating, but even so, one must never forget that they are very much not human.

Just beyond the glowers, a clearly Blinkered man is dancing with what appears to be an incubus. That man is going to get more than he bargained for tonight- I can vouch for this, I fucked that incubus not six months ago. He was good, and the sex demons don't do any real harm anyway, so long as they don't focus their attention on any single person for too long. Some of us Aware make a point of keeping an eye on that sort of thing, but so long as I can't see any addiction, I tend to let the prowlers be. Hell, I can empathise- I've been accused of having some of their blood more than once, but the fact is, that's just crap. Bumpies and humans can't reproduce. It's been tried for centuries as interspecies love affairs do sometimes happen, and then one day the Blinkered developed genetic theory, and it suddenly all made sense.

I don't care what fucking fanfiction you've read, there never has been, and there never will be a half-vamp, half-were or half-demon. The first two states of being are more akin to diseases, and the last has a completely alien physiology. Demon sperm is more likely to fry human eggs, and in any case, it would be like trying to breed a pig with a chicken. Despite what some dim-witted gits amongst you might think, you don't get delicious ham drumsticks. You get a fucking mess of feathers and squeals and a general waste of time.

This is what the lore had said for centuries, despite claims to the contrary from people with filed teeth and unusually hairy men or women attempting to seek out “their brethren”. All the Blinkered science did was finally give evidence that none of these Bumpophiles (also known as “Suicide Cases”) could refute.

I am interrupted from my musings by a young man with deathly pale skin, red eyes and shining silver-white hair.

Oh look, an albino. Haven't seen one of those around for a while.

“Hey pretty lady, you wanna join me on the dance floor?” he propositions me, twisting sinuously to the sluggish percussive bass, his skin tight ripped leather and lycra hiding none of what appears to my jaded eyes to be a damn hot physique.

Hmmm, I haven't fucked a human in a while, and I've never fucked an albino. This might be fun.

I allow myself a lazy smile, and tip my head back a little to give him a good long look at my assets as I stretch.

“Sure.” A moment later, and I'm following him, weaving my way between jerking, writhing bodies, acknowledging a few people I've come to know, and smirking at a few I have known to come. One particular green-eyeshadowed blonde winks at me as she runs her hands down her pert breasts and licks her lips. I can't remember her name, but I remember how she writhed beneath me, her movements not far removed from how she dances.

Clumsy, but still sexy.

It is at this point that Albino Guy comes to a halt and begins to sinuously writhe around, moving a little like a snake.

Hmm, interesting, I never realised guys took bellydancing lessons. I say as much to him, leaning in close to shout in his ear, as the music, whilst not being too obnoxious for a club, is still pretty loud.

Albino Guy laughs, yelling back something about his sisters dragging him along, as he shimmies, showing that he doesn't have a spare inch of fat on his well-toned physique.

Mmmm this one is going to be delicious.

I join him in his dancing, sometimes attempting to mirror his moves, much to his amusement, but generally just framing myself, moving slowly, allowing Albino to get the right idea of what he might get tonight if he doesn't fuck up.

I see him grin almost carnivorously, and I raise an eyebrow at him, blatantly measuring him inch by inch with my eyes, before leaning forward and pressing my body against his as I fondle him through his excuse for trousers. Wordlessly letting him know that if anything, he is going to be the fuckee tonight, and that any ideas of him having any say in the matter are laughable.

I smile at him dangerously, and I can tell he has got the message, if the shocked blush is any indication.

I love teaching these peacocks that the only control they ever have is whatever their partner cedes to them. There are times when I am perfectly happy to lie back and let them take over, but they have to be taught the way of things first, to break them of any bad habits.

After a while more of foreplay on the dance floor, I step away from my partner, smirking at the rosiness I've pulled into his lips from hard kisses.

Not so pale anymore.

I beckon to him with a well-practiced come hither look, and weave my way once again through the writhing bodies, noting with satisfaction that there aren't any vamps in the room tonight. Sparks is a refuge for me, my special harem for when I decide I need a break from executing my bedpartners. I am refused sometimes, but not often- I have learnt which people are better marks than others, and Sparks is always full of plenty of people ready and willing for a good fuck, no matter that my constant tangles with vamps have left me a little scarred up in places, and that I am certainly not what you would call super-model material, though I am no Quasimodo either.

The trick, I have found, is to simply not care. An aura of confidence, some striking make up and clothes that accentuate rather than simply baring all or striving to fit in with the fashion is all one needs when trying to catch the attention of a potential fuck. Standing out by appearing as bold as brass and classy to boot is a great way, I've found, of differentiating myself from the crowd.

My Albino's name, I discover, is Lawrence Jason Wright, and by day he works as a wedding planner in his sister's company, usually designing the layout of the reception rooms and working as a liason with the various cake decorators, florists and formal-wear hire places that are all involved in the creation of the happy couples' perfect day.

By night he tends to be found trolling the clubs, and uses his unusual looks to pick up, though he tells me he wouldn't turn down a suggestion for a long term relationship if he ever received one.

I laugh a little at this, and tell Lawrence that sorry to disappoint, but I am a one-night only sort of partner. I feel no pity, as he sounds like a nice-enough guy and is sure to eventually find what he is looking for, so long as he doesn't act like a douche.

He is about to reply, when he is suddenly crash-tackled from behind by a man wearing a black-leather trench coat.

What the fuck?!

“Oi! What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I demand as Trench Coat pins a struggling Lawrence down.

“Run for your life Lady, and be glad I was here to save you from this horrid vampire!”

I roll my eyes. Fuck, it's an amateur saviour-type. Why can I never get a night off? And “horrid”? Who the hell talks like that?

I kick Trench Coat twice in the ribs with the point of my boot, giving Lawrence a chance to roll out from under him as Trench Coat wheezes.

I pull Lawrence to his feet, and he immediately turns around to glare at Trench Coat, who is currently pulling himself up using a convenient brick wall.

“I don't know what your fucking problem is mate,” Lawrence hisses, “but I'd thank you not to give me shit about my condition. It's not my fucking fault I was born without pigment, and I am fucking sick to death of hearing that I'm a Vampire or a goddamn anime character.”
From my position beside him, I tilt my head contemptuously at the still wheezing git in the trench.

“What he said,” I smirk. “Learn to tell people with rare genetic disorders from things that go bump in the night. The difference is subtle, but it's there.” If my sarcasm was any thicker, I could have used it to walk on.

I hear Lawrence move and then hiss again, this time in obvious pain.

“You alright?” I ask, concerned. Me and Trench Coat were going to have a little, much needed talk, so I quickly concocted my favourite cover story. “My fucker of an ex didn't just injure you did he?”

Trench Coat took this as his cue to gasp. “Ex? What the hell are you talking about?”

Great. I have a regulation fucktard on my hands.

I sigh in exasperation. Fan-fucking-tastic. I turn to Lawrence. “I am so sorry about this. Look, I need to kick this dipshit's head in for him, and there is probably going to be a lot of loud yelling and shrieking, and afterwards I am going to be in no mood to fuck someone as nice as you.”

I pull my wallet out of my left boot and flick through the cards I had in there. Ah, perfect.

“Tell you what. This girl whose number I have here is one of my favourites, and she's a nurse-in-training so she'd be likely to have stuff for patching up whatever scrapes you might have just got from this dickhead.”

Surprised but with a look of interest in his eyes, Lawrence appeared to consider this for a moment, and then nodded. I wasn't offended by his apparent ease of deciding- what was supposed to have been a simple let's-go-back-to-my-place-and-fuck-no-strings-attached had turned into a domestic situation, and let's face it, comforting a stranger sex is never as much fun as “I think you're hot, let's bang” spontaneous sex.

I gave him the number and a goodbye kiss that must have fair seared his lips off for luck, then waited until I knew he was out of earshot, heading back in the direction of Sparks, already dialling the number I had given him. I wasn't too worried about his safety, as we had had yet to turn off the road that Sparks and a few other such clubs fronted onto, and if he got into any trouble there were bouncers practically lining the street.

I turn back to Trench Coat, who, fortunately for him evidentally decided to not try and piss off. I was annoyed enough already at losing my albino, and chasing after some amateur slayer in stillettoes would not have improved my mood any.

Searing the stupid fucker with my best scowl, I stomp over to him and grab him by the shirt-front, pulling him into the alley way he originally sprang from.

“Who the fuck do you think you are jumping randoms in the street you dumb asshole of a disease-stricken whore?” I deliberately used the foullest language I could muster, and Trench Git winced visibly. Pathetic. If I could make him cringe with words alone, then he was goddamned lucky to have run into me. Any Vamp would have him bitten before he could say, “oh golly gosh I'm in a bit of a pickle now aren't I?”

I said as much to the git, and he gaped. I sighed. Oh. My. God. This guy would never make the week.
“What's your name, stupid, so I'll know who to look out for in the obituaries column?”

For the first time since he had pounced on my would-be conquest, Trench Coat spoke. To my amusement, he appeared to be attempting to get some measure of composure back.

“My name is Damian Centurion. I beg apology for my rudeness, but I was looking out for your best interests. With Vampires around one cannot be too careful. There was no need to be insulting. If you feel the need to 'kick my head in' as you so aptly phrased yourself I must warn you that I am a black belt in karate, and bigger than you.”

Fucking Christ on a bicycle. Bitch did not just attempt to condescend then tough talk me. I was talking to a dead man walking, and by the looks of it he didn't even know it yet.

I leaned back against the wall of the alley and rubbed my temple with one hand. My feet were starting to ache from my boots, and the fact that my plan to have me some human sex for a change had been effectively shot to hell by this monkey-brain wasn't improving my mood.

“Oh, I am so terrified by your macho fake name and your black belt in karate,” I executed a mock swoon. “Clearly only you can save me from the vampiric menace, by your simply excellent method of roughing up any old random with red eyes and a taste for leather.” I rolled my eyes dramatically and snorted with contemptuous laughter, in case he was too stupid to otherwise grasp that I was being sarcastic.

Silly man looked affronted. “It was not a joke, lady, there really are vampires out here. And what's wrong with my name?” The guy was practically pouting. This was really too sad for words.

I looked him up and down, and was even further unimpressed by what I saw. The black belt thing was no doubt true, but in this case the qualification could be as much as a handicap as a skill, giving the guy more confidence than his skills probably deserved. A stockily built caucasian standing at about five foot nine in his shiny black laced boots, he looked an utter try-hard in his slightly too-long leather trench coat, black muscle shirt and black pants. I could see a pair of sunglasses poking out the top of one of his pockets, gel in his obviously streaked brown and blonde hair, and was that a gun in his pocket?

Somebody has been spending too much time watching blockbusters.
I folded my arms, taking petty pleasure in the fact that while “Damian” was in fact more heavily built that me, in my stilletoes I was about a hand-span taller than him. I decided to explain things to him. Despite the posh talk, he was clearly in need of an education.

“You really are pretty slow, aren't you dumbass. What, you think that you can impress me with your black belt and your wannabe badass action hero persona? Seriously, I don't know what movies you've been watching, but in the real world, nobody is impressed by your black-on-black getup. 'Damion Centurion'? Really? Of all the names you could have picked for your alias you picked that pretentious shit? Who the fuck do you think you are, some goddamned Gary Stu Marvel hero or something. 'Looking out for my best interests'. You can't even tell the difference between an albino and a vamp, and you think you're looking after my best interests- I cannot believe that that's a gun in your pocket. Either it's loaded, and you were too stupid to try to shoot your mark in the back, or it's not, and you're effectively wearing it as the kinda jewellery that can get you a criminal record. Besides, bullets don't work on vamps anyway- Buffy managed to get that much right. You're just lucky you didn't shoot that poor kid or you would be looking at an attempted homicide charge.” The guy was starting to sweat, but I was just getting warmed up.

“You honestly think I'd make up that cover story of you being my ex just for ass-kicking rights? Puh-lease. That shit was just supposed to get rid of the Blinker case without hurting his feelings too bad. Feel free to take notes, because ninety percent of the time, panic is the very last thing you want to cause in a civilian. And that smart-ass tone you used on me before can stop right now, newbie. I doubt you've been in this business for more than three days, and I can assure you that if you continue on with that attitude you aren't going to last the first working week of your career.”

It was about this point in time that his brain must have finally got into gear, as he suddenly gasped, “You mean to say you know about vampires?”

I couldn't help myself, I burst out laughing.

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