Jet Lag

A vampire was snoring lightly on the plane, eyes obscured by sunglasses and curtain on his window drawn. Anybody looking at him could tell he was a vampire, just from the fact that he was wearing heliophobic clothing on a plane during the dead of night. Many of the plane's passengers didn't know that vampires were susceptible to jet lag until that very moment.

The vampire's name was Liev Schelpps, and he was flying into Newfoundland from Berlin.

He hated flying.

A stewardess walked by, offering peanuts and apple juice in deadpan German, English and French. At the sound of her dulcet, very stewardess-y voice, Liev Schelpps snorted slightly, roused himself from his sleep and mumbled, "You got pillows on this goddamn plane?"

"There's a pillow underneath your seat, sir," the stewardess explained with a serviceable smile that Schelpps couldn't appreciate, as his eyes were still closed. "You're more than capable of getting it yourself."

"Well what's the point in that?" he asked petulantly. "I need to rest, you know."

"We're nearly landing anyhow, sir. I suggest you get some rest in your hotel room when you get there," the stewardess said, her smile thinning out.

Bitch, Schelpps thought, but didn't say it out loud. He was getting enough ugly looks as it was.

Schelpps sighed and finally decided to wake up fully. He drew back the curtain on his window and looked out. Sure enough, just below he could see the two islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, and the coastline of Newfoundland. After a moment of absorbing his soon-to-be surroundings, Schelpps checked his watch, which announced that it was practically midday. Perfect. Jet lag. This was going to be a heinously long and tedious night.

Vampires had long ago learned from experience that it's just best not to have any luggage with you when you're travelling. Centuries of living among the humans got old easily when all your stuff got stolen, so soon the legions of the undead learned to bring only carry-on luggage with them on long voyages. It was part of the important lessons they taught the ones fresh in their new life.

Liev Schelpps hoisted his gaudy carpet bag over his shoulder and left the airport without too much of a fuss. He was smack in the middle of the city of St. John's, but he knew where he had to go. That is, he knew specifically where he had to go. It turned out that telling a taxi-driver that you wanted to get to the basement of the only blue house in this entire goddamn province, in fluent German, doesn't fly in Newfoundland. So Schelpps called the number.

"Guten tag!" he said cheerfully as they answered.

"Guten tag yerself. Where the hell are ya, ye stupid ass?" asked the mad scientist on the other end.

"There was a delay in my flight. You realize they fling tubes of metal over the Atlantic, Professor? It's a miracle we didn't all crash and suffer horrible, water-logged and smoldering ends. Every time I go from Berlin to St. John's it's a feat that I didn't go the the bottom of the ocean instead," Schelpps said. For some reason, his sense of wonder didn't get conveyed very well over the telephone.

"Enough of yer excuses," the mad scientist said, too pissed off to share in Schelpps' happiness at not being dead, "The fact remains that you are bloody LATE!"

"I'll be right there, Professor. As soon as I find your house."

"I paint the bloody thing blue, and ye still can't find it? Ye undead are good fer nothing!" Click-beeeep.