Unlikely Villains, Hopeless Heroes.
The Prologue of an Unlikely Story
I hate blood. No really, the stench is puke-inducing and the taste... don't get me started. You would think after a hundred years I'd be used to the shit. Unfortunately, it seems that with each passing decade the taste takes on a whole new level of disgustingness. If it weren't for the fact that it's imperative to my survival, (I know what a goddamn shame, not to mention cliché), I wouldn't drink the crap at all.
But alas, if I were to go a month without it my lungs would shrivel and literally turn to dust. No matter how much H2O I try to swallow, it only adds to the dehydration. You see, I need blood, that vile stuff, to take hydrated goodness to my lungs or it's like I'm breathing fire in each time I take a breath, and I do breathe. I can't go without it (blood) for more than three days, or my throat becomes sandpaper dry. You humans think we've got it good or something, superhuman strength, supergood looks and everything 'super', plus that whole super 'never aging' thing, but the truth is. I super freaking hate it.
You might have already gathered, if not you're an imbecile, but I'm what one would call a Vampire, a Bloodsucker, the Undead, Night Stalker and my personal favourite Blood Sucking Undead Demons of the Night. (Long ain't it?)
So that's the basic factual shit I have to get over and done with, the following, however, is me, or at least the quick fire version: I have one of the worst memories of faces on the face of this planet. And yet I remember everything someone says to me, I'll forget your face after meeting you once, it took me three decades to stick Daisy's face together with everything she'd ever said to me. Literally. I love the sun, despite the nasty sunburns, and I actually do try to sleep a minimum of seven hours a night. I flat with a werewolf who once told me I have the mental capacity of a twelve year old, even if I look eighteen and have looked eighteen for the last one hundred and sixty years. I like garlic bread, yum. I don't take too well to confrontation; I'd take a cup of tea over a chalice of lukewarm blood any day, except the days I literally have no choice. I find humans absolutely fascinating, I can't stand violence and if I had one wish it would be for 'world peace'.
I'm somewhat wealthy, meaning I'm loaded, and the kids at school think I'm gay because I haven't 'dated' anyone since starting at Fruitvale High two years ago. Although wouldn't you say 'dating' is rather redundant nowadays anyway? I'm in my last year, year thirteen, (for the hunredth time) although I prefer to call it seventh form, and this is the story all about how my un-life got flipped turn upside down, and I'd like to take a minute just sit right there and... if you couldn't tell, my favourite TV show is Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Will Smith in the 90s was hilarious.
I reside with Daisy, my flatmate who happens to be a werewolf, not a werewolf who happens to be my flatmate. She also happens to be vegetarian. She's a fragile looking little thing, she is, and is as harmless as honey... unless of course you touch her chew toy. Then, your 'ass is grass.' Anchorman also happens to be a favourite movie of mine, even if I do feel that Will Ferrell tends to overact, and look stupid. Daisy detests Will Ferrell, she doesn't understand how someone just watches a movie for entertainment value. It has to have some deeper interpretation and Daisy's a born critic. I'm a natural optimist, or at least I like to think I am, but if you were to tell me otherwise I'd probably agree. Because I'm easy going like that.
This is me, quiet and harmless and somewhat disarming. I've lived my un-life under the radar, which is also why I reside somewhere so far off the radar the radar is a foreign term for the foreign natives, yeah oxymoron. Where? Why New Zealand, of course. It's a land known for; sheep, nil nuclear activity and the Lord of the Rings Movie Trilogy. Not much makes sense here, and I've been here for a hundred years. I guess it would then make sense for the end of the world to be revealed to a Queen St Farmer in a suit as 'I'm' walking past minding my own goddamn business.
It makes no sense that the huge as Santa over Whitcoulls on the corner of Queen St and Victoria St to cost as much as fifteen thousand of the tax payers money. Auckland Icon? Didn't Santa originate in Turkey? No sense. But that was okay, because it didn't bother me. My life was quiet and bother free, at least for the most part. When Daisy goes on heat, it bothers me as much as when she's PMS-ing. But other than that, I lived an un-life of quiet nights in and reclusive rights.
So if someone were to tell me that my perfectly quiet and somewhat peaceful un-life was about to be disturbed and I would have to become an unlikely hero in an unlikely story about an unlikely hero saving the world... I'd call them on their bullshit. If I had been told that I was going to have the fate of the world on my shoulders I'd laugh my firm ass off, because I had the superhuman strength, the super-everything and I should have been a super-evil killing machine. But I wasn't, I wanted world where war was an out of it idea, not peace.
So naturally, or unnaturally considering others of my kind (and there are a few, even in New Zealand) would kill the shit out of their mother if it meant fresh blood, I can't hack it as a villain. And despite my wish for a better world, there's no way in hell I'm risking my neck to jump in front of a moving train, or stop a bank robbery, so why the fuck would I try to be a hero?
I'll pick up your rubbish, drink blood from a blood bank and be a tidy kiwi for you.
But Declan Gregory Wraths III is no villain, and there's no way in hell, or New Zealand for that matter, that he could be a hero either, take it from me. I happen to know myself on a personal level. Declan does not do crime fighting or world saving. And Daisy Lilly Lupe the werewolf... a sidekick? Sure, she'd sidekick ya', in the balls.
A/N: Yes, I am crazy. I had fun writing this, so let me know if anyone else thinks it'll be worth continuing.