[An oldie from my old Web site, TheZeroBoss.com. Originally published to the Internet on November 11th, 2004.]
They keep calling. I’m at my wit’s end. It’s come to the point that the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention whenever the cell phone rings.
You see, I’m the target of harrassing calls. From…vampires.
How do I know they’re vampires? First, their calls always show up as “Caller ID Unavailable”. That’s a telltale sign: A vampire’s number is never reflected in the caller ID window. Second, I have no will to resist them. I know who’s calling, and I try not to answer, but the siren song of the cell phone bends my will. Third (and this is the creepiest part), they tell me what they are. Before I can say anything more than “hello”, they announce proudly that they’re affiliated with this cult called “The Blood Center”. Their allegiance to the Dark Lord couldn’t be clearer if they had business cards. Fourth, they demand my blood. We’re down to a four-day supply, sir, and we could sure use a fresh steaming pint from those plump veins of yours.
I try to maintain my cool, think up some good excuse. “I’m sorry, but you can’t have any of my blood. I’m…out.”
“You’re…out, sir?”
“Yep, fresh out. Gave my last three pints to some neighbors down the way who practice Santaria.”
“Sir, if you didn’t have any blood…you’d be dead.”
AND WOULDN’T THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY?!? I nearly scream – but common sense returns, and I preserve my composure. “Look, I’m very busy, can’t this wait until next month?”
“There are people who need your blood now, sir. Please, think about them. Think about the children.”
AAAAHH! Now they’re playing the child card, the foul bastards. What, are they going to come for the blood of my kids if I don’t let them tap into my veins? Is there no code of honor amongst these people??
“Well, sir? Can I schedule an appointment for you? We can do it downtown, or at your place of business.”
My mouth goes dry, hands go clammy. I picture a half-dozen black-jacketed punks giving me a quick “love bite” and then leaving me for dead in the middle of the lobby.
“I…ummm…I…No hablo Inglais!” And I hang up.
I’m safe…for now. But they’ll call back again, with their slick voices and veiled threats against the young. So here I sit, preparing my next line of defense – weaving garlic necklaces, fashioning wooden stakes out of the furniture, watching Season 2 of Buffy. Perhaps while I’m at it, I’ll order some holy water from the Vatican, and leave my cell phone to soak in it overnight. That should put an end to those vampire calls in a damn hurry.
