Chapter Two

So how do you share something nobody wants to hear?

I’m no great student of history. Most of my time in school was either spent fiddling with computers or hitting on girls. Whenever History class came lumbering along I ignored the teacher. The past is passed, as they say. Why look to what has been when you should focus on what is, or what’s to come?

Now, though, I regret my short-sightedness. True, I never could have seen my radical new philosophy coming, but even a bit of help from the great scholars of the ages would be nice. How does a nobody with a message become a sage with a cause?

I could go the religious route. My dad did, twenty-something years ago, when he agreed to let a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses into our house. The whole family converted the next day. I don’t remember how they got into his head, but my dad was always a highly suggestible guy anyway, so maybe their method isn’t airtight.

I could try and be an enlightened dictator, and force my dogma on the masses. Not the nicest path, I know – Adolf Hitler certainly doesn’t enjoy worldwide popularity these days, and I’d never call him ‘enlightened’ – but pushing the truth on people may be best. I don’t think I’ll get listeners unless they’re made to see the truth.

But don’t you need an army for that? I don’t have an army. Hrm.

The problem with my decision is the degree of difficulty. Nobody I know wants to stand around all day, staring at the world. I suppose I can understand, since the average joe needs to eat. Vapid appreciation of life doesn’t necessarily include eating.

I don’t need to eat. The hunger in my mouth doesn’t extend to my belly. It’s a hunger of the righteous, and my teeth the delivery device for my faith. The compulsion to bite people in order to show them the truth…

I guess that’s the way to go. Just… bite. It’s a kind gesture, after all, despite the warning signs in my brain every time I lurch for someone’s neck. I’m doing the person a favour. I don’t understand why authority figures get so uppity whenever I dive in for a mouthful. It’s like they think I’m doing something wrong.

Take my slow walk home. There aren’t many people on the streets right now, though as I’m shuffling across the pavement I find a cop talking to an older woman. I feel an instinctive need to approach them, and I do.

The cop smiles and me and grunts. The woman backs away several steps. I extend my hand to stop her. “Don’t worry, I’m just here to chat. Wouldn’t you like to talk a bit?”

My words have the opposite effect of what I’d intended. The cop’s smile vanishes as he steps in front of the woman, his chest puffed. He grunts some more, his mouth twisting in ways I can’t understand. What’s wrong with him?

I shamble forward a few more steps, my fingers touching the man’s uniform. “Don’t worry, I’m going to make your life better.” And I lunge for his neck.

The cop takes me down in an instant, pinning me to the concrete. A tooth wobbles loose inside my mouth. He didn’t slam me down too hard, so I don’t know why that happened. I can see the woman running off, her mouth a wide O of fright.

The cop mumbles to himself some more, his voice deep and vicious. He confers with somebody over his walkie talkie, then, eventually, after sniffing my clothes, lets me go. He sternly advises me to do something and leaves.

Shit. See? Authority. Balls to authority.

I lay on the sidewalk for a while, thinking about what’s just happened. Trying to convince people through public lecture just gets me slammed down by ‘the man’. Maybe they’ll arrest me for trying to bite someone next time. For anyone else that would be understandable, but me? No. My bites are love bites, and they serve a greater purpose than filling my belly.

Though the size of that cop’s neck does set my mouth watering. He must exercise. A lot of flesh on a dude like that. Mmm.

Dusk gives way to full-blown night as I lay in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m vaguely aware of people walking by me, stepping over me, even checking my pockets. More would-be thieves. I don’t understand what any of them are saying, and they all move by so quickly that I’m scarcely sure which is which. Why does the world have to operate in constant fast-forward?

After an hour of thinking and appreciating the concrete, I conclude that the average modern conversation is like two people passing each other in cars, in a tunnel with poor harmonics, trying to exchange words. It doesn’t work as it should. There’s too much speed in humanity, and I… I need to slow it down.

How? By using the only method I have. And, paradoxically, that method is fast. I need to use my teeth to enlighten the world. Hypocritical, I know, but it’s for the best.

It’s close to midnight by the time I get home. The stinging in my arm is long gone, and with a few fumbling motions I relocate my shoulder. It’s nice to have a philosophy that eradicates pain; I just wish it would help me dress.

I’ve been shambling around the city in shorts and a t-shirt, my standard lazy-day outfit. Tonight, however, I need to begin spreading the word in nicer clothes. I need to find somewhere that will allow me to bite people without getting in trouble, and that means crowds.

Changing is difficult. My motor functions aren’t what they once were, and I fall over several times just trying to put on pants. A bead of blood runs down my head after I smack it against my bedpost, so I snag my fedora.

I check myself in the mirror. I’m a gangly man in sweatpants, a suit jacket and a passé hat. I look retarded. The night is dark, however, and I should pass for a well-dressed patron. I grab my wallet, check that it contains my ID and a wad of money, and stroll out the door, trying not to scrape my feet on the concrete too often. I’m headed to a dance club. They don’t like useless feet at dance clubs.

The Night Rose is a dive, but a dive with the best intentions. The owner, a foolish overweight man who usually wears a tuxedo, bought an old warehouse intending to turn it into the finest nightclub anywhere in the city. Overflowing bubbly and rich white folks dancing to classical music, you know the type. Walk in and you’ll probably see Humphrey Bogart at the bar.

Unfortunately, the poor bastard failed to take into account the location of his nightclub. No upscale folks come to this part of town. The Night Rose has turned into a gathering spot for the young and dirty, the only way it could be profitable. You won’t see the owner too often; I assume he spends his time elsewhere, probably in someone else’s bar, trying to forget that he owns and operates a dive.

I come here almost every week, so the bouncer at the door knows me – though usually I don’t look like this. He mumbles something at me, and I try my best to mumble back. He checks my breath; I refrain from biting him. He apparently decides that I’m not drunk or stoned, though he does wave my mouth away with a grimace. Ten dollars later I’m weaving through the club, bouncing off frenetic dancers who think I’m just part of the universal mosh pit.

I don’t know why I came here in the past. The place served no purpose before tonight. It’s not natural. There’s plenty to appreciate, I suppose… if you’re into loose hips and lovely lips… but I’m not. Not anymore. Everyone’s too busy bopping around to appreciate their surroundings. I wish I’d spent more time at the cottage instead, all quiet beaches and lovely vistas.

Given the flashing black lights and the sheer number of dancers in The Night Rose, it’s easy to nip person after person. Some of the more deluded teens even seem to enjoy my bites, though I always manage to stumble away before they lock eyes on me. I come to love my work so much that I sway with the music, my feet regaining some of their former strength as I dip in at each new neck.

Eventually, predictably, somebody takes exception to my attack and spots me before I can weave away. Maybe I bit too eagerly – with everyone else I was dainty, superficial. I don’t need to be too zealous to spread my philosophy. But my mouth is watering, there’s blood on my chin and I want more. So I’m tossed out of the club, and the bouncer gives my gut a few kicks. Mental note: You have to ask nicely at The Night Rose.

But that’s okay. I’ll be back tomorrow when there’s a new bouncer. I have a plain face, one that should let me slip by undetected with a fake moustache or wig, and there are other nightclubs. It’s my hope that, in a few weeks – hopefully a few weeks, though I’m not sure how long it will take for my message to sink in – people won’t need nightclubs anymore. They can appreciate more natural settings instead.

I wonder if this is how Hitler got started. Like I said, I don’t know my history.