Forever Knight

Bits And Pieces

This piece was inspired by a fragment of a song:

The more that you remember

The more your self respect decreases

You can't keep the night before

From coming back in bits and pieces

I believe it was sung by Jim Stafford.

**********

LaCroix stood at the bar of the Raven sipping his drink.  There was the usual crowd, but there was also a contingent from Montreal in town.  Something about a Grateful Dead concert.  He knew that many of the Community, particularly the younger ones were into that kind of thing, but personally, he preferred the classics.

At a nearby table, two of the younger members of the Community, both in perceived age and in actual age, were enjoying a drink.

"So that's the famous Lucien LaCroix."  One of them said.  "I thought he would be bigger than that.  From the stories I heard, I figured he had to be at least nine feet tall.

"The one and only.  Don't tell me you've never seen him before."  The other answered.  "Oh, I forgot.  You're here with the Montreal group."

"True.  But even there, we know of his reputation.  Tell me, is he really as uptight as everybody says he is?"

The other one leaned in.  He looked both ways to be sure no one was within hearing range.  "He's so tightassed, if he swallowed a lump of coal, he'd eventually pass a diamond."  He whispered.  "He really needs to loosen up a bit."

The Montreal one reached into his jacket and took out a small bottle.  He shook two tiny oblong white pills into his hand.  "I've got just the thing.  If these babies don't do it, nothing will.  All you have to do is distract him for a few seconds."

The first vampire went to LaCroix.  "Excuse me, Mr. LaCroix."  He said.  He was standing in such a way that LaCroix had to turn his back on his drink to talk to him.

As soon as LaCroix turned, the second vampire quickly dropped the two pills into his drink.  They fizzed as they dissolved.

"Is it true that at one time, you were one of the real voices of Milli Vanilli?"  The first one asked.   "I have a bet on with a friend of mine."

"I hope you did not bet that I was."  LaCroix replied haughtily.  "You would surely lose.  I would not be caught even listening to that racket they call music, let alone be doing the actual singing, if that is what you call it.  Now if you don't mind, leave me and go back with your group."

When he returned to his table, the Montreal vampire gave him the high sign.  "Now all we have to do is sit back and watch the fun."

**********

Lucien LaCroix opened one bleary eye.  It hurt.   He opened the other eye.  That hurt even worse.  When the world eventually came into focus, he realized that he was laying on a cot in the storeroom of the Raven.  Beside him was a lifesize deflated female inflatable doll.  In the doll's neck were several pairs of fang sized holes.  He also slowly became aware that he was wearing nothing at all.  He tried to sit up.  That was a mistake.  He lay back on the cot.

"Maybe it would help if I dressed."  He mouthed.  His vocal chords refused to create sound.  Blindly he fumbled for his clothes.  He did not dare move his head.  He was certain that if he did, it would fall off.  At last, he located his trousers.  Slowly, carefully, he maneuvered himself into a standing position.  He waited until the room stopped spinning, and with a great deal of effort, put them on.  He tried to zipper them, but there was no zipper.  When he looked down, he could see that the pants were on backwards.  With an equal amount of difficulty, he took them off and concentrating hard, put them on the right way.  All that concentration made his head hurt even more than before, if that was possible. As he pulled the zipper up, he was acutely aware of an intense pulling pain in his groin.  He had zipped his pubic hair into the fly, and to make matters worse, if that were imaginable, the zipper was now stuck.  He tried to pull the zipper down, but that complicated the situation as more of his hair and even bits of flesh became entangled.  He seriously considered cutting the pants off, but at last, the zipper came free, taking a sizable chunk of his hair with it.

He tried to remember what had transpired the previous evening, but the only thing that came to his mind was a blurry image of him, standing on a table, wearing a lampshade on his head and singing the dirty lyrics to the Macarena.

After several unsuccessful and pain filled tries, he managed to get his shoes on the proper feet.  He did not even attempt to tie them.  Walking very slowly to compensate for the rocking of the floor, he made his way to the bar.  The place had been trashed.  He remembered dancing with a lovely young female vampire when somebody had stepped on his foot.  He remembered hitting him.  Or was it her?  Or was it an it?  He couldn't remember.  He remembered being hit by him.  Or her.  Or it.  He felt his jaw.   It was tender.  He couldn't remember if it had been broken or not.  It didn't matter.  He did remember that the brawl that ensued was a real beauty.

He came to only one conclusion.  He was hungover.  It was the worst hangover he had in centuries.  Nineteen centuries to be exact.  There was only one cure for a hangover.  The hair of the dog.  Gingerly, he reached behind the bar and took a bottle of his private stock out of the refrigerator.  He poured half a glass of that, and filled the glass from a bottle of Sangria.  He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a drink.  It burned with a fire that he had not felt in nearly a millenium.  Immediately, he realized that it was the wrong thing to do.  He spent the next twenty minutes in the mens room, worshipping the porcelain god. 

Another fragment of a memory came back.  It had something to do with a pair of nubile female vampires and a washtub of lime Jello.  Where the Jello came from and what he did with it, he did not know.   Something in the back of his mind told him he really did not want to pursue that memory any further.

Then there was the attribute comparing contest.  That was another area he decided not go into, although he was reasonably certain that he had won.

Another impression involving a shotglass of blood being balanced on his head while he attempted to pass under the Limbo stick surfaced.  He shook his head.  No.  He could not, he would not, he did not do anything like that.  Did he?

He vaguely remembered being carried into the back of the Raven by two young vampires.  In the background, he dimly remembered hearing Janette screaming something about draining him, and them, if they even thought about bringing him to her quarters.   

The next thing he remembered was waking, if that was the correct term for what he did this evening.  He was not completely certain that he was awake.  This still could some part of a horrendous nightmare.  He pinched himself.  It hurt.  No, this wasn't a dream. 

**********

Detective Schanke looked up as LaCroix entered the precinct.  "What in the world happened to you, Mr. LaCroix?  You look like shit."  Even through the thick sunglasses that LaCroix was wearing, Schanke could feel the withering glare that the elder vampire gave him.  Without any further comments, he left his desk.

"I must talk with you, Nicholas."  LaCroix said.  "In private."

**********

Nicholas shut the door to Interrogation Room 5 and motioned for LaCroix to take a seat.  "How can I help you?"  He said.

LaCroix removed the glasses.  His eyes were red.  It was not from anger or bloodlust.  They were bloodshot.  He recounted what little he remembered from the previous night.  "They drugged me.  I am certain that they used an illegal substance.  They have to be found and punished."

"Who drugged you?  Who did this?"

"I do not know.  That is why I came to you."

"I'm with homicide, not narcotics.  There's nothing I can do."

"I know that, but you are the only one I can trust to protect the Community.  Find them, Nicholas."  He begged.  "Find them ... Before I do! ... Or Else!"

**********

The End?

Not if LaCroix can help it!