From deep inside the darkness, Wit heard a tapping. The tapping grew into the clanking of metal on metal, accompanied by a faint glow that moved across his closed eyelids.
"C'mon," the voice echoed. "Wake up. You can't sleep here."
Groggy, Wit struggled to open his eyes. Panic flashed through his chest.
"Sunlight. I can't be in sunlight," raced through Wit's head as he instinctively raised his arms to protect himself.
"Hey, Mister, I'm not gonna hit you or anything. You need to get outta my dumpster."
Wit slowly opened his eyes. The latte-colored cook, still wearing the special-of-the-day, was standing over him. He held a plastic garbage bag in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
"You okay, Mister?"
"Yeah, sure. Can you give me an arm up?" Wit reached up with one hand while pushing against the trash below him with the other. The cook obliged, and soon Wit was sitting on the edge of the open trash bin. As he extended his right hand in an offering of thanks, he realized it had an orange cheese-like coating. He grimaced, shrugged, and began to withdraw the less-than-pleasing offer. The cook tossed him the damp dishrag from his shoulder.
"Thanks."
"How did you end up in the dumpster?"
"I wish I knew. I really wish I knew."
"Where's the blonde lady that was with you?"
"That, my friend, was no lady."
The cook nodded as if he had experienced this type of woman before. Wit took a quick inventory of his personal effects. He was fully clothed. He still had his keys and wallet. His cash was gone. Wiping the orange coating from his hand, Wit headed for the El Camino. As he approached the vehicle, he saw a message written in lipstick across his windshield.
A vibrant red "Told ya you would pay later!" glowed in the moonlight. A kiss of red lips was at the base of the exclamation point. A smiley face was drawn inside each "O." A scribbled little daisy was in the lower corner of the window on the driver's side.
"Beautiful. An artist and a mugger," Wit muttered. He began to clean the glass with the dish towel. The result was a red- orange vortex in the middle of the windshield. Wit sighed with frustration. He went to rub his temples but stopped short, keeping from painting his forehead with cheese. He wiped his hands clean and tossed the towel into the truck's bed.
Wit climbed into the driver's seat, slid the key into the ignition, and started the engine.
He sat slump-shouldered, both hands on the wheel, staring blankly at the backside of the vortex.
"What the hell just happened to me?" He let out a low moan and rubbed his eyes. "I feel like crap. I'll swing past the Lean and Green for a boost, then home to sort this out."
He flipped on the wipers and flooded the window with fluid. The wiper blades cleared arcs through the muck, sending rivers of orange running down the side of the truck.
"First the carwash, then the Lean and Green, then home," Wit confirmed to himself.
The Lean and Green was a twenty-four-hour fitness and nutrition emporium that catered to vegetarians who worked the second shift. It served a niche market, but it was surprisingly lucrative. It happened to be the brainchild of Wit's wife, Reese. She found it difficult to find a steady vegan food supply. There wasn't a single vegetarian restaurant for miles, and late-night health food stores were non-existent. She wanted to create a destination that would bring the food to her. The gym offered all the amenities of a typical gym, with a few exceptions. Most of the nutrition classes happened at night. Special offers were made to second-shifters to encourage enrollment. There was enough local industry running around the clock to keep a steady stream of potential meals in the gym after nightfall.
Wit's stopping at the gym for a "boost" had nothing to do with a quick workout. He hadn't needed to work out since he turned twenty-some-odd years ago. Eternally twenty-five, he was in peak form. Wit was hoping some of the bodybuilding crowd would be working out tonight. Knowing the slight buzz vampires get from adrenaline, you could imagine what a bit of steroids could do. The chemically enhanced blood of bodybuilders made him feel better in those rare instances when he felt a little under the weather. Tonight's events left him feeling like he was struck by a train.
Walking through the door, Wit greeted Joey, a sixteen-year-old gym rat seated at the front desk. Joey was more like a family member than an employee. He lived with Wit and Reese.
"Sup, Wit?"
"Just poppin' in to see who's here."
"The usuals. Oh, and Conan is in the back."
"Perfect."
Conan, so-called for his resemblance to the barbarian and not the talk show host, was the most dedicated member of the gym. He wore cut-off T-shirts to expose his six-pack. Instead of having sleeves, there were large elliptical openings that allowed room for his overdeveloped limbs. He completed his ensemble with tiger-striped bicycle shorts that left little to the imagination. Wit once commented that he resembled the Hulk if he had been a 'Solid Gold' dancer.
Conan had recently reached a plateau in his quest for the perfect form and had turned to performance-enhancing compounds. Reese had reprimanded him for it. He promised Reese that he was staying clean, using only herbs and plant extracts.
"May Schwarzenegger strike me dead if I'm lying," he swore. Anyone would agree that no one could create such mass naturally.
Wit maneuvered through the rows of equipment towards the bodybuilder. Conan was psyching himself up for his next set of bench presses. He breathed deep and repeatedly repositioned his hands over the knurled sections of the barbell.
"Hey, Big Man, need a spot?"
Conan arched his head backward and peered up at Wit.
"Danny Boy. Dan the Man. Daaaaaan. Just grab on if I lose it around nine or ten reps."
Conan repositioned himself and thrust the bar upward with a grunt. He then lowered the bar to his chest and repeated the cycle nine more times with ease. Wit stood poised to grab the bar at the slightest hint of distress, but that moment never happened. Conan returned the bar to the saddles and sat upright, turning to face Wit.
"Thanks, man."
"I didn't do anything. I didn't have to."
"Just knowing you had my back let me squeeze out two extra reps. You did plenty."
"Going for another set?"
"Nope. It's time for me to hit the showers. Thanks."
Conan stood up, wiped off the bench and his armpits, and then hung his towel around his neck. After a quick primp in the mirror, he sauntered into the locker room. Wit worked his way back to the front desk.
"Well, Joe, see ya back at the ranch."
"See ya, Wit. Hey, how long 'til sunrise?"
"Couple of hours."
"If I don't see you before then, I'll catch up with you at dusk."
"Dusk, then."
Wit waited next to the El Camino for Conan to exit the gym. Feeding on a big guy like Conan required a different approach than picking off vegans after their yoga class. This will require stealth, or a rock to the back of the head. Since big rocks were scarce, Wit needed to devise a plan of attack. The recent events convinced him that approaching from behind was not a guaranteed success. A full frontal could be the best approach. He ducked into the truck and turned on the hazards. Then he set the spare tire against one of the rear wheels and laid the jack and tire iron alongside it. To the casual observer, he was nothing more than some poor soul with car trouble.
As Conan emerged, Wit stepped away from the truck. He stood motionless, a silhouette backlit by the cascade of light pouring down from the streetlamp. The flashing taillights sporadically created a red highlight along one side of his body. Upon seeing the stranger, Conan stopped and set down his gym bag. He called out.
"Hey, Buddy, are you okay? Do you need a hand?"
Wit didn't reply. Conan took a few steps forward and called out again.
"Do you need help?"
Again, no reply. Moving closer still, Conan was now just a few feet away.
"Wit is that..."
Wit was in mid-lunge before Conan fully recognized him. His jaw unhinged as he firmly planted his mouth across the side of the bodybuilder's tree trunk of a neck. Releasing his fangs from their chambers, he began to suck. The only problem was that the fangs never dropped, and Wit was in the process of giving Conan one hell of a hickey. He probed around inside his mouth, searching for his fangs with his tongue. He heard something that made his skin crawl. It was Conan, squealing like a schoolgirl.
"Oh, Wit, I had dreamt that one day this would come." As Conan proclaimed his pleasure, he grabbed Wit's ass with his massive hands and pulled him closer. Wit was greeted by what he hoped was a pickle in Conan's pocket. He knew, however, that this was not the case.
"No! I don't, I mean I'm not... Stop!" Wit struggled to break free.
"Stop what? You started this. Don't be such a tease." Conan pulled Wit closer and shoved his tongue halfway down his throat.
Wit's reaction to the kiss was that of a frazzled cat held above a bathtub full of water. His arms and legs lashed in all directions. He twisted, turned, and eventually broke free, falling backward into a seated position with his legs splayed apart. Attempting to rise, he crab-walked in reverse and tried to put some distance between himself and his new paramour. He stumbled to his feet and scrambled to the El Camino. He threw the truck in drive, leaving Conan, his spare tire, and his dignity in the middle of the street.
"Call me." Conan gestured after him, holding an imaginary phone next to his ear.