Lance's Story

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"Well, well. What have we here. A tape recorder? What do you need a tape recorder for huh?"

"I use it in class, f-for notes." sniff "A-are you gonna kill me?"

"Well that all depends on you, doesn't it beautiful?"

"Wh-what do you want?"

"Wellll. You're going to suck on my cock, hard. And if you make me cum, you go about your happy little faggot life pretending that you're just experimenting in your college years, and I go back to my band."

"W-what's up with that anyway man? I-I mean. You're not in the band."

"Well now you're just stalling. Tell you what." zzzzip. "Put this down your throat and I'll tell you a story."

"Oooh... Anyway, a couple of years ago I was working for TVT Records. It's a pretty big music label. They do a lot of movie sound tracks, a lot of goth and rock music. Well, I'm living in L.A. scouting out new bands and sounds and what-not. I traveled over California a lot. I heard a lot of shitty music, saw a lot of shitty bands, and pretty much wasted my time for three years."

"Ooh, feisty. Heh. Well after four months without even seeing my home I finally got to come home. I was scheduled to go on another four month jaunt around the country in six weeks. But I still had six weeks to celebrate. Now how do you think a queer like me celebrates? Hm? Much like you and I are celebrating right now... Hmm. Celebrate a little faster, babe."

"Well I went out to the Salty Hole, it's a club in L.A. for puffers, I had some drinks and found my prey for the night. I was gonna take that gentleman home and pound him, but it was me that got pounded. And not in the back-of-a-Volkswagon fashion. In the Salem-Witch-Trail fashion."

"Boy, it's not a popsicle. Well, as we leave the Salty Hole. I think that guy's name was Travis, but I'm not sure. Well, we're leaving when this ... gang, I suppose, starts giving us shit. A bunch of bikers yelling "Queer" usually doesn't intimidate me, and with my smart mouth, no pun intended, they decided it would be a good idea to beat Travis and I to death."

"...... Are you in the mood for this?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well you were earlier. Suddenly I'm not a turn on now that you know I'm not human?"

"Hm-mmm."

"...Keep humming, I do quite like that. Well, you might not believe this... but then again, after what I showed you earlier you'd probably believe anything right about now, huh? No one can move that fast right? That's impossible, huh?"

"Those bikers killed Travis and I. But I woke up from being dead. I was sucking the blood from Travis neck and there was a big black dude that I'd never seen before standing over me. He hung out with me for a few months and gave me a crash course on my current condition and about politics. I once asked him why he did that to me, saved me after I died. He told me that he was following the gang and that after years of the oppression of his people, blah blah blah, that he felt a certain kinship between him and I. I called him a homo-repressed gang-banger and he got pissed and left."

"My life spiraled out of control. I had no friends, no lovers, no job. I couldn't very well keep working without a heart beat huh? ... quit sobbing, it's unattractive."

"I just wandered around for a few, trying to stay away from others of my brood and trying to make a living. Or you know, whatever. It wasn't until just a few years ago that I ran into that aforementioned band."

"I was scouting out some club for more prey, kinda has a whole new meaning now though doesn't it? I was scouting the place out when I heard them playing. Quite frankly, they sucked. The talent was there they just needed someone to conduct them. The paint was there, the brush was there, they just needed an artist. I! I am an artist!"

"... Ya know, fellatio is an art, and you are no Van Gogh. Use your hand some more. Let's see. My car was on it's last legs. It's hard to find place to sell you a decent car when your driver’s license has expired. I had no means of travel. So I sweet-talked the band into letting me hitch a ride with them. I told them I'd be their manager, and that I'd get them a record deal some day. It was bullshit. I just needed a ride. Now, here's the monkey wrench part. Turns out that they're blood suckin V's too. It didn't take me too long to figure that out. I thought it best not to ditch them, as they'd probably just kill me for the trouble. Turns out they're from the same side of the political fence that my sire was. We're called Sabbat. Can you say that? Hum it on my dick."

"... I'm not joking."

"Smm-bmmmt."

"Good boy, so obedient. But you know what? I still haven't cum yet and your battery on this tape recorder is about dead, and so are you."

"No please! I'll try harder--" SNAP. Smack. Ssss, ssss, ssss.

"Ah. Nothing like faggot blood."

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

"Hey Lance, where'd you go?"

"I went to socialize remember?"

"What's with the tape recorder?"

"Oh this? I thought we could add it to the collection. We all seem to have them these days."

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