You know, cops aren't allowed to carry a glock in bars round here. You're labelled 'trigger-happy'; social pariah if you're after any party invites. Anyone can get their hands on a gun; they come free with a six-pack of Bud-Light and a jar of Skippy Super Creamy. But apparently my safety is worth less than the public semi-automatic mania: and I know how to clean, load and fire the bitch straight.
So when I'm confronted by some gargantuan prick in the alley across from Charlie's threatening to 'show me what a real man is'… there's pretty much nothing I can do about it. At least you would think so if I were a normal chick pulling the nine-to-five on the daily.
Just barely functioning on the edge of civilisation, this is my first night off duty in near six months. And hardly bridging the gap between humanity and Hell, I'm hungry for my first meal in weeks.
"Cummon shuga'...no need to be shy."
Urgh; Do they always have to be so filthy? I mean, the real slimy ass-holes that you know are gonna get stuck in your back molars. He's tall, even with his hunched shoulders, and he has the stubby, hairy fingers of a mole person. And he stinks. Just for once it would be awesome to have a real looker that moisturises, smells of expensive cologne and will go down easy as milkshake.
I guess they have to be a missing person that no one will actually miss or else I wouldn't consider them a meal in the first place. The Precinct doesn't really pay attention to dead hoboes past pencil pushing a file, much to the delight of my belly. If some handsome millionaire, who knew how to wine a girl before she dined, went MIA then it would be all hands on stake.
See, taking my fire-arm from me doesn't protect anyone. I'm a walking, talking, breathless, killing- machine all by myself. And did I mention bloodless? That's the best part.
Because when Cummon shuga' decides he wants to give a stiff one to a corpse rather than a living woman (ha!), he shoves a switchblade under my ribs. And the look of horror in his eyes at my lack of bleeding is the metaphorical butter on my T-bone. Fear makes human's richer. Sweeter. And, in this case, Cummon shuga' needs all the help he can get.
So I give him the teeth-face which hurts quite a bit to pull off, by the way. My bones actually twist just to push out the canines and the cheekbones elongate to pull up the corners of my mouth. I look more like the Cheshire cat than anything else. It's sorta funny looking, really, but it's the only way to get a decent bite.
That does it: Cummon shuga' lets out a shriek that I'm sure his father would beat seven shades of shit out of him for and runs, full pelt, in the opposite direction into the dark.
I can't help but smile that little bit. God, it's beautiful when they run. This is why I give him a decent head start. They get their little, human hearts beating at record pace and the blood is like melted chocolate; 70% oxygen solid.
He's not too far ahead when I mount the wall and canter on all fours after him. I could give chase easily, two feet on the ground. But honestly, if you could Spiderman it along a vertical surface, then you would. Plus, then I get to watch him in the pitch black from above like a bat. He's bent over with his hands on his knees and his veins pulsing through his skin. It's intoxicating; six slammers down the line and on the dance floor where you can see the music; wasted.
It gets you right down in the good parts. I know that he is gonna have the aftertaste of tobacco and sewage water but I've got the sweat on. I just have to wait for that last moment, the moment where they take in a deep breath and look to see if I've followed: there it is.
The anticipation is so raw; a carnal growl escapes my gullet.
I get to look him right in the eye for his final gasp. His pupils grow to the size of pennies and I drop on him, wrap him up in all my limbs and then swallow his last scream.
It was as good as I can expect. I'm a clean eater, usually, but when you've got the lust on, you know, after a fortnight's starvation? And the heart is beating in your ears; it can make you go a little crazy. It's everywhere. My white cami is scarlet; ruined. And he's torn it with his thrashing around.
I know what you're thinking; that I don't seem to be showing any sort of remorse for the guy. But really; Girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. If some guy walked up to some delicate little flower in a back alley and stabbed her then the whole world would be hunting him down, after his blood.
This way, we skip a step. The streets are safer. From him…and from me.
The amount of paper work tomorrow is gonna be a nightmare; they won't look too far or too long. He'll just be some dead, rapist perve that got what was coming to him. And no one will suspect me because, hey, I'm a cop. And they shoot bad guys, don't they?