The Good, the Bad, and the Undead

By Chris Morrill

Vampires have secretly grown wealthy behind the scenes for centuries, involved in monumental tasks such as overthrowing governments, and mundane ones like running local strip clubs. But instead of viewing things from afar, they like to plunging headfirst into debauchery themselves.

In modern times, the sexy unofficial vampire boss gets in deep trouble after her group's move to St. Louis. Along with her right hand vamp "Scummy" (who battles an eternal hangover, an everlasting erection and extreme lack of couth) and a cast of other assorted degenerates, they must prepare for one last battle against an old antagonist from days past.

None of this is made easier by the training of new "rookie" vampire, a local St. Louis "hoosier", along the way.

Imagine if vampires were far more human than anyone gives them credit for but too rich, too bored, and too immortal to play by any of the rules.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469707174

Chris Morrill

CHRIS MORRILL is an eccentric, uncouth, idiosyncratic, small town reprobate. He is a 1994 graduate of Southeast Missouri State University. Chris resides in his hometown of Scott City, Missouri, and enjoys doing his own thing. Thankfully, this is not his day job. You can visit his website at: http://www.chrismorrill.com/

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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Living After Midnight

The gentleman who called himself Vincent Pagliai always set his alarm clock for one minute after sunset. There was so little precious darkness, and so much to do, that a minute was all he was willing to waste.

His friends called him Scummy. The name was generally well- earned.

The Weather Channel had said sunset would be 7:00 PM sharp, so Scummy set his clock for 7:01. This wasn’t just any alarm clock either.. .it was a state of the art, six CD changer with speakers the size of small foreign cars hooked up to it.

Accordingly, at 7:01 PM the stereo began to blast Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir loud enough that the tenants above started banging on their floor. The mirrors on the ceiling above his bed were vibrating from the tremendous bass. The lid of his coffin slowly opened, and Scummy’s arm reached out trying desperately to shut off the music. The arm finally found the remote control, and silence followed. He could faintly hear the neighbors upstairs clapping in mock congratulations. "Fuck you!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, flipping off the ceiling.

He sat up in the coffin, and groaned while clutching his head. Another headache. He climbed out of the casket, chucked his silk boxer shorts into the growing laundry pile in the corner of the room, and trudged to the shower.

Scummy had been waking up with the same headache for the last five hundred and twenty-five years. It was, in essence, the Eternal Hangover.

He had been born in Barcelona, Spain, in approximately 1471 with the Christian name of Esteban de Rivera. He was the privileged son of royalty, and would have lived to see the greatest days of the Spanish Empire. He ended up seeing a lot more than that, due to a little incident involving a prostitute and her pimp.

Scummy, in his first life, was quite the lady’s man. His family had extraordinary wealth, and he had lived it up accordingly. After the untimely death of his rich parents, which was the subject of many rumors in Barcelona, he had inherited all the money. He would have gotten completely out of control if he wasn’t already.

He was not only rich now, he was insanely rich, and began to live a lifestyle few could dream of. His reputation for wild, belligerent parties, orgies, hookers, eccentric tastes and near-fatal drinking binges became almost legendary in Barcelona. Considering the fact that the Spanish Inquisition was just getting geared up, this was risqué behavior.

But the moment that changed his life, literally forever, came in 1496.

Scummy, or Esteban as he was known at the time, had spent the evening in the company of a very attractive prostitute, who was also a very expensive prostitute to boot. He had done all sorts of unspeakably evil things to this prostitute, all while drinking enough wine to kill a horse. He had tied her to the bedposts with silk scarves, and slept completely through the next day, his thundering snore drowning out the poor girl’s protests that she needed to leave.

Then the pimp came looking for his prostitute.

Problem was, the pimp wasn’t a he. It was a she.

Just after sunset, he awoke to the sound of pounding on the front door of his mansion. His whore was still tied to the bedposts, and he mumbled apologetically to her as he stumbled out of bed. His head was pounding out of control from the wild night before. He was amazed that he had actually slept through an entire day; even more amazed that he was still alive.

When he finally felt up to answering the door, he was surprised to see a girl better looking than the one he had tied to his bedposts.

Who are you?, he said, in admiration of this lady’s good looks. She was tall, curvy, with dark hair and the smoothest skin he had ever seen. Her green eyes were mesmerizing. He hoped, secretly, she was another hooker sent to satiate his lust.

I’m Madame Rosa, and you have one of my girls here, Cassandra King responded in perfect Spanish. What struck Scummy was that she didn’t even ask if the girl was there. She knew.

Hmmm.yes, I do, he responded sheepishly. Sorry about that. I overslept. That was an understatement.

Bring her to me, said Cassandra. Not a request. A polite demand.

No problem, said Scummy, enjoying the scent of Cassandra’s perfume. Just a second.

He took his pounding head back to the bedroom, and untied his whore. He was in love with Madame Rosa now.. .this particular piece of meat was a long-gone memory. He was getting ready to escort the hooker to the front door, but was stopped when he saw The Madame standing at the door to his bedroom.

Come on in, he snorted facetiously.

Cassandra casually whispered something in the ear of her prostitute, and briskly shooed her out the door. The whole while, Scummy was thinking about asking Cassandra, the pimp, how much it would cost to get her in bed.

His fantasies were interrupted in mid-thought when she snapped, "Why don’t you just ask me? I know what you want!" Her green eyes cut right through him, and she smiled in a mysterious, cunning way that he had never quite seen before.

He was stunned, momentarily taken aback. Had she just read his mind? That was odd. Throwing caution to the wind, he asked anyway.

Your girl was nice. But you.. .you are exquisite. Could I persuade you to spend the evening with me? He managed to say it in a very suave manner, despite his pounding headache.

Thanks for asking, said Cassandra, who was trying to blush but couldn’t quite do it. I will be happy to.

Scummy was ecstatic, ready to make another notch in the bedpost. Only one detail remained to be discussed. How much would I need to compensate you? I can afford nearly any sum you ask.

The answer was a complete and utter shock. Nothing.

Nothing? Scummy stuttered. Either this was going to be an extremely good night, or he was still drunk.

"Nothing, and no, you are not drunk. Although you have a bad headache." Scummy’s jaw nearly fell to the floor. How did she know all this?

He was about to ask what the catch was, when she told him.

"The ‘catch’ is.. .you have to let me tie you to the bedposts."

Scummy’s mind was spinning. Finally, a girl as perverted as he was! Not only that, but willing to do it for free!

He thought about it for about one-tenth of a second. No problem, he replied instantly.

She proceeded to tie his hands to the bedposts, just as he had done to her girl. The wildest night of love-making in his many-splen- dored career then ensued. Cassandra seemed to know everything, down to the last detail, that turned him on. His hangover became an afterthought.. .the pounding in his head was replaced by the pounding on the bed. They went round after round, every time something new. His stamina was stretched to the absolute maximum. She continued to do everything possible to arouse him, which made him occasionally come back to the idea that she was reading his mind.

Around Round Seven, when Scummy was near the point of passing out from exhaustion, the Madame did something seemingly harmless, yet it ended the evening.

A hickey, of all things.

Although it seems that Scummy was living out his pornographic fantasy, so was she. Although it took her a while, she got so aroused herself that she completely lost track of things she had known for over three thousand years. Cassandra began to kiss his neck during the last heated round of love-making, partly because she knew he wanted her to, and she knew that she wanted to, too.

Before she knew it, she had her teeth in Scummy’s neck. In the heat of passion, she drew back.

What? he said, wincing from the pain on his neck, but not caring at this particular moment. What?

The Madame almost literally jumped off the bed, and began to gather her clothes, heading for the door.

What? repeated Scummy, incredulous. Certainly it couldn’t be his sexual prowess.. .six times is prodigious enough.

I have to leave, she said awkwardly, putting on her clothes in a hurry.

Well, at least untie me, he said, finally coming to grips with the situation. He had left a few girls abruptly.it was only appropriate that someone should do it to him.

She stood for a second, shaking nervously, and put her head in her hands. The girl who could read his mind five minutes ago was now a nervous wreck. He felt sorry for her for a moment; then went right back to wishing she’d remove her clothes again.

Madame Rosa approached him, cautiously. She gently untied the silk scarves from the bedposts, and asked the silliest question.. .How’s your head?

Scummy thought that was quite odd, and blinked. He replied, It hurts a little. But what did I do?

Forget what you did. It’s something I did.

I don’t get it.

"Of course you don’t, she replied, leaning close over him again. You’re not supposed to. Let me see your neck."

He thought this was a strange question, but went along with it. He had just gotten six and a half rounds of free sex, so he was not in a position to argue. Another strange thought struck him.she couldn’t read his mind anymore. Why else would she need to ask how his head was?

As she examined his neck, he could feel her breath on him. It was surprisingly cool, just as her body was.

Oh, my, she said. Oh, lord. She stood up, looked him straight in the eyes, and said, I’m sorry.

He was now truly perplexed. Sorry for what? It was an.. .interesting.. .evening.

You don’t understand, she said, pacing the bedroom. I hope you like your headache, because you’ll have it forever.

Scummy was completely baffled by this conversation.

All I can say is. she sighed, then stopped. You’re now a vampire.

He laughed, taken aback by the complete idiocy of the situation. Vampire? he laughed again, thinking this girl was weirder than even he had thought.

She took his laughter with a grain of salt. "You are now immortal. A few things you need to know: Do not go out in the daytime. Do not make it known that you are a vampire. Do not make it known that anyone else is a vampire. Do not become famous. Move around a lot.. .have I missed anything?.". She bit her lip in deep thought.

While the Madame was lecturing, Scummy cut in.

Are you fucking crazy? he asked.

She sighed again. I’m not crazy. What until sunrise, and see if I am.

Rosa bent over, and kissed him again. I’m sorry. We’ll keep in touch

"Sorry for what?" he asked again, but she was out the door.

And that’s how Scummy, a.k.a. Vincent Pagliai in modern times, became a vampire.

He had changed remarkably little over the last five hundred or so years. He was still tall, dark and handsome, with a distinctly Mediterranean look. He was still eccentric, with expensive and peculiar tastes. He was still chasing girls in order to satisfy his incredible lust for sex.

Unfortunately, he also still had a hangover.

After he was attacked by Madame Rosa, now Cassandra King, so long ago, Scummy quickly found out that everything she said was true. Indeed, he was immortal. He could not go out in the daytime. He had special powers that he was, at times, still trying to figure out. And yes, Cassandra had kept in touch.

As it turned out, she was not a pimp at all. She was one of the oldest, if not the oldest, vampires on the planet. Along with her age came power. Prostitution was one of many things she was into, and she was the unofficial boss of most of the vampires in the world.

Scummy, by whatever name he went, became one of her most trusted friends, a loyal lieutenant, but only an occasional lover, to his dismay. His relatively new status among the undead didn’t stop him from being an important man in the Madam’s grand scheme. The sex wasn’t quite the same after she lost the ability to read his mind, but Scummy never complained.

It was on his 100th birthday, however, he had a slight falling out with The Madame. The trouble all started when he began to get bored, and things quickly got out of hand.

Boredom is, after all, the number one enemy of immortals.

He was living in Beirut, Lebanon at the time his relationship with Cassandra went sour. It was one of his favorite cities, a beautiful place with the perfect climate, long before it would be racked by civil war in the late twentieth century. Beirut was a hang-out for the rich and famous of Europe, along with some of the most dangerous pirates, smugglers, and criminals alive.

It was, in short, his kind of town.

He rented out one of the grandest halls in the entire city for his birthday party. He stocked it full of the finest liquor, the finest cuisine, the finest orchestra available, and, of course, prostitutes. He invited all the vampires he knew, even the ones he didn’t like. Ostensibly, it was his twenty-fifth birthday, but he had already amassed a century’s worth of wealth and was hell-bent on spending some of it.

No one showed up. Not even Cassandra. They all had better things to do, it seemed, and one hundred years wasn’t that big of a deal, not to them, anyway. Not compared to a few thousand.

As Scummy sat in the grand hall surrounded by the emptiness, he was too depressed to even take advantage of the hookers. He began to think, seriously, about what eternal life was all about.

A revelation overcame him, one that changed his life forever. One simple thought: Eternity Is A Long Time.

It struck him that he hadn’t had to cut his hair in seventy-five years, shave, or even clip his fingernails. Alcohol had no effect on him anymore, unless he guzzled a lot of it real fast. Even then, the effect only lasted ten minutes, tops. He knew for a fact he was sterile. Getting girls was amazingly easy, since he could read minds quite proficiently. Gambling was a joke for the same reason. He knew he was going to live for an awful long time, probably never want for money or sex ever again.

He was bored. After only seventy-five years. He could only imagine what the next thousand or so would be like.

That’s when Scummy knew his mission in life would be to avoid boredom. He knew, also, that his lifestyle was already pretty bizarre, lavish, and lecherous. He decided to crank it up a notch. If you’re going to kill a few centuries, he reasoned, might as well do it in style. As a matter of fact, he wanted to do it all.

He started right there at the grand hall that was serving as the venue for his birthday party. He purchased the building in cash from the owner, and proceeded to burn it to the ground while he was inside sipping wine and playing the piano. He walked out, still on fire, looked at the stunned city folk gathered outside, and said, "Goodness, I have always wanted to do that!" The city folk just gaped. He walked away, not to be seen in Beirut again until 1735.

Scummy began to barnstorm Europe, doing incredibly stupid but enjoyable things everywhere he went. He was alternately hanged in England, shot by firing squad in Portugal, made to walk the plank on a pirate ship off the Barbary Coast, and burned at the stake in France. He almost got himself drawn and quartered in Russia, but decided against it. He also avoided beheading, since that would probably kill him quicker than he could heal. Immortality has it limits, so he kept his escapades within reason. Barely.

Scummy, under a long string of assumed names, became the premier trouble-maker in the world. It was he who fired the first shot on the village green at Lexington, starting the American Revolution. He led the charge on the Bastille in France, helped partition Poland on several occasions, and even helped Napoleon escape from Elba.

He would clean out casinos, rob banks at night, get involved with numerous barroom brawls, and chop off body parts on a dare. After he had done nearly everything there was to do in Europe, he decided to take up residence for a few centuries in the New World. It had a certain appeal to him, a wide-open land waiting for some excitement. He wanted to give it some.

That’s when Cassandra King finally caught up with him.

Even with her extensive contacts, tracking down her troublesome renegade vampire had not been easy. She managed to corner him in New Orleans in 1821, while he was in a compromising position with ten of her prostitutes. At once.

Cassandra stormed into the bedroom, with her everlasting twelve year old friend Mikey Mardel in tow. Scummy smiled as his hookers scattered out of the bedroom, and he was once again face to faced with his creator. It’s been a long time, he said in Creole French. What are you calling yourself these days?

Madam Alexa, and he’s going by the name Jacques, she said, pointing at the child, who was stuffing his pockets full of doubloons scattered across the floor. You son of a bitch, do you realize how long I’ve been trying to track you down?

Give or take a few centuries. I’ve been busy.

You most certainly have. You’ve been making a spectacle of yourself all over the world! shouted Cassandra, her green eyes blazing. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you seem dedicated to exposing all of us with your little adventures.

He shrugged, and continued to lay naked on the bed. It was nothing she hadn’t seen before. "I got bored. You didn’t even come to my 100th birthday party. In a way, it’s your fault."

She grabbed his neck with one hand, and with surprising strength, lifted him off the bed. Do not play those games with me! That little trick you pulled in Beirut still has people talking. Not to mention some of the other insane things you have done.

Although he was slowly choking, he was still smiling. If you are trying to kill me, you are going to have to do better than this.

The Madame relented, dropping Scummy abruptly back onto the bed. I have not come to kill you, although the thought has crossed my mind. I am here to deliver a warning.

The child Mikey stopped pilfering things from the room for a moment, and spoke up. In short, Pierre.is that what you go by now?...you need to tone it down a bit with your antics. We do not care if you live a sinful lifestyle, spend your money foolishly, or anything of that nature. We all do that, he said, making a gesture in Cassandra’s direction. What concerns us are public displays of your powers.

Yes, said Cassandra, nodding. In short, do not continue to openly do things like get shot, hanged or burned alive in front of mortals. This includes dismembering yourself on a dare. She shook her head in disgust, but seemed a little amused as well. Somebody may eventually catch on.

You heard about that one? said Scummy. I’m kind of proud of that little trick with my right arm. Won me a lot of money.

Cassandra shook her head again. "You seem hopeless, my old friend, but rest assured that you are not immortal. We can kill you if we like. I do not want to have to baby-sit you for a thousand years. I am just asking that you behave, and you will be taken care of."

Can you make my hangover go away?

Of course not. I’ve already apologized for that. I want you to come work for me again.

Scummy was slightly taken aback by this. Let me try to clarify things. You were just threatening to kill me a moment ago, and now you want me to work for you again?

Of course, she purred. "I can find all kinds of interesting things for you to do. You will have all the money and girls you can handle, as long as you control yourself just a little bit. I have a feeling that we must, as vampires, be very careful in the next century or two. I want you on my side"

Mikey chimed in again. Yes, we have bigger problems than you, my sexually deviant friend. He picked up a pair of panties, sniffed them, and tossed them aside. We are going to organize, and you can be a big player if you just abide by a few simple rules.

Scummy mulled over the part the kid had said about bigger problems.

When you say, ‘bigger problems’, are you referring to that crazy old bastard you have been trying to destroy for the last couple millennia?

Cassandra nodded grimly. Yes. And not only him. With technology advancing at the current rate, the humans themselves can even become a problem. Our secrets must be kept safe.

He pondered the deal for a moment. I only have one question. I can still be myself, right?

Yes. Within reason, said the child. You can be as obnoxious as you like, as long as you are not parading about openly as a vampire. We will take care of you as long as you take care of us.

You have a deal, my short, kleptomaniac friend, laughed Scummy. Can I have a cash advance? I owe a few hundred thousand dollars to a brothel in town.

That had been 1821. The Madam had kept Scummy very busy ever since, and he became virtually her right-hand man as she consolidated and organized vampires across the world.

There were occasions when his behavior approached the limits of her patience, of course. He had been in the Ford Theatre the night President Lincoln was shot, although he denied any involvement. He fought in the Spanish-American war just for fun, and was onboard both the Titanic and the Lusitania for their respective historic sinkings.

Scummy loved being in the middle of trouble, and he usually managed to find it. He used his limited psychic powers to sense where something big was about to happen, then put himself right in harm’s way. Pearl Harbor had been mildly amusing, and he had stormed the beaches of Normandy with the mortals. He had been to every Super Bowl ever played indoors (no outside ones, thanks to that pesky sunlight). He knew who was on the grassy knoll in Dallas when President Kennedy was shot in 1963, although he wasn’t telling. He returned to Beirut in the eighties for a while, walking the streets amidst the gunfire without flinching. When the Berlin Wall came down, he chipped away at it with a bottle of Dom Perignon.

The latter half of the twentieth century was Scummy’s favorite of any he had lived so far. Technology had made living the life of luxury even more luxurious, and morals were finally loosening enough in America that the opportunities to be an out-of-control womanizer were virtually unlimited. Hell, even the President was a poon hound for a while. Why not him?

He was able to be outrageous without revealing himself as a vampire. He chose a series of provocative names for himself, usually based on something controversial. He had went by the last name Manson for a while after that scandal broke, Nixon for a time, Corleone for a stretch when the Godfather movies were big. Scummy preferred Italian names, if possible, since he could pass for one of them and it tended to project a Mafia-like, ominous image.

Pagliai was a name he picked up from a little pizza joint in southeast Missouri, on one of his many excursions to college towns where females were plentiful. He referred to these trips as Pussy Safaris, and he made them frequently. Since he was currently in St. Louis, he decided to use that name for his latest alias.

Regardless of which name he used at any given time, however, he was stuck with a nickname given to him by his vampire companions. They called him Scummy, both a term of endearment and insult at the same time.

Scummy jumped out of the shower, quickly toweled himself off, and opened the curtains on huge windows facing east into downtown St. Louis. He stood at the window, admiring the nice view. The last purple hues of the sunset were just fading, and it was night at last.

He had rolled into town last week on Cassandra’s orders. His welcome had worn out in Minneapolis, where he had stayed for almost two years. When he had learned he was going to St. Louis, he decided to rob a Brink’s truck during a night pick-up as a going away present for that miserable ice-box of a town. Scummy wore a mask, but made sure he did it downtown, with witnesses, just for spite. He hated Minneapolis more than just about any other town he had ever lived in. He didn’t rob anyone very often anymore, but he made an exception on this occasion. A little "fuck you’ to the people of the Twin Cities, he figured, was warranted.

The Madame had went ballistic when she heard about it, screaming at him for over an hour. It was, she thought, a dubious feat better suited for Mikey Mardel. He defended himself by pleading the case that he hadn’t technically violated any of her rules. In Scummy’s view, as long as he didn’t turn into a bat in public, he was within the rules.

She finally relented, particularly after he agreed to spend some time in South America if there was any trouble about the robbery. He rolled into St. Louis with a fresh new set of papers officially identifying himself as Vincent Pagliai, and fifty-thousand dollars in cash courtesy of the Brinks Company and his old friends in Minnesota. Not bad seed money, he reasoned.

He immediately took up residence downtown. Scummy liked being in the center of the action. He had lived in virtually every major city in the world at one time or the other, and never once in the suburbs. He enjoyed the prestige, the luxury, and the fact that no one notices if you are a little weird.

He picked the tallest building, called their office, and inquired about their leases. Are you interested in one-bedroom, two-bedroom, three-bedroom or studio?, they asked.

Scummy had replied, "Fuck that. How much for a whole floor?"

They didn’t have any full floors available, but he did wind up with the biggest loft they had, near the top floor with a beautiful view of the Arch. He paid in cash, and immediately began moving in his wide assortment of goodies and gadgets. It was a monstrous suite, but he managed to fill most of the space.

On this particular night Scummy had full schedule, and wasted no time. He pulled the shades closed on the window, put on one of his many stuffy Italian suits, slapped some mousse into his hair, and a healthy dose of obscenely expensive cologne. He preferred a more comfortable slob look, but Cassandra was insistent.he must project a professional image. He tried to argue that if you look professional, but still act like a buffoon, it would kind of kill the whole idea. Nobody acted like a bigger buffoon than Scummy. She finally talked him into dressing well by saying, Chics dig it. He was sold.

He picked up the cordless phone, and headed to the kitchen. He was in the mood for breakfast, and he was in one of those rare moods to do it himself. He hadn’t been in town long enough to know which restaurants were up to his lofty standards, anyway. He reached in the refrigerator, shoved aside some clinking wine and beer bottles, and grabbed a big chunk of raw ground beef. A cheeseburger sounded good right now.

As he fired up the skillet on the stove, he dialed the number for his new job. It was a strip club on the Illinois side, one of many set up by the Madame to launder money for the extensive underground vampire network. She had been running prostitution rings for as long as he had known her, and what works in 1496 will work in the third millennium. Scummy was to be the manager of the club, but the truth was, he would be the kingpin of all Midwest vampire activities. Good work if you can get it.

The ground beef began to sizzle in the pan, and someone finally answered the phone at the club. Yeah, this is Vincent Pagliai, he said, as he got some hamburger buns down from one of the numerous cabinets. Let me talk to Mikey.

Vincent pulled out the mustard, ketchup and pickles from the fridge. Hey, is this Mikey? That is the name you’re using now, right? What’s up, you munchkin bastard?.. .Yeah, this is Scummy. I’m going to be a little late tonight.

There was some squawking on the other end, and Scummy flipped his sizzling hamburger with a spatula. Almost done. I have some business to take care of, Mikey. You can handle the club for a couple hours for me, can’t you? If any twelve year old can run it, my money’s on you. Just don’t go past your bedtime! Scummy cackled at himself for this bit of humor, and turned off the skillet. The burger was barely browned, and quite bloody still. Just how he liked it.

Just lay low for a couple of hours. I want to run around a bit, see the sights. I know it looks bad to leave a kid running a titty bar.. This caused more squawking from the phone. Scummy put the bloody hunk of near-raw meat on the bun, and lavished it with huge globs of mustard and ketchup. "Okay, I know you’re not a kid. Not technically, anyway. You just look like one. Cover my ass for a couple of hours, and I’ll let you take one of those luscious busty babes to show-and-tell tomorrow at school."

Scummy laughed at himself some more, and took a big bite of blood-burger. He loved torturing Mikey Mardel by whatever he called himself. In vampire circles, he was just The Kid. Mikey, when is the Madame coming into town?, he asked, with his mouth full.

"What do you mean, you don’t know? Oh, whatever. I’ll see you in a couple of hours, Midget Man. And don’t be skimming any of the tips at the bar, you klepto freak. With a beep, Vincent Pagliai, a.k.a. Scummy", hung up on The Kid and dug into the burger with great enthusiasm.

Scummy had a big night planned, even though his head was still throbbing from a five-hundred year old hangover. Time to roll.

CHAPTER 2

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The First Night Of The Rest Of Your Life

Alex Marquette gazed into the mirror with glassy-eyed fascination. His hair was actually changing colors before his very eyes. This can be a problem when the color in question is orange.

"This looks like shit!", Alex moaned to his best friend Larry Bud Brinkman. Larry Bud was gazing thoughtfully at Alex’s hair, trying to look serious but obviously trying to stifle a laugh as well.

It doesn’t look too bad, Larry Bud mused. If you like glow-in- the-dark hair, that is.

I can’t believe this, Alex moaned again. Are you sure we got the right color? It was supposed to be blonde.

That’s what the box said. Blonde. Sure looks orange to me, though, snickered Larry Bud openly. This is what you get for letting Cynthia screw with your head, pal. I don’t care how horny you are, you should never let a girl talk you into a new hairstyle just to impress her.

Alex sat back, still transfixed on the nightmare image of what had once been his hair. Cynthia, the girl he was currently pursuing, was big on the alternative scene and had persuaded him to do something a little different with his hair. The result was like something out of an old Mad Max movie, only worse.

Cynthia was so insistent that Alex change his look that she had escorted him to her favorite hairdresser and personally supervised the makeover. He had not resisted at first. Maybe it was time for a change, he reasoned. After all, he wouldn’t dare get a tattoo or a body piercing, so changing the hair seemed like the most harmless form of rebellion. Furthermore, if it got him into Cynthia’s pants, so much the better. Alex had been on a dating skid since he graduated high school, and was definitely open to new ideas.

He began to have second thoughts the moment the hairdresser, who looked remarkably like Robert Smith from The Cure, pulled out the electric shears and started carving away. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the sides of Alex’s head were nearly shaved clean, and the top was kept long but parted in a way that flipped one side down close to his eyes. The hair was kept fairly long in the back, giving the haircut an overall look of chaos.

Cynthia squealed with delight, and decided that the only thing left to do for the perfect haircut was to bleach the hair stone-white. Alex was too stunned by the devastation to his hair to argue at that point, so the hairdresser commenced to make him blonde.

When the towels came off half an hour later, Alex’s first words were, "Why is it orange?" He tried to avoid looking at the mirror, but it was kind of hard. The flaming color of his hair was screaming for attention.

Both the hairdresser and Cynthia showered him with reassurance that the hair would indeed turn blonde in a couple of hours. Let the bleach work, they said. Alex was thinking about openly questioning the hairdresser’s sexual preference, but let the moment pass. The damage had been done.

That had been almost six hours ago. The hair was still orange.

On the bright side of things, maybe you can get a job with a punk band, mused Larry Bud. How about they put you on the runway at Lambert Field on foggy nights so the planes can see where to land?

"Shut up, asshole. This is not funny."

No, there are real possibilities here, insisted Larry Bud. You can be a real hit on Christmas Eve with Santa. How about we remake the song ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’?

"Shut up, Larry Bud."

Larry Bud was rolling now, and began to sing. Alex with your hair so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?... Before he could think up any more clever lyrics, Alex put his hands in the air.

That’s it. Get out.

Larry Bud put on his best pouting face, and whimpered. I can’t leave, my carrot-topped companion. I live here, too. Plus, I have big plans for the evening.

Alex put his head in his hands, frustrated. I’m not going anywhere until my hair is presentable. I can’t believe Cynthia did this to me. The guys on the baseball team are going to rag on me for real now.

Forget Cynthia, said Larry Bud, grasping Alex’s shoulders in mock consolation. Although I should hope that she at least puts out after this little episode. For your sake, of course.

She is the last thing I want to see right now.

"Precisely. Also, forget about those pricks on the team. Even with fluorescent hair, those guys can’t notice you if you never play. Don’t forget, you suck. Doesn’t one of them keep calling you ‘Strike-Out?"

That’s the catcher, nodded Alex glumly. Is this supposed to be a pep talk?

"Maybe. I mean, I don’t want to kid you: that is the worst haircut, bar none, that I have ever seen. You look like some sort of mutant."

Could you be little more honest?

No. Here’s the point, though. I can take you to a place where people do not care what color your hair is.

Missouri School for the Blind?

Larry Bud was temporarily taken aback by this comment. In high school, he had actually been turned down for a date by a blind girl. Alex was the only one, besides the girl, who knew about it. He never let Larry Bud forget it, particularly when he was losing an argument.

Very funny, said Larry Bud. Ha-hah. Got me on that one. Let’s continue. What I was referring to was The Passion Pit, the jewel of the East Side. Strippers galore.

Oh, no, said Alex. You’re not dragging me over there. My fake ID wouldn’t hold up anyway. He was still a few months from turning twenty-one, but had a decent imitation of a driver’s license he had picked up in Florida on spring break the year before.

Don’t worry about the ID. They don’t look that close at The Passion Pit. They let anyone with a pulse in over there

Easy for you to say. Your ID is real

Fair enough. Here’s why I want to go, though, said Larry Bud, pulling out five little cards from his back pocket. Free passes.

At this, Alex was impressed. How did you manage that?

I was, uh, in there a few days ago and won a trivia contest. Larry Bud was lying. He had won a round of Musical Butts just the day before, a game remarkably similar to musical chairs. Instead of grabbing an open seat, however, you grab a stripper’s ass.

So, that’s what you do on your days off, hang out in strip clubs, said Alex. "Oh, I forget, you have every day off. Lifestyles of the Unemployed."

Stop ripping on me, jackass, barked Larry Bud. I’m trying to cheer you up. I’m willing to share the wealth here. At The Passion Pit, I can promise you that the girls will forget all about that outrageous hairdo of yours. For a buck, they will not give a fuck. Trust me.

Alex sat back for a moment, contemplating. His gaze kept coming back to the image of his hideous hair in the mirror. It had indeed been a bad day. What the hell.

OK, I’ll go. You’re sure they’ll let me in?

Guaranteed. I even saw what I could have swore was a twelve- year-old kid in there yesterday. The cops avoid the place like the plague. You’ll fit right in.

Are you driving?

Sure, said Larry Bud, beaming. We’ll take the ol’ Pontiac Catalina across that boogie bridge and sample the very finest in East Side adult entertainment. Maybe you can drink enough to forget about your hair. I only have one thing to ask of you.

That is?

"Wear a hat, for Christ’s