Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 2: Why you don't fuck with the stakemaster

It turned out that “Damian Centurion”'s real name was Cody Coutt, (pronounced “coot” which made me snigger a little,) and that as I had guessed, he had decided to become a vampire slayer not three days earlier.

See- I knew what I was talking about when I said he hadn't hit the one week bump yet. It's the trouble with newbies that try to get into this vampire slaying gig. It's a definite niche market, and vampires don't tend to take “I'm still learning, okay!” as an excuse. It's good in a way, because it means that there is extremely effective quality control in the candidates, so when a slayer of my generation is forced to work with another for a while, we don't have to waste time worrying if our partner can hold up their end of the fight.

On the other hand, just letting a newbie go out and get themselves killed is kinda heartless, and kinda against the spirit of this whole “saving poor naïve innocents” thing that us slayers tend to use to justify our existence, so whenever we spot someone flailing, it's an experienced slayer's duty to get the newbie's story, and then convince them that they'd be better off leaving it to the professionals.

Which is why I found myself sitting in a cafe that was run by an ex-slayer friend of mine at about 3am sipping my latte and half-listening to Coutt pour his little heart out. Normally the good thing about going for coffee at 3am at this place is that you get fantastic service and are unlikely to run into anyone boring.

Unfortunately my luck seemed to have run out, what with the emptiness of the shop, and Coutt's ability to fit into the 'unlikely' category with his generic pathetically tragic story.

Apparently about a year ago the poor sod had watched a girl he had had a secret crush on, who he had been “keeping an eye on” get seduced by a vampire, who had taken the oblivious D-cupped, blue-eyed, clear-skinned, ash-blonde (“it was love at first sight", naturally) behind the bushes at a night bbq and booze party and proceeded (naturally) to rape (though she probably thought it was consensual until the teeth came out) and suck the life from her. Coutt had apparently seen the vamp making off with his lady love, and had dithered for a moment before deciding to follow the couple into the bushes and see what was going on... at which point I stopped Coutt from his story telling by giving him a good slap upside the head.

“What was that for?” he demanded, his eyes reddened from his woe and general self-pity as he rubbed his head.

“You being a fucking tosser, that's what,” I replied, leaning back and putting my feet back up on a neighbouring table. I looked behind Coutt's head and noted absently that the arrangement of fruit in the blown-up photograph there had a reflection of the photographer shown in the fruit-wax of the red apple... now that was just careless.

Coutt mananged to underwhelm me even further by outlining his witnessing of the chick's death, and I silently began to count the number of leaves on the fake ivy vine that ran on a series of hooks along the cafe's wall.

I looked up and realised that Coutt had finished his story, as he was looking at me as though demanding some sort of acknowledgement. He had the temerity to actually look petulant when I didn't immediately pat him on the back and give him a big hug.

Oh for crying out loud. Ah well, he asked for it.

“Do you want to know what I find wrong with this story, Coutt?” I asked, not even bothering to mask a yawn.

“I told you, I would prefer it if you called me Damian,” he grizzled, reminding me of my sister's two year old, only without the benefit of cuteness. Man, I should really visit them again, I haven't seen them in ages... damnit, what is it about this guy that I can barely pay any attention to him? He's just so boring! No wonder Cassie or Cathy or Sarah or Jessica whatever that bimbo's name was wouldn't give him the time of day!

I considered him, looking past the ridiculously cliched and impractical outfit and similarly tired and hackneyed story, and saw a soft rich boy who probably spent far too much of his time in front of a computer screen, who previous to watching the girl of his dreams get fucked and sucked, probably had never had to deal with the harsh reality of impending death, psychological trauma and rent due dates. His slightly acned skin, rounded cheeks and floppy brown curls looked incongruous with his black-on-black shop-bought “uniform”. He didn't look like a killer, he looked like a cos-playing geek. A little boy in an adult body who had yet to learn that just because his life had started to share a few aspects with a badly-written block-buster back story didn't mean that he would instantly gain the ability to kick ass. If a dark history was all one needed to get ahead, then we'd be hip-deep in wannabe action heroes, and Dr. Phyllis McRay would be out of a job.

All in all, a royal pain in my ass.

Against my better judgement, I felt sorry for him, and decided to give him the advice he needed to hear.

“Okay newbie listen up. I'm going to tell you this, and I'm only going to tell you this once, as a) I don't like repeating myself, and b) if you don't pay very very close attention you're going to end up as dead as that girl you stalked,” I saw Coutt open his mouth to protest, but I made a slashing motion with my hand and plowed on ahead. “No, you pin back those ears and listen to me. First thing's first. Following a lady around and mouth-breathing over her picture without her knowledge is called stalking. It's not an expression of your deep-seated romantic feelings for her, it's sad, ineffective and downright creepy. She might not have even known you were into her, did you ever think about that? Just because you still drool at the very sound of her name does not mean you ever had a relation with this chick- what you had was a fixation. What you should have done was just ask her out and be done with it, not 'watch her every move' and masturbate over her blog page.”

“But I-” he spluttered, turning distinctly puce.

“-I'm not finished yet!” I growled, noting with mixed satisfaction and contempt that he flinched a little at my tone. “The part of your story where you went to 'go see what they were up to in the bushes' I don't buy it. I'd think it was pretty damn obvious what she thought she was going to get, and whilst this time it just so happened that you were right in being worried, going in to 'check on' a couple having sex in the bushes is both voyeuristic and plain stupid. If that vamp had been human, best case scenario would have been you being traumatised and worst-case would have been you getting punched in the face and the chick losing whatever modicum of respect she might have maybe had for you- and that's assuming she had any. As it stands, you did the smart thing in not confronting the vamp, as then the cops would have had two bodies on their hands instead of just the one, but you were stupid to just stand there like a mannikin. Even running back to the barbie screaming 'Help! Chickie's getting attacked!' would have been better than just standing there.

“Which brings me to my next point. What part of 'razor sharp teeth, the skills to seduce pretty much any human and at the peak of human standards of strength and speed' compared to '1337 stalking skills, black belt, angst and brand-name black-on-black' makes you think that you can take on vamps in hand to hand combat? You think that righteous indignance or 'justice' is going to give you special survival skills and powers or something? You're just goddamn lucky that that guy on my arm wasn't a vamp, or you'd be dead, and I'd be having to make up some kind of cover story to explain away your mauled corpse to the coppers. If a vamp has his back to you, and your style is hand to hand, then you stake him, no questions asked. You don't leap onto his back and tackle him you fucktard.”

By now Coutt, who had been getting progressively more demoralised in his body language as I had continued had his head in his hands. I decided to let my reprimand sink in for a moment, and waved at Gareth, my ex-slayer friend, and owner of this humble establishment, who had been behind the counter wiping down the benches while he pretended to ignore our conversation. By the grin he gave me as he walked over, I could tell that not only had he heard everything, but he found the whole story of me meeting Coutt to be highly amusing.

In retrospect he was right, and I'd probably be entertaining the other slayers in the area with this story for weeks.

As Gareth rolled over, I noticed Coutt raise his eyebrows in surprise and wondered how he hadn't noticed that the bench was pretty low compared to your average cafe. Gareth, as the owner, manager and sole night-staff of this little place (though he had a few people employed for during the daylight hours for while he slept and had a shop full of more profitable but less interesting business) had made sure that the premises were designed to his specifications, with an ample amount of floorspace behind the counter for turning his chair around, and tables set in an arrangement that was convenient for a paraplegic in a wheelchair like him to access.

The cafe, with the self-deprecating name of “Wheels” was popular by day amongst the city's more cosmopolitan chair-bound, as it had easy access and a nice atmosphere. It had actually won a couple of design awards, much to my unsurprised amusement and Gareth's baffled pride. The chilled-out jazz music and the dark-polished wood that framed colourful murals that covered most of the walls made the place a peaceful glade in the concrete jungle, and so it was popular even amongst those daylight coffee drinkers who weren't interested in the ramps and the tables.

But these weren't the customers that Gareth had designed the cafe for. Night-time brought an entirely different sort of clientele, as those who knew the cause of Gareth getting the base of his spine shattered wasn't because he had been drunk and had fallen off a third story balcony tended to trickle in to get their caffeine hits at the beginning of their nights, or ask to be served from the secret bottles of spirits from the locked cupboard hidden behind a wall-panel on the back wall.

I was tempted to ask for some, actually, as Gareth, in all his seated scarred-up seven-foot Jamaican immigrant glory came to a stop in front of mine and Coutt's table.

“Bela, what have I told you about putting your bloody boots on the tables? It's filthy, and I just wiped down the tables not half an hour ago,” Gareth rumbled, his basso profundo tones making Coutt jump a little.

I stretched langorously and moved my feet from the table to a seat under it, replying, “No you didn't. You probably got poor Amelia to wipe them down again. You know, you should really just pay that girl, what with all the work she does around here. Might keep her around more often,” I added, waggling my eyebrows at him cheekily.

Gareth snorted. “Who's the cosplayer? Your latest conquest? I know you have diverse tastes Bela, but I thought you made a point of not fucking idiots.”

A steadily pucing Coutt bristled and began to say something, but I cut him off quickly before he could embarrass himself more. The comment about my sex life I ignored. If you can't stand the heat, then don't become a firewalker, was always my motto, and besides, I'd ragged on Gareth worse before- the fact that I was allowed to call him by name was a display of our mutual respect.

“Gareth, this is Cody Coutt, aka Damian Centurion,” Gareth burst out laughing at this point, and I gave Coutt an expression that said “I told you so”. “Young Coutt has been in the business of vampire slaying for a grand total of three days, and tonight has been the pinnacle of his career so far, when he jumped an albino wedding-planner who was escorting me home with a cry of 'I'll save you from the horrid vampire', thus ruining my first attempt at human sex in about three months.”

Gareth inspected Coutt with squinted dark eyes then with a shake of his steel-wool-threaded curls gave me a grimace that eloquently said “I can see that”.

Coutt on the other hand was spluttering again. I watched the colour change in fascination, wondering if he was about to swallow his tongue.

Apparently not, as a moment later, he gasped, “A-are you sure it's a good idea to just tell him everything like that? A vampire might know he knows they exist and kill him.”

Oh shit, he didn't.

I looked at Gareth warily, noticing the thunderclouds rolling in, and decided to jump in before Gareth, a man famous amongst the Aware for having in his prime taken on seven vampires at once and won, and still was the main reason vampires stayed the hell off this street, ripped Coutt a new one.

“Okay, correct me if I'm wrong,” I snarled, “but I was under the impression that I was the experienced slayer here, not you, Mr I-can't-tell-the-difference-between-a-vamp-and-an-albino. So it might possibly be safe to assume that I know who it is and isn't a good plan to talk about my night-job in front of. If you had any doubts, you should have just pretended I was kidding, in which case most Blinker cases would shrug it off, idiot. I hadn't done the other half of the introductions yet either. Dumbass, this is Gareth Fiapoto Lauina, aka Gory Gary aka the Stakemaster 5000 aka the owner and manager of the official all night slayer cafe aka someone who can still fuck you up good if you talk over him and don't keep a civil tongue in your head. You can call him Sir.”

For some reason Coutt still seemed to think I was joking, until he glanced at Gareth for confirmation of this and saw the glare.

Face falling like the twin towers, he gulped. “Oh.”

“Yeah, 'oh'. If you don't have anything smart to say then shut the fuck up,” I scowled. “Sorry about that Gareth, this guy might be about the luckiest cunt alive for meeting me instead of a vamp, but he's about as intelligent as the British Somme battle tactics.”

“Maggot in front of a blow torch, huh?” Gareth muttered. He jerked his head at me, then asked, “So why you introducing me to this dead man, Bela? He's obviously too stupid to live, so why bother me?”

I smiled triumphantly, and Gareth raised an eyebrow.

“Didn't you tell me Tristan's lot were looking for a new scout? This guy managed to sneak up on both me and a vampire in the middle of a feed and watched without getting caught.”

Gareth's scornful expression shifted slightly towards interested, and Coutt's mouth dropped open.

“Y-you're recommending me? What happened to all the 'dumbass' and 'fucktard' comments?” Coutt asked, bewildered. Huh, I must've blindsided the bastard. Sweet. I love doing that.

Gareth snorted, sounding remarkably like an African water buffalo. Not that I'd tell him that, he'd deck me, first-name basis or no. “Kid, from Bela that's practically a pet-name. If she didn't think you had some kind of talent she wouldn't lead you into this place, and she wouldn't tell me your name. No point naming dead meat.” He paused for a moment then chuckled, chair rolling back about half a pace. “I suggest you think up a better alias before I introduce you to Tristan. You sound like somebody made up by a fourteen year old Meyer fanbrat.”

The look of disgruntled affront on Coutt's face was spectacular.

“But, but...”

“'But, but' Sir,” I corrected him cheerfully, clapping him on the back. I turned to the man who had stopped me from doing a couple of extremely stupid things (and people) over the years and grinned nastily. “Gareth, I'm half-dead, and this was supposed to be my night off. Okay if I leave the sneaky douche-bag here with you?”

The question was really more of a formality- I knew Gareth would sort Coutt out, I'd seen him deal with foundling slayers before, and most of them had either survived or quit, with only a few hotheads who didn't know good advice when they heard it marring Gareth's record for setting newbie slayers on the survival track. It was out of my hands now, and with luck, next time I talked to Coutt he might be less of a git. Slayers had a way of beating stupid out of a person.

Muttering “typical” and rolling his eyes, Gareth gestured towards the door. “Go on, get out of here. Tristan's lot will probably be in here for chai in about 45. Don't get bitten or I'll stake you myself, with pleasure.”

“Awww you're so sweet Gary,” I simpered, winking flirtatiously at him and waving goodbye to Coutt as I sashayed towards the door. Quietly, I was flattered. It is a well-known fact that when you're in the slaying business there's a higher than normal chance of getting turned. Apart from the fact that slayers (knowingly) deal with more vampires in a month than most people do in a lifetime, they're also more equipped to survive an attack. Unfortunately, they don't always survive with their humanity intact, and get enough Vamp into your bloodstream... it's never pretty.

The horrible part is that Turned slayers are always the worst to kill, because not only do you probably know them personally, a small part of you knows that one day, if you fuck up just once, the roles might be reversed. Some slayers make official pacts with their friends in the business to take them out if it ever comes to that, but I've never had anything to do with that sort of drama. If I ever meet one, I'll stake them, no questions asked, but I'd rather not have some idiot pause because I was the marked kill of some random “friend” of mine.

Though hell, if I had to go that way, I'd almost want to get stuck by the Stakemaster 5000. Gareth got the name from some smartass after the kitchenware brand, but the number came from the number of vampires Gareth is responsible for slaying up to date. Back in his prime he was a vampire slaying machine, touring the world as a specialist to clear out the worst of the hot-spots. Born in Jamaica but raised in Colorado, he joined the US marines just before Vietnam, where he met his first vampiress in a brothel in Saigon. He stabbed her almost out of reflex, and ended up having to fight five of them. He went to his sergeant, (probably freaked out of his skull,) and luckily, the man was in the business and was able to point young Gary in the right direction. Unfortunately for vampires everywhere, Gareth had taken being caught off guard personally, and whilst with the marines had made a point of tracking down and killing as many vamps as he possibly could- once discharged and free to move around, he was even more dangerous. He'd cut swathes through the American population until he got bored, then started killing Russian vamps, and then was chased out of the country by jealous KGB slayers, whereupon he decided he was over snow, and Australia would do for him.

Nowadays, in his late sixties, wheelchair bound and missing two fingers from his right hand, he still bags a vamp a fortnight.

Now that's style.