Good morning, House of Madness residents:
Everybody could use a little extra cash every now and then, so who cares where it comes from, right? RIGHT? As always, I hope you enjoy, and most importantly, thanks for reading!
The Job
Today was Tuesday, which meant that it was going to be a great day for Pete Finlayson. For the past eight years, Pete would receive a text from an unknown number, pick up 'John' at the front entrance of the Place de Ville Hotel, and drive him to an unmarked warehouse down by the docks where he would wait for John's return, and deliver him back to the hotel where their journey began. Eight years. Crazy. In those eight years, the two men never spoke pleasantries or made bullshit small talk about the weather or the Yankees; just take John from point A to Point B and back, and Pete was $1000 richer. Pete honestly couldn't remember how he had come across John the first time, but he hadn't dared missed a Tuesday in all those years, in fear of losing his favourite cash cow. Driving a cab wasn't luxurious, but the hours were great, the cash wasn't bad, and his side hustle with John paid his rent and then some. Pete was itchy.
At first Pete figured John must have been running late, as he hadn't received a text yet, and it was already pushing 7p.m. The main issue with this ideology, however, was that John had never been late once, and was about as punctual as a nun on a Sunday. Eight years without missing a single Tuesday, and now not even a text to inform him something was up? Even though the two men never shared more than "Hello's" and "Goodbye's", Pete's anxiety was starting to ramp up, and he could feel the dread pulsating in his temples as if his heart had suddenly taken residence between his ears. "Better go check it out" Pete said into the darkness of his cab, and headed for the hotel to see if John would be there waiting. So itchy.
As Pete pulled up to the curb, people were coming in and out of the Place de Ville like usual, only this time there was no stern looking, stocky bald man waiting for 'his' taxi to arrive. The longer Pete waited, the more agitated he became as his passenger failed to show up or text. It wasn't so much that Pete was worried about John, in fact over the eight years the two men had built a relationship akin to that of a cow and a fence, but at the same time, eight years is a long time, and Pete felt somehow responsible for John on Tuesdays. After two hours, Pete was ready to just head home and call it a night when his inner curiosities got the better of him, and instead of heading for home, he headed down to the docks. The itch was becoming unbearable.
As Pete pulled in front of the warehouse he always dropped John at, he felt an overwhelming sense of 'GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE', but managed to ignore it; a grand was a lot of money, and when you became dependant on it every week……Pete put the cab in park, and slowly walked up to the front door, where he gathered his wits, made a fist, and knocked loudly on the steel blockade. "Come in, Mr. Finlayson, the door is open" a voice said from just inside, "We're sorry John didn't get in touch sooner, but we have much to discuss", and Pete slowly entered the dimly lit building. There were six men, each sitting in chairs that formed a circle facing each other, and all eyes were on Pete. "Please, sit down" the man said, and pointed to an empty chair which Pete figured was usually reserved for John. "What is this place?" Pete asked, and scolded himself internally as his voice cracked with fear. "I'm sure you've heard of AA meetings, yes, Mr. Finlayson? Well, I guess you could say this is AA, but instead of 'Alcoholics Anonymous', we call our meetings 'Bloodsuckers Anonymous', get it?" "Wait, you're telling me you're fuckin' vampires!?" Pete said shrilly. "Not exactly, Mr. Finlayson. We aren't your prototypical vampires anyways, we simply feed on blood to survive, and use these meetings as a means of…..release. Yes, that's a good way of putting it, release." "Why are you telling me this!? Are you guys going to kill me!?" Pete screamed, to which all the other men burst out laughing. "Of course not, Mr. Finlayson. We simply need you to find us another vessel to feed on every Tuesday, as our friend 'John' has been depleted after all of these years. "You were feeding on him for eight fucking years!?" "More or less, but there were many perks John enjoyed as a benefit of his sacrifice, but now that he's gone is where you fit in, Mr. Finlayson", and Pete's eyes grew until they were almost bulging completely from their sockets as the man's eyes glowed red, and his teeth grew into fangs. ITCHY, ITCHY, ITCHY.
"You want ME to bring myself for you to feed on every week!?" Pete screamed, "You're fucking crazy, the whole lot of you!" "What was John paying you every week? $1000? Multiply that by twenty-five and I think you'll begin to understand why John did what he did." "Twenty-five grand a week so you weirdos can suck my blood until I'm finally dead? Go fuck yourselves!" "We could simply drain you now for free if you'd prefer, Mr. Finlayson, would you like that?" the man said greedily. It was at this point that Pete started laughing, and as his hair and appendages started to grow in the full moon light, the look on the men's faces went from hilarity to horror as he ripped them all limb from limb. "Meeting's adjourned, motherfuckers!" and Pete licked his snout all the way back to his car. The itch was gone.
NB
