Say something awful

As if fucking the world is your right

And I watch you stumble

Drunk, out into the night

To catcall ladies

You're thirsty for blood, you're picking a fight

And I wanted to ask you

Man, what do you do in the daylight?

Newcastle, 1903

He had the loveliest crooked smile. And oh my, those big green eyes...or maybe they were hazel. Not that it mattered. Poor lad was in for a drubbing, the barmaid thought sympathetically, running a dirty rag round the lip of a dirtier mug. She felt for the gentleman, she really did, but with those fancy clothes and that thick wallet what did he expect? Such a fine gentleman took his fate into his own hands, walking into a place like this in clothes like that, make no mistake. Tucking a strand of coarse, graying hair behind one ear, the barmaid replaced the mug on a shelf and turned to her unfortunate customer.

"Another pint, lovey?" she asked kindly, plump elbows resting on the bar. "It's good brew, fresh as daisies."

The young man smiled his lovely sloping smile and the barmaid smiled back. Lord, if she were twenty years younger and two stone thinner, the things she could do.

"I'm sure. Sadly, I will have to decline the offer. So many things need doing tonight." His eyes were so sweet. "You understand."

The barmaid clucked her tongue and wiped her hands on her apron. "Shame, shame." Crossing her arms over her sizeable bosom, she tilted her head to one side. It was this gesture that would save her, later. She gave the young man a long look, sizing him up. "Them over there are looking to do you harm, young sir." She used her strong chin to indicate the knot of rough looking men seated at a table by the window. "Bad eggs, every one."

The young man inclined his head in acknowledgment, drank down the last of his pint, and turned to face the rest of the pub.

It was over in less than twenty minutes. Someone had barred the door and all the pounding and screaming in the world would not open it. The barmaid pressed herself against the wall, thrown there by the force of her own fear and paralyzed by it just the same. The young man's face was contorted with pleasure, eyes black as ink, lips curled back in a grin. Two other patrons had leapt up from their tables and joined the young man in the slaughter, but the barmaid barely noticed them. All she could see was that lovely gentleman, blood down his front, flesh under his fingernails and he was laughing. Through her terror she couldn't help but notice that he had a wonderful, throaty laugh; a laugh to charm dogs and babies, as her father would say.

Twenty minutes and it was over. Twenty minutes to kill everyone. All except one.

His face was streaked with blood, covered with it like a child who smears himself with jam. He looked like a child; expression contrite but impish, assuming the indulgent parent would forgive. The barmaid couldn't take her eyes off of him as he approached the bar. He moved like a snake.

"Thank you for the warning, madam. Do forgive." Embarrassed, he reached up and set a ten pound note on the bar with great care. "For the mess." He smiled at her, that lovely crooked smile, and gently placed fifty pence beside the note. "And the pint." Using her dish cloth to wipe the worst of the gore from his chin, he settled his hat firmly on his head. "Good evening, madam. God bless."

It wasn't until Harry and his two companions were about a quarter mile away that she started to scream. She did not stop for some time.

What do you call the attraction a vampire feels toward the blood high? Do you call it love? Or do you call it infatuation? You might call it some sweet echo, a mixed feeling of need and revulsion, impatience and then, desire.

"Damn glad to have you back, Harry!"

"I suppose playing human wears thin after a while, eh?"

"No worries, mate, we all go a bit mad sometimes."

He had gone a bit mad. That was an excellent way of putting it. A bit mad. Harry was floating on the blood high and he felt as if he were swimming through a barrel of sharp sand; everything was slower and muffled, but clearer and stronger and sweeter at the same time. He needed to sleep. He needed to fuck. He needed to run. Why not do it all at once? So practical. Why not try?

"Blimey, it's took him rough this time."

"That's what fifty years dry does to you, Ned. It must be like the first time all over again."

"Maybe that's why he did it."

"What?"

"You know, hid away for so long. Maybe he wants to have the first time a second time."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, Ned, and you've come out with a few winners."

Ned was right. He was always chasing the first time. He had known how good it would feel after fifty years dry. Maybe that was why...maybe...may...be...

"Jesus, Fergus, keep him away from the riverbank, yeah?"

"He's strong, by God!"

"Just grab him, Fergus!"

"My lord! Stop!"

This. was. perfect. This was what he was looking for. Cold and still and quiet. He moved his arms experimentally, pushing against the water. He breathed in through his nose and water rushed into his lungs. A tiny flicker of a memory wove its way through his mind. A wash basin. A smiling red-headed woman. Soap in his eyes. Water up his nose. It hurt. He doesn't remember what hurt is, but he knows he had it then. When he was small and human and weak. He doesn't hurt anymore. Nothing can hurt him now.

Water filled up his lungs and he could finally sleep.

It happens over and over, like the seasons, like the planets turn. Sometimes he thinks you can set your watch by it. Harry...Henry...Hal.

It wasn't until a few days later that they caught wind of the mess they had made. The barkeep at a pub in Birmingham told them the news.

"Gangs, they say," the barman confided, "They'll get the bastards, too. New sci-en-tific progresses, they say. New techniques and eval-u-ations." He nodded with a great amount of certainty and moved down the bar.

"Damn progress is a pain in our arse," Fergus grumbled.

He started when Harry burst out laughing beside him.

"What?" Although he'd never admit it, Fergus was hurt by his maker's laughter. He'd thought he was being profound.

"Oh god, Fergus, progress is the biggest lie they ever told."

Still irritated, Fergus slammed back the rest of his whiskey. "How do you figure?"

Giggling, Harry popped a peanut into his mouth. "It was Karl Marx who said religion was the opiate of the masses, right?"

Fergus shrugged.

"Not true. Progress is the greatest mass opiate ever devised." Harry gestured dramatically with his glass and adopted a declaratory tone, "Tomorrow will be better! Things are looking up!" He was serious again. "All absolute shite. I've lived long enough to know that things never change and tomorrow looks exactly like today." He pointed at Fergus, glass still firmly in hand, "Progress is the lie they tell the people to keep them working, keep them consuming. Listen to this music, read these books, and you too can have progress! One day, you'll all be equal and no one will be crushed under foot and forgotten. Except, Fergus, that day is never coming. They will keep killing each other and hating each other and 'progress' will never stand in our way. Trust me. Progress comes and progress goes, but we stay. We're bigger than progress, my lad, bigger than history."

Fergus tried to seem pensive, like he understood. He frowned when he realized Harry wasn't even looking.

Bigger than history. History makers. We are the tectonic plates shifting under their feet. They dance to our tune. They sail on our tide. And there's nothing can be done.

Lyrics from "Family" by Noah Gundersen