The Blood Thief Chronicles
Posted: 19 Apr 2020, 02:32
With the window raised, the breeze carried snowflakes into the room, the fluffy flakes dancing in the air, fluttering to the ground. The old radiator in the room had kicked on ten minutes ago, knocking and groaning before finally coming to life. Somehow, the heat never quite warmed the room, even with the window closed. But Harry had a thing about smoking indoors, especially in his back room, where he enjoyed smoking half of the product he was supposed to move. He'd lost fingers to drug lords for making the mistake -- three of them -- but Harry was an addict. Dealers should never use their products; it started a cycle. How could a dealer push drugs and make money when he tore through the product before it ever had the chance to hit the street? While Harry drove his life into the ground, Fletcher didn't. She considered herself a businesswoman, because she ran her own show. She was higher up on the food chain, and she wasn't a junkie. She'd done a lot of partying, tried a variety of drugs, but none of it had been for her. She chose nicotine, going through two packs a day. That was her kind of ****.
Buried in a white, puffy coat, hood lined in faux fur, Fletcher brought her bare hands together and blew into her palms, warm breath easing the chill. She brought her cigarette to her lips, part of the filter pinched between her index finger and thumb, and took a long drag. She'd cleared a grand in a few hours, easily meeting her quota, so she didn't need to drag her *** back into the cold. She'd mocked Harry, reminding him, clapping her hands at him, because he'd spent all day checking in on his dealers. He had five guys and still didn't make a grand, while she only ran two. She called her two boys moneymakers; Harry called his cronies useless pieces of ****. And he wondered why they didn't bust their asses for him. Fletcher thought they were skimming, but she had no proof, and even if she did, she'd never tell the guy. He deserved what he got.
She took quick hits of her cigarette, until the burning edge nearly met the filter, then she ground it out on the windowsill, adding another burn mark to the wood, and tossed the remains out the window. Getting to her feet, Bearpaw grey boots leaving footprints in the snow that had gathered on the floor, Fletcher pressed both hands down on the window, fighting with the old thing until it slammed down and rattled the glass. She turned the metal lock on the window, forcing it to move, then closed the thin, stained curtains. The streetlight filtered through the curtains, lighting up tiny apples on the yellow fabric. At one time, the curtains had been white, a time before Fletcher, maybe before Harry.
They were gangsters, embroiled in a fight for survival. They ran the slums and owned a few cops, and they ventured out, spreading violence, extortion, and drugs throughout the city. They fought vampires; they fought monsters. Sometimes they fought themselves. Crime always came with betrayal, so maybe it wasn't so different from the law-abiding world. Fletcher hadn't aspired to be a gangster, not some drug trafficker, a peddler bound to ruin lives. She'd wanted to be a cop, actually. She'd wanted to make the city a better place. That changed when she realized most cops were crooked, trigger-happy morons, their only concern money. Even though she'd passed on being a police officer, she still found herself on the same damn road. Money made the world go round.
Fletcher grabbed her backpack from off a closed cardboard box. In chicken scratch handwriting, someone had marked it kitchen. Somehow, the box never quite made it there. She nudged the box with the toe of her right boot and heard the clatter of glass on glass. Maybe it was for the lab. She didn't want to investigate, so she slipped her arms through the straps of her bag and pulled it on, adjusting the grey polyester and leather bag before she headed for the door. The room, situated in the back of the building, didn't have a working lock, but the door still liked to jam. She had to wrestle it open and it creaked the entire way.
"Nice of you to get the hell out of my office."
"It's not your office, **** for brains. This isn't your place."
"I'm not in the mood for your **** today, Beatrix."
"Fine, Harold."
Fletcher made a point to bump shoulders with him as she passed, and she took joy in the way he stumbled back two steps before planting his feet. She hated her first name with a passion. Her parents were clearly demons, or at least delusional. Nothing about her screamed Beatrix. Some kids used to call her Bellatrix, and she'd had just about enough of that mess. As she made her way down the short hall, she heard the door slam shut. The man was digging his own grave. Fletcher bypassed the living room for the kitchen, easily ignoring the two gangsters tying off dime bags for tomorrow's runs. Fletcher moved dime bags easier than crystal meth or cocaine.
One by one, she opened kitchen cabinets, focusing on the upper cabinets, as the lower ones were filled with chemicals and paraphernalia. She'd bought a box of twinkies two days ago, but she pulled out an empty box and shook the cardboard box once, empty wrappers falling onto the kitchen counter. Sighing, Fletcher crushed the box and tossed it into the garbage can. She opened a kitchen drawer and found that her stash of lollipops hadn't been touched, so she rifled through the bag, searching for a mystery flavor; when she found one, she unwrapped the sucker and slipped it between her lips. Raspberry. Not bad at all. Fletcher balled up the wrapper and tossed it into the trash too.
"Who's the dick that ate all my twinkies and left the empty box?"
Fletcher looked over the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room. One of the guys glanced over his shoulder and blew her a kiss. She didn't know his name; he was a new guy, definitely a wiseguy. Seth? David? Randy. That was the guy's name. Fletcher smiled at him, then grabbed a kitchen knife and threw it at him. The blade flew past his head and stuck in the wall, barely missing him and the television. He let out a string of curses and got up, as if to intimidate her, so she stood up tall, knowing her 5'10" frame easily beat him by a solid five inches. The guy was short, and she internally mocked him for it.
"Sit down, Randy. She'll **** you up, bro."
"Listen to the nice man, Randy."
Steven chuckled, glancing back at her before he resumed cutting and weighing. Randy looked like he wanted to vault over the couch and take a shot at beating the **** out of her, so she gestured for him to come at her. He scowled, then returned to his seat. Steven patted Randy's shoulder, as if to reassure the man that he'd done the right thing. Fletcher knew all about ******* people up. She was known for killing fellow traffickers and dealers for less. She didn't like people taking her things. She didn't have much, so everything she owned meant a lot to her -- yes, even a box of twinkies. Fletcher stuffed one hand into the pocket of her winter coat, then called out a brief goodbye to Steven.
Fletcher slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her, then let the screen door slam shut behind her. The grass outside had a very fine dusting of snow, the flakes just beginning to stick to the sidewalk and street. She didn't read the paper or bother with the news. Every few minutes, more people died from the virus; every few minutes, vampires took humans by surprise. She didn't give a flying **** about that Whatever Act that had been passed. She'd dealt to vampires just the same as humans, and their money spent.
People in the city knew what the slums meant; the slums contained a supply of drugs and drug paraphernalia. Sometimes, people didn't mind driving through, popping into a den, and forking over a wad of cash; sometimes, people avoided the area like a plague. Fletcher preferred the malls or casinos or clubs, places where people gathered, some looking for a good time, others just jonesing for a fix. Other drug dealers had been moving onto her turf, and she thought it best to reach out to a few associates, buy a little extra protection. Harry hated the idea of working with blood thieves because they were dirty, and they fought dirty, but Fletcher didn't mind them. They had their own vices, and they didn't mind shaking some people down. They preferred vampires, for obvious reasons, but they still needed cash and places to lay low after feedings or dealings gone wrong.
She never met them in the open. They liked avoiding attention at all costs. So when she left the slums, she headed east, checking the first of many buildings on her list. Blood thieves always promised that they would find her, but she kept dragging their asses to the table, time and time again. Fletcher twirled the sucker in her mouth, sweet raspberry coating her tongue, then she exchanged a bland greeting with a bought cop. They were out patrolling again, and just so happened to gather outside of The Handle Bar, her first destination. She made a note to check the sports bar next.
"Staying out of trouble, beautiful?" Officer Howell -- Brian, to be exact -- constantly flirted with her. She tolerated him because he liked to look the other way. They were opposites, her hair blonde, short, swept to one side, while his hair was black and spiked with way too much hair gel.
"Always. What's up with the donut convention? I saw a soldier a block back, looked kind of nervous." She'd moved the sucker to one side of her mouth to speak, and when she was finished, she bit down on it, a satisfying crunch following.
"He says he saw one of them feeding. The guy just attacked. Lady said she can't remember a thing."
"This side of the city isn't that great, so I can't say I'm surprised. I've got places to go. Stay safe, officer."
Fletcher waved at him, then turned into the parking lot for the bar. As usual, bikes were lined up outside, and a few of the bikers mingled in the parking lot, taking refuge under a streetlight. One nodded to Fletcher, so she waved, remembering the man from previous visits. He was tall, hulking, but he was a sweet guy. Not her type, but sweet. A man exited the bar, door already closing behind him, but he snagged it and held it open for her. She expected him to make an attempt at flirting, but he let her inside and went to a blue motorcycle near the end of the lot.
The bar smelled like booze, cigarette smoke, and leather, but it was nothing new. Fletcher finished off her sucker, took the stick, and dropped it into an ashtray on the first open table she saw. Most of the patrons looked ordinary, and they congregated near the bar and around the pool table. In the back, four guys were in the midst of what was likely a poker game. A small pile of crumpled bills, loose change, and a watch made a centerpiece for the table. Fletcher wasn't one for beer, so when she made her way over to the bar, the bartender took one look at her and poured her a scotch on the rocks. She always started with the drink, the ice cube slowly melting with each refill. A man came up on her left side and patted her shoulder. She fought her instincts, deciding not to break the man's fingers or wrist. When she glanced over at him, she saw a familiar face. It was a good call, after all. And her luck was up for the evening. Andrew had a way about him, a don't **** with me vibe that Fletcher could appreciate. He was the leader of Fletcher's circle of blood thieves. When he didn't want to be found, he didn't want to be found.
"I'll have what she's having," Andrew said, pointing with his thumb at Fletcher's scotch. The bartender knew not to bother them, so he got a shot glass, filled it with scotch, and left the two alone. "Must be another cold day in hell. I wasn't expecting you until Thursday."
"**** happens, y'know. I guess one of your cronies delivered the message." She raised her glass to her lips, took a drink, and swallowed, their conversation starting off easy. Andrew clicked his tongue and eyed her in the mirror behind the bar. At the pool table, someone sunk another shot. "The boys and I are getting another shipment and we're looking for assistance during the, ah, delivery process. I've been seeing vampires in the area and I don't appreciate outsiders encroaching. You know that."
"We have dealings with vampires. Two hundred a pop. Why would I go back on the old agreement we've had in place for years just for you, darling?"
"Five grand."
"Hm. I didn't quite catch that."
"Eight grand."
"Speak up."
"Ten grand," Fletcher said, cutting the negotiation off. Andrew ran his tongue over his teeth and she saw the flash of fangs in the mirror. The man on her right saw the same image and decided to take his beer and relocate. "They've been robbing and killing gangsters and trying to make it look like police crackdowns. I don't want them interfering in this. It's my livelihood."
"You don't sound scared of them," Andrew noted. He finally turned to face her. Left forearm resting atop the bar, hand loose around his tumbler, he smirked at her. "You're ******* crazy, woman. You should be." Andrew used his right hand to lift up his grey t-shirt and show off the ugly scar on his stomach and side. The whole thing was discolored and puckered, as it had never healed quite right. Someone had been trying to take his liver. "This is bigger than drugs."
"They hate you because you're a leech, 'drew, and I'm not afraid of monsters."
"Ten grand."
"Ten grand."
"Be careful out there, sweetheart. It'd be a shame if someone messed up that pretty face." Andrew tipped his glass to her, then finished off his scotch. He sat the empty glass down on the bar, pushed it back toward the bartender, and left her there, rejoining a booth with two other men. Fletcher snorted at him. Andrew had watched too many of those foreign horror movies.
Fletcher feared God. That was about it.
Buried in a white, puffy coat, hood lined in faux fur, Fletcher brought her bare hands together and blew into her palms, warm breath easing the chill. She brought her cigarette to her lips, part of the filter pinched between her index finger and thumb, and took a long drag. She'd cleared a grand in a few hours, easily meeting her quota, so she didn't need to drag her *** back into the cold. She'd mocked Harry, reminding him, clapping her hands at him, because he'd spent all day checking in on his dealers. He had five guys and still didn't make a grand, while she only ran two. She called her two boys moneymakers; Harry called his cronies useless pieces of ****. And he wondered why they didn't bust their asses for him. Fletcher thought they were skimming, but she had no proof, and even if she did, she'd never tell the guy. He deserved what he got.
She took quick hits of her cigarette, until the burning edge nearly met the filter, then she ground it out on the windowsill, adding another burn mark to the wood, and tossed the remains out the window. Getting to her feet, Bearpaw grey boots leaving footprints in the snow that had gathered on the floor, Fletcher pressed both hands down on the window, fighting with the old thing until it slammed down and rattled the glass. She turned the metal lock on the window, forcing it to move, then closed the thin, stained curtains. The streetlight filtered through the curtains, lighting up tiny apples on the yellow fabric. At one time, the curtains had been white, a time before Fletcher, maybe before Harry.
They were gangsters, embroiled in a fight for survival. They ran the slums and owned a few cops, and they ventured out, spreading violence, extortion, and drugs throughout the city. They fought vampires; they fought monsters. Sometimes they fought themselves. Crime always came with betrayal, so maybe it wasn't so different from the law-abiding world. Fletcher hadn't aspired to be a gangster, not some drug trafficker, a peddler bound to ruin lives. She'd wanted to be a cop, actually. She'd wanted to make the city a better place. That changed when she realized most cops were crooked, trigger-happy morons, their only concern money. Even though she'd passed on being a police officer, she still found herself on the same damn road. Money made the world go round.
Fletcher grabbed her backpack from off a closed cardboard box. In chicken scratch handwriting, someone had marked it kitchen. Somehow, the box never quite made it there. She nudged the box with the toe of her right boot and heard the clatter of glass on glass. Maybe it was for the lab. She didn't want to investigate, so she slipped her arms through the straps of her bag and pulled it on, adjusting the grey polyester and leather bag before she headed for the door. The room, situated in the back of the building, didn't have a working lock, but the door still liked to jam. She had to wrestle it open and it creaked the entire way.
"Nice of you to get the hell out of my office."
"It's not your office, **** for brains. This isn't your place."
"I'm not in the mood for your **** today, Beatrix."
"Fine, Harold."
Fletcher made a point to bump shoulders with him as she passed, and she took joy in the way he stumbled back two steps before planting his feet. She hated her first name with a passion. Her parents were clearly demons, or at least delusional. Nothing about her screamed Beatrix. Some kids used to call her Bellatrix, and she'd had just about enough of that mess. As she made her way down the short hall, she heard the door slam shut. The man was digging his own grave. Fletcher bypassed the living room for the kitchen, easily ignoring the two gangsters tying off dime bags for tomorrow's runs. Fletcher moved dime bags easier than crystal meth or cocaine.
One by one, she opened kitchen cabinets, focusing on the upper cabinets, as the lower ones were filled with chemicals and paraphernalia. She'd bought a box of twinkies two days ago, but she pulled out an empty box and shook the cardboard box once, empty wrappers falling onto the kitchen counter. Sighing, Fletcher crushed the box and tossed it into the garbage can. She opened a kitchen drawer and found that her stash of lollipops hadn't been touched, so she rifled through the bag, searching for a mystery flavor; when she found one, she unwrapped the sucker and slipped it between her lips. Raspberry. Not bad at all. Fletcher balled up the wrapper and tossed it into the trash too.
"Who's the dick that ate all my twinkies and left the empty box?"
Fletcher looked over the bar dividing the kitchen from the living room. One of the guys glanced over his shoulder and blew her a kiss. She didn't know his name; he was a new guy, definitely a wiseguy. Seth? David? Randy. That was the guy's name. Fletcher smiled at him, then grabbed a kitchen knife and threw it at him. The blade flew past his head and stuck in the wall, barely missing him and the television. He let out a string of curses and got up, as if to intimidate her, so she stood up tall, knowing her 5'10" frame easily beat him by a solid five inches. The guy was short, and she internally mocked him for it.
"Sit down, Randy. She'll **** you up, bro."
"Listen to the nice man, Randy."
Steven chuckled, glancing back at her before he resumed cutting and weighing. Randy looked like he wanted to vault over the couch and take a shot at beating the **** out of her, so she gestured for him to come at her. He scowled, then returned to his seat. Steven patted Randy's shoulder, as if to reassure the man that he'd done the right thing. Fletcher knew all about ******* people up. She was known for killing fellow traffickers and dealers for less. She didn't like people taking her things. She didn't have much, so everything she owned meant a lot to her -- yes, even a box of twinkies. Fletcher stuffed one hand into the pocket of her winter coat, then called out a brief goodbye to Steven.
Fletcher slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her, then let the screen door slam shut behind her. The grass outside had a very fine dusting of snow, the flakes just beginning to stick to the sidewalk and street. She didn't read the paper or bother with the news. Every few minutes, more people died from the virus; every few minutes, vampires took humans by surprise. She didn't give a flying **** about that Whatever Act that had been passed. She'd dealt to vampires just the same as humans, and their money spent.
People in the city knew what the slums meant; the slums contained a supply of drugs and drug paraphernalia. Sometimes, people didn't mind driving through, popping into a den, and forking over a wad of cash; sometimes, people avoided the area like a plague. Fletcher preferred the malls or casinos or clubs, places where people gathered, some looking for a good time, others just jonesing for a fix. Other drug dealers had been moving onto her turf, and she thought it best to reach out to a few associates, buy a little extra protection. Harry hated the idea of working with blood thieves because they were dirty, and they fought dirty, but Fletcher didn't mind them. They had their own vices, and they didn't mind shaking some people down. They preferred vampires, for obvious reasons, but they still needed cash and places to lay low after feedings or dealings gone wrong.
She never met them in the open. They liked avoiding attention at all costs. So when she left the slums, she headed east, checking the first of many buildings on her list. Blood thieves always promised that they would find her, but she kept dragging their asses to the table, time and time again. Fletcher twirled the sucker in her mouth, sweet raspberry coating her tongue, then she exchanged a bland greeting with a bought cop. They were out patrolling again, and just so happened to gather outside of The Handle Bar, her first destination. She made a note to check the sports bar next.
"Staying out of trouble, beautiful?" Officer Howell -- Brian, to be exact -- constantly flirted with her. She tolerated him because he liked to look the other way. They were opposites, her hair blonde, short, swept to one side, while his hair was black and spiked with way too much hair gel.
"Always. What's up with the donut convention? I saw a soldier a block back, looked kind of nervous." She'd moved the sucker to one side of her mouth to speak, and when she was finished, she bit down on it, a satisfying crunch following.
"He says he saw one of them feeding. The guy just attacked. Lady said she can't remember a thing."
"This side of the city isn't that great, so I can't say I'm surprised. I've got places to go. Stay safe, officer."
Fletcher waved at him, then turned into the parking lot for the bar. As usual, bikes were lined up outside, and a few of the bikers mingled in the parking lot, taking refuge under a streetlight. One nodded to Fletcher, so she waved, remembering the man from previous visits. He was tall, hulking, but he was a sweet guy. Not her type, but sweet. A man exited the bar, door already closing behind him, but he snagged it and held it open for her. She expected him to make an attempt at flirting, but he let her inside and went to a blue motorcycle near the end of the lot.
The bar smelled like booze, cigarette smoke, and leather, but it was nothing new. Fletcher finished off her sucker, took the stick, and dropped it into an ashtray on the first open table she saw. Most of the patrons looked ordinary, and they congregated near the bar and around the pool table. In the back, four guys were in the midst of what was likely a poker game. A small pile of crumpled bills, loose change, and a watch made a centerpiece for the table. Fletcher wasn't one for beer, so when she made her way over to the bar, the bartender took one look at her and poured her a scotch on the rocks. She always started with the drink, the ice cube slowly melting with each refill. A man came up on her left side and patted her shoulder. She fought her instincts, deciding not to break the man's fingers or wrist. When she glanced over at him, she saw a familiar face. It was a good call, after all. And her luck was up for the evening. Andrew had a way about him, a don't **** with me vibe that Fletcher could appreciate. He was the leader of Fletcher's circle of blood thieves. When he didn't want to be found, he didn't want to be found.
"I'll have what she's having," Andrew said, pointing with his thumb at Fletcher's scotch. The bartender knew not to bother them, so he got a shot glass, filled it with scotch, and left the two alone. "Must be another cold day in hell. I wasn't expecting you until Thursday."
"**** happens, y'know. I guess one of your cronies delivered the message." She raised her glass to her lips, took a drink, and swallowed, their conversation starting off easy. Andrew clicked his tongue and eyed her in the mirror behind the bar. At the pool table, someone sunk another shot. "The boys and I are getting another shipment and we're looking for assistance during the, ah, delivery process. I've been seeing vampires in the area and I don't appreciate outsiders encroaching. You know that."
"We have dealings with vampires. Two hundred a pop. Why would I go back on the old agreement we've had in place for years just for you, darling?"
"Five grand."
"Hm. I didn't quite catch that."
"Eight grand."
"Speak up."
"Ten grand," Fletcher said, cutting the negotiation off. Andrew ran his tongue over his teeth and she saw the flash of fangs in the mirror. The man on her right saw the same image and decided to take his beer and relocate. "They've been robbing and killing gangsters and trying to make it look like police crackdowns. I don't want them interfering in this. It's my livelihood."
"You don't sound scared of them," Andrew noted. He finally turned to face her. Left forearm resting atop the bar, hand loose around his tumbler, he smirked at her. "You're ******* crazy, woman. You should be." Andrew used his right hand to lift up his grey t-shirt and show off the ugly scar on his stomach and side. The whole thing was discolored and puckered, as it had never healed quite right. Someone had been trying to take his liver. "This is bigger than drugs."
"They hate you because you're a leech, 'drew, and I'm not afraid of monsters."
"Ten grand."
"Ten grand."
"Be careful out there, sweetheart. It'd be a shame if someone messed up that pretty face." Andrew tipped his glass to her, then finished off his scotch. He sat the empty glass down on the bar, pushed it back toward the bartender, and left her there, rejoining a booth with two other men. Fletcher snorted at him. Andrew had watched too many of those foreign horror movies.
Fletcher feared God. That was about it.