Now is the summer of my discontent. A few weeks past, this dreary little planet was at its farthest point from the sun, ironically giving rise to the longest day of the year and the thus the shortest night. So begins the tedious countdown to winter and the return of nights of a length suitable for hunting. It is the season of dread for my kind. Vampires despise the solstice with a special kind of hatred usually reserved for the anemic or unashamed poets.
Once, the solstice at least provided a steady supply of pagans. I used to seek them out to slake my thirsts upon at night after the celebrations had waned and they lolled about the fields and forests in a drunken, oversexed stupor. I probably over ate in those days, partly out of spite, a petty and unworthy human-like emotion to be sure. That they could revel in the misfortune of others and glory in the triumph of the sun irked me. But mostly it was convenience, and my sophisticated palate. Pagan blood is sweeter, more fulfilling; like a chocolate malted versus a regular shake.
It might have something to do with simple-mindedness. The faithful have thicker, less agile minds and therefore thicker, more delicious blood. Of course, faith of any kind is being slowly watered down by an all-pervasive apathy that similar clots the blood. I do get nostalgic about the solstice celebrations though, long forgotten by a human race that can barely be bothered to look up from their palm devices or away from their computer screens long enough to even notice the season, no matter the temperature.
I don’t mind the heat of summer rather I dislike the short nights in which to exploit the heat. Hot temperatures tend to loosen windows normally fastened tight against intruders. Especially for those lacking financial means, those who can barely afford a chamber pot to piss in, the luxury of central air conditioning is simply out of reach.
All those delicious, restless poverty-stricken families spend their summer nights on lumpy mattresses pulled close to open windows, sweating and tossing and turning next to creaky fans or squawking, window units easily pulled tumbled aside. They think living on the second floor protects them from things that go bump in the night. Please. I’ve leapt higher than two stories just to find a decent cappuccino.
So even though I have to spend more time than I like in a sweltering hot coffin during daylight hours, there is a slight upside. Another upside to summer is Fourth of July. Not for the sake of patriotism, of course. Trust me when I say all humans die exactly the same, regardless of their provenance. No, it’s the fireworks I adore. There’s something so beautiful and unexpected about them, exploding out of the darkness of the night with a cold, glittering cruelness.
I especially like the illegal variety set off so regularly in the neighborhoods across my city of Portland. Someone inevitably loses a few fingers. If I time it right, I can collect enough blood bandages to brew myself up a nice pitcher of iced blood tea for Independence Day and have a few glasses before I crawl back into the coffin. And maybe if I’m feeling decadent, a few lady fingers.
What? You didn’t think I meant real lady fingers did you? I’m a vampire, not a cannibal. Happy Fourth of July and remember to hold those little explosive charges tightly and for longer than you should.