Tomorrow, She's a Pony


His hand shook like a crazed, speed addicted maniac with a .22 caliber pistol in his fingers.

Counting down. 8.... 7.... 6....

My knowledge of STDs is pretty extensive. I'm a stockpile of Treponema pallidum. If I still depended on the daily routines that come along with humanity, I might be worried. But Peppy knows all of this, it's just easier to ignore because we're stuck in the same body. That's right...

I am Peppy's survival instinct.

His lips are clenching that cigarette so hard I'm worried that he'll crush it like a moth. This black haired, Gerard-Wayesque cast out had long since surrendered healthy habits in exchange for a more 'stress relieving' life style, ever since that night a homeless guy sank his teeth into his jugular and left him flailing in trash. Now he sits outside a nightclub, watching the traffic light change, cigarette smoke drifting across the stop signs, down the street, between the hairdo's of nightclub patrons.

It's always the bisexual chick.

Re-entrance into the scummy existence that is you. 5.... 4.... 3....

So this is how you spend your days. Eying down babes for a take out delivery. You may as well work for domino's, because you're already the food service guy - may as well get paid.

Shut up. Yeah, that'll work. Never mind, you'll never keep a job in Americana with that attitude.

The night hung around her in blatant contrast to her neo-goth, desperate-for-approval attire, moving stickily through the night rather than with the smooth, nonchalance of a nocturne. I watched her walk. I hated it. Peppy was none too pleased either. Maybe high heels are meant to prevent women from looking like K-mart knock off's of supermodels.

"Hey, um..." She asked. Cute, low self confidence with an underlying conviction. Peppy wondered if she practiced that smile on her myspace pictures. Maybe if she would turn her head a little... "I'm Wanda, I..."

Wanda. Magic Wanda. You wave at me, then disappear.

".My friends and I - we just wanted to know, if you like, sang in a band. You kind of look like..."

Souxsie Souix. Frank Lero. Morrissey and the mother fucking Smiths.

"... A singer. Or something." She giggled and turned a plain, brown hair around her finger, lips too big for the black lipstick she was wearing, a raccoon who decided upon mouth emphasis instead. I'd begun seeing things differently since 'The Crash.' Colliding into the dumpster at 3 in the morning, wandering back into the Starbucks you just strolled out of, and finding it all together too bright... I also found that it's where all sorts of interesting folk lurked.

You'd think that I'd be telling him to stay off the streets after dark.

"I get that a lot. MCR, right? The Used? Edward Scissorhands?"

"Hell yeah! Totally. Tim Burton's my fave."

I resisted the urge to laugh in her face, spit in those bright, red contact lenses, and shove her back into the writhing pits of saran wrap and glow in the dark stars. Peppy, though, is the first line of defense. Got to wait until he says so. Somehow I think that's what got us into this mess in the first place. I should be the brains of this operation, not the man wearing a black, Good Will suit and a mottled, ruby tie.

"Really?" I hear him ask. Even from inside his head, his voice sounds too hopeful. The first rule of survival in this world is to never get your sights set to high for anything. Choose the lowest story window to fall out of, not the penthouse. Like you could afford it anyway, ah, Peppy?

He brushes me aside. "I like him. You remember that part where Edward popped the water bed and Winona Ryder nearly split her wig..."

She cocked her head. "What? Oh no, sorry. I haven't seen it."

Oh.

Oh.

"I see." Told you, you vampiric piece of shit. Look at that shirt, what do you think? Hot topic or Wal-mart? Do you think she made it herself, or is some worker in Saipan being paid $3 a day to make it seem like she's an artsy, introspective kind of girl who cares about the world? "Maybe you should, sometime. It's good."

"Yeah, don't ya' worry, hon, I will."

Saipan. Definitely Saipan.

"Your friends are gone."

She looked behind her and found herself alone on the street, yet surrounded by people, all the same. Foot long green mohawks. A guy with a plug through his ears. Eye brow studs that glittered like streetlights, obscure tattoos and ink designs meandering through the inner city doors. The thrumming pulse of the music inside.

And she looked so very, very nervous.

"Oh, yeah. Okay, I'd better follow, but we should maybe - if you want to hang later...."

This is the part that Peppy completely shut me the hell up, and rammed his pointy, dripping, pearly white, overly feral canines into that cookie cutter's throat. Wait wait wait wait... Skip back a moment. I'm rewriting again. That's what happens, see, when you know what's best for a person and they refuse to listen. I think I might need a megaphone to get through to this guy.

He lightly took her hand and told her, with as little petulance as he could (poor fellow) that it was quite alright if she stayed for a cigarette with him, even though she'd smear black, oily pap all over his non-mentholated treasures - and that she looked a bit self righteous upon receiving the offer, tightening her eyes, ramming that pole just a little further up her ass.

Bet she thinks so she's so bad, too. The next Wendy O'fucking-Williams.

"Hey, suit yourself," Peppy replied, smudged charcoal liner making his blue eyes like a photograph of supernovas. He adjusted his tie a little, and Wanda giggled. That girly, sexually implicative chuckle. Come to think of it, she probably doesn't know who Wendy O'Williams is, but Peppy doesn't catch that.

That's not his real name, by the way. But she never asked.

When your neck feels like it's about to tear itself in half, when your eyes are bloodshot and tired from the constant cigarette smoke and car exhaust, when you feel nauseated by the bimbo behind you so much that you pray for vomit, just so you could have something to soil those knee high, black leather boots… Your sense of logic gets obscured.

Speaking of sense of logic -- I knew that guy once. I think Peppy killed him. Does that mean I'm next?

He has this morbid, psycho killer way of ignoring me.

"Where are we going?" Wanda piped up, skinny legs barely carrying her along. Peppy was a good two inches shorter, and she was the one having trouble with their stride, becoming more and more unsure with every single step. Look at her eyes, the way they keep ticking back and forth. You don't do that when you're confident. Reminds me of a mouse, trapped by the neighborhood feline brigade in a corner…

Shut…. Up.

Again with the attitude, asshole.

They had made their way into an old apartment complex, one with paint peeling off the walls like splattered egg shells, the lights flickering in morse code every twenty third footstep. A storage facility for college students, single parents, and rats. Vampires have this uncanny ability to lure their victims along for the ride, at least for a little while. Then the enchantment wears off. That means that this chick would freak out and we'd be forced to kill her before she alerted the entire east coast of her troubles –

Not we. I. I will have to take the wheel and puncture her throat, because bonehead here doesn't seem to be with it tonight. He'd probably let her go. Not enough coffee in his system. Too long since he'd had a drag. As his survival instinct – or SI, since that sounds so much cooler – he must really love tormenting me with those cigarettes. It won't give him cancer, but he smells like the inside of a tobacco plant, and it pisses off anyone within twelve feet.

He throws the cancer stick down on the carpet, snatches up Wanda's hand, and hurtles her through a doorway.

"Hey! What the fuck!" Miss Goth Princess has lost some of her bravery, as well as her eagerness towards 'death.'

"Yeah, good question," I know that voice; brash, female, and annoyed. Tam. This was her apartment. We both knew her pretty well, and she made me a little nervous… So naturally, Peppy was perfectly happy with the scenario.

She was wearing a pair of jeans beneath a puffy, white skirt. Tamara. The sun will come out, Tamara, bet your bottom dollar that Tamara…

"Got a present for you," Peppy replies. Tam raises a brow, looking at him like he was a ship sprouting wings.

"Is she paid for?"

Haha, you witty bitch. I can feel Peppy resisting the urge to bust a gut. A triple meaning – is Wanda a hooker, a present, or lunch?

"Not a whore, Wanda. As far as I know. Got her at The Underground…." He gave the bewildered, cosmetic disaster an evil look, and it's times like this that I wish he didn't have a cute, little baby face. "… And she's yours."

Tam folds her arms, biting the inside of her cheek, debating whether she should set her fangs to work. "A puppy, then."

What?

Now we're both confused, Tam.

"If that's what you'd like her for…."

We both smirked in agreement when we saw her fetch a spiked collar and leash.

Now I remember why we come to visit this vampiress. Insanity is better than pay per view. None of that high school, fuzzy squirrel banter exchanged at lunch tables, between lame innuendos and claims to individuality. Have you ever seen the people surrounding Peppy? I'm surprised he's still alive – thanks to me. And somehow I think that this is the first time Wanda has ever witnessed something authentic…

Even the spiked collar looked fake on her, metal links drooping unenthusiastically from Tamara's hand.

"Do you like it?"

Tamara jerked the chain hard, sending the girl toppling to the floor with a "AHGHDHDGH!!!!!!!" A display of just how weak and worthless she thought the human race to be.

"I love it."

Peppy is going to get picked up by a homosexual if he doesn't stop with that stupid grin. "Then you'll stop leaving those messages on my machine?" He shifted his weight, black suit rustling like the night sky, dodging his hips like a slip of clouds. "You filled the entire tape."

"I'll try to keep my words to myself."

Neither one of us had anything to say to that. Fair was fair. There are no guarantees, especially not with off canter, tutu-sporting vampire chicks. We turned to leave.

"But tomorrow," Tamara shouted as he closed the door, shutting off the world from the terrors that lied inside. ".… Tomorrow, she's a pony."

Told you we should have killed her. Poor Wanda. That girl was annoying, but do you really think she deserves living with that buck-nutty, out-patient, blood-sucking harlequin who wants nothing more than to…

Shut up.

You're still acting like an asshole.