|The Story||The Authors|
|was surprised to find himself impaled on one of Anita's crutches. Anita, after all, was a quick thinker and, despite her disability, was readily able to defend herself against intruding marauders.|
|Steve looked at Anita, astonishment marring his handsome features, he looked at his stomach, which was bleeding uncontrollably, and then back again at her. Mustering courage and strength, he pulled the embedded crutch spear from his stomach, and then fell to the floor gasping for air. "Anita," he moaned, "what have you done to me? I just had a little news about Roger for you, and I bought the whipping cream for a cake I was making on the way over here, honestly, baby." Anita gasped. Then thoughts of Roger flooded her mind and she could think of nothing else. What was the new about Roger? Was he alright?|
In sudden flash of meta-awareness, Anita stepped toward the window,
holding the vibrator at arm's length. She looked directly at the
camera, and out into the eyes of a thousand expectant tandemists.
"Now listen good, kids. This is my story, and it's NOT going
to be about perverted sex, got me?" She tossed the vibrator out the
window. "The last tandem, story I had to plug my ears with beeswax
all you little perverts could think to write about was Masturbation!
Truly, truly a noble topic for fiction! Well, it's absolutely not
going to happen here! No ifs, ands, or buts." |
The vibrator, meanwhile, after plummetting twenty-three storeys, graced an old man named Walter with a concussion and bouncing off his shiny bald pate landed in the purse of a young lady of 19 who had just been dumped by her boyfriend, also a friend of Roger Weaver's (sooner or later they all are, which is why Roger Weaver will be canonized, upon his death, as the Patron Saint of Unsatisfactory Boyfriends. For the moment, however, he is wolfing down rancid giraffe meat...)
The girl's named was Annabelle and she was a violin student at the Julliard School. She opened her purse. She looked in. She couldn't beleive her luck. She'd always wanted to try one of these things! It was still in its shrinkwrapped case, no less! She had planned on taking the subway home to her dingy little studio up in Yorkville, but instead, impetuously, she raced to the curb and hailed a cab!
|Anita felt empowered. She decided that this would be the day that she would once again stand on her own two feet and walk unaided and unhindered. She threw down her remaining crutch and took a step forward, away from the window. She fell flat on her face. But Anita was undaunted. She struggled to get herself back on her feet and took another step forward and again fell flat on her face. She could feel a trickle of blood running from her nose but she remained undiscouraged. Again she struggled to her feet and took yet another step forward, this time she staying vertical. She took another step. Success! She put one foot in front of the other and soon she was walking across the floor. She put one foot in front of the other and soon she was walking out the door.|
|So preoccupied with her own deteriorating physical condition was the woman that she completely failed to notice the shadowy figure which began to follow her, gliding along the edges of Stuyvesant Park like a second shadow. It was Walter, a reformed Vampire, a charter member of Vampires Anonymous, suddenly returned to his former bloodsucking self by his unfortunate encounter with the vibrator which Anita had thrown out the window. Already his fangs had grown back out and over his lower lip, and the need for blood ("Count Jones" in vampire slang) was upon him, and Fate, unbeknownst to either Walter or Anita, had given him, to perpetrate undoing upon, the perpetrator of his own undoing! What trickery, sly Fate! We can hear you chortling up there in the sky nyuck-nyuck-nyuck-nyuck-nyuck....|
Five blocks later, the last vestiges of Walter's other, human willpower
had vanished, and his was already giggling to himself at the old
Anne Rice jokes he and the other vampires used to tell in their secret
vault underneath the Manhattan Institute of Phlebotomy. "How many
Anne Rices does it take to change a lightbulb?" |
"I dunno, how many?"
"Three, but it never works the first is too sensitive, the second is underage, and the third catches on fire while trying to change it!"
"Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ho ho ho," they'd all roared.
Anita for her own part still felt no impending danger behind her. She walked beneath the darkening, iron-grey sky of a late January afternoon, heading eastward toward the river. The river was where she always went when she needed time and space to think. During the week there was hardly anyone there; in weather as cold and damp as this she'd have the park to herself.