RAYNIEDAY: I know, but I, like, don’t have a choice here. They’ve got the nanos in me. If I don’t help them, they’ll kill me. And I’d so rather be a living snack than dead meat.
SPIDER: Guess you’ve got a point there. Still, be careful, okay? I mean infiltrating a vamp nest and trying to stake their evil leader? That sounds harder than passing Trig without sleeping with the teacher.
RAYNIEDAY: Heh. So THAT’S your secret. :P
SPIDER: Hehe. I don’t “sine” and tell.
RAYNIEDAY: Very “cosine.”
SPIDER: At least I don’t go off on “tangents.”
RAYNIEDAY: Uh-huh. ANYWAY—I’m going to head to the Blood Bar 2morrow nite. I’ll IM you when I get back, k? If I don’t IM, tell Sunny what happened and maybe Magnus can send in the big guns.
SPIDER: You haven’t told Sunny to begin with?
RAYNIEDAY: . . .
SPIDER: Um, don’t you think you should?
RAYNIEDAY: No effing way. Cause, like, what if she tells Magnus and Slayer Inc.’s wrong and Mag and Maverick are best buddies? Then Magnus could go warn Maverick and I’ll totally get nanoed. Then I’d definitely fail Trig—teacher sleepage or no.
SPIDER: I guess you’ve got a point.
RAYNIEDAY: No, I’ve got a stake, LOL.
SPIDER: Hehe. Okay, fine. Go slay some vamp butt. Good luck. I’m back from the graveyard, BTW. Rezzing now.
RAYNIEDAY: Uh, you might want to wait—
**Spider resurrects.
**Shaman hits Spider for 975 damage.
**Spider dies.
SPIDER: NOOOOOO!!!!!
RAYNIEDAY: Sigh. And on that note, I’m logging. Got a busy day tomorrow. Evil vampires don’t just slay themselves, you know.
POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 2:20 A.M.
THREE COMMENTS:
DarkGothBoy says . . .
You play World of Warcraft? Wow, you’re such a cool chick. I’m on the Stonemaul server. Have a level 60 paladin. w00t! Are you into role-playing? We should totally cyber sometime.
Rayne says . . .
Um, remember that ten-foot pole thing? That counts for your virtual “lance” as well. Just. Not. Touching. Virtually or in real life. Get a life and stop reading my blog.
Spider says . . .
Jeez, Rayne, you had to put in the part about me dying? Couldn’t you have cut and pasted that part out? Obviously it’s so not relevant to this story and you make me look like a total nooblet in front of the WHOLE WORLD. And for the record, whole world people, I’m a really good player. It’s just that Rayne sucks as a bodyguard. SUCKS, I tell you! It’s so her fault that I’m always dead.
5
SATURDAY, JUNE 2, 8 P.M.
The Blood Bar
I must be brief—I’m actually writing this from my BlackBerry from inside the Blood Bar!! Let me tell you, this place is creepy with a capital C! Or ghetto with a capital G. Or someis kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, kind of capital word for weird, sick, and twisted. (Which, I guess, would be three capital words: Weird, Sick, and Twisted, duh.)
First of all, I had to go through the total crackhead section of town. Wandering past pimps and prostitutes, drug dealers, and bums to find it. I half thought I’d get attacked and killed before I even got to my destination. Some slayer I’d turn out to be if I got myself killed by some punk mortal before I even got to stake my first vamp.
At least I look good. After all, one does not enter a vampire den unprepared and so I made a special effort to Goth things up even more than usual before I came. I’ve got on this black lacy corset top under my leather jacket, a black vinyl miniskirt, fishnets, and knee-high platform boots. The outfit, in conjunction with my overly blacked-out eyes, red lipstick and powered white face, makes me look pretty kick-ass, if you can excuse the vanity for a moment.
I find the address. A nondescript brick building. Which I guess makes sense. Obviously they’re not going to have some neon sign out flashing “Get Sucked Here!” or anything. But this joint is beyond subtle. In fact, I’m not even sure if I have the right place—until a street-light glints on a tiny stained glass window embedded into the door . . . the shape of a drop of blood.
Bingo.
Not quite sure what to do, I knock. This big, burly bouncer type guy creaks opens the door from the other side and looks down at me with suspicious eyes. I meet his gaze, hopefully appearing less freaked out than I am. I mean, the dude looks like Vin Diesel if Vin Diesel took steroids. Yeah, that big. Except unlike the tanned action hero, this guy is pasty white. So, like a ghosty Vin Diesel on steroids. Which throws me a bit. Usually the vamp wanna-be crowd is all scrawny and lanky.
“What do you want?” he asks in a grumbly, growly voice.
Hm. Not exactly the rising star in the customer service department. Good thing I’m a slayer and not a secret shopper or I’d so be knocking off points already.
“I, um, am interested in being, uh . . .” Jeez, what’s the correct terminology here? “Sucked?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I shake my head. Oh, so he’s going to be like that, is he? “Yes, you do. You totally know. You’re just pretending you don’t because you’re afraid I’m some cop or something. Well, I am not a cop. Obviously. I mean, since when do sixteen-year-olds become cops?”
“I don’t think you’re a cop. I think you’re underage. We don’t serve minors.”
D’oh.
“Ha-ha.” I laugh. “Did I say sixteen? Silly me. I meant twenty-one. Look, I even have an ID that proves it.” I reach into my black canvas messenger bag and rummage through the front pocket for my wallet. Grabbing my fake ID, I present it to Vamp Diesel, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands.