Bite Me

13.Being the Chronicles of Abby Normal, Who, Befouled by the Wicked Taint of Rat Suck, Must Find Her Own Murderer

How could I have known that my own tragic failure karma would reach out its slimy tentacles and engeeken my heroic Foo beyond the limits of our white-hot romance?

’Kayso, I was major freaked about the cops almost getting the Countess and I needed to unburden on Foo, which I didn’t have a chance, ’cause, as soon as I returned to the love lair, I ran into the comfort of Foo’s arms, and rode him gently to the floor where I French-kissed him until he kinda gagged in ecstasy. Then he just threw me off him, like I was a gob of Bubblicious with all the licious chewed out of it.

So he’s like, “Not now, Abby. We have a crisis.”

“You ’bout to have a crisis, nerdslice”-I go in my most authentic hip-hop ’hood-ho accent-“crisis of my boot heel in your man marbles.”

And he totally ignores my hurt feelings and is like, “Jared, get the door! She left the door open!”

So Jared goes all stumbling across the loft to the door, and I’m all, “You’re stretching out my boots.”

And Jared is all, “Rat fog! Rat fog! Rat fog!”

And I’m all, “Don’t call me rat fog, bitch. Who held your hair when you drank that whole bottle of crème de menthe and hurled green for an hour?”

And Foo’s like, “Abby, look.” All pointing to the little plastic cages on the coffee table, which are kind of empty, then at this steam that’s running around the outside of the room and blowing out from under the fridge in the kitchen and whatnot.

And I’m, “’Splain, s’il vous plaît.”

And Foo’s all, “The rats came awake as vampyres at dusk. And Jared and I were feeding them with the blood that Jody left, by filling their little water bottles. But then when we turned around, the ones we were about to feed were out of their cages. And then we saw some of the cages were still streaming fog out, and the fog was going for the blood bags.”

“And they bite,” goes Jared.

“Yeah, they bite,” goes Foo. And he pulls up his pant leg and shows me where he’s been bitten like a dozen times.

And I’m like, “You can’t go vamp without me.”

And he’s all, “No, I’d have to have some of their blood in me, and I was careful not to even get any on me.”

Then all of a sudden there’s a stream of mist coming up my boot (I was wearing my red Docs) and a little head starts to appear out of it.

Then Foo snags a tennis racket from, like, out of nowhere and smacks the rat head, which goes flying across the room and hits the wall, trailing like a comet tail of mist.

I know! A tennis racket. WTF?

So I’m all, “Where did you get a tennis racket? Is that a secret thing with you?”

“Missing the point,” sings Jared, like I’m totally missing the point. “Hello? We need to be freaked out that they’re going to eat us, Nurse Oblivious.”

And right then the mist starts taking form again and coming at me, and Foo bats another half-mist rat across the room.

So I’m all, “Okay, good point. What are we going to do?” And I, like, gesture at the button on my sun jacket, because Foo has replaced the battery, which is out of a laptop, and I’m ready to toast some rodents.

And Foo’s all, “No, not yet. We have to figure out a way to study them. I need to turn them back to rats. And I have to figure out how this mist is manifesting. I mean, technically, it’s not possible.”

And I’m like, “You mean it’s magic?”

“I mean I’ve never even heard of anything like it in nature.”

“Like magic.”

He’s like, “There’s no such thing as magic.”

I’m like, “The Countess said it was magic.”

He’s like, “My grandmother thinks the microwave is magic.”

So I’m all, “It’s not?”

And Foo’s all, “Magic is just science we don’t understand yet.”

So I’m all, “Told you.”

And he like sighs all heavy and does his exasperated science face at me, and he’s like, “We have to get them back in their cages. They can’t feed when they are in mist form, so we just need to get them feeding and then we can catch them and put them in the cages.”

And I’m like, “Can you believe that Tommy couldn’t learn to turn to mist in five weeks and your rats did it, like, overnight? He must be a total tard.”

“Or we have genius rats,” goes Jared, just as Foo is tennis racketing another rat head off his leg.

So I’m all, “Nope, I don’t think that’s it. Why don’t you just put out a little dish of blood and when they turn solid to drink it you can just tennis racket them into a box?”

“We tried that. They figured it out,” goes Foo.

And Jared’s all, “See. Genius rats.”

Then, to Foo, I’m all, “He has a thing for rats.”

Foo’s like, “Yeah. I got that. They turn back to solid when exposed to UV light, too, but then they start burning.”

Then Jared’s like, “Once, when Lucifer 2 got stuck in a drain pipe in our garage, we sucked him out with my dad’s Shop Vac.”

And Foo’s like, “That’s it. We can suck them up with a Shop Vac.”

So I’m like, “That will just blow the mist out the other side?”

“I can put a really weak UV LED in the barrel of the Shop Vac. Maybe that will be enough to turn them solid without burning them. I’ll experiment a little while you’re gone.”

And I’m all, “Foo, you know it makes me hot when you talk all nerdy, but what do you mean, while I’m gone?”

And he’s all, “To get the Shop Vac. We don’t have a Shop Vac.”

So I look at Jared, all wobbly-assed on my Skankenstein^® boots, so he’s useless, and I’m like, “Well, I’m not dragging a Shop Vac back on the bus or the F car. Give me your car keys.”

And Foo’s, like, big “OH NOEZ” mouth and anime eyes, like, “Whaaaaa?”

And I’m like, “Unless you really do love your car more than me.”

And he’s like, “’Kay.” And hands them over. Which, as it turns out, was really poor judgment on his part.

More L8z. Gotta jet. The tow truck is here.

’Kayso, it turns out that driving an actual car is way harder than it is in Grand Theft Auto: Zombie Hooker Smackdown. Even though there was only, like, minor damage, it could have been totally avoided if you didn’t have to shift so much. Everything was good going to get the Shop Vac, because I only used first and second gear. It was coming home, when I started feeling confident and decided to see if there was a third gear, that it went kind of wrong. Still, all the screaming and crying on Foo’s part was kind of over-emo, considering that after the tow truck lowered the Honda, you couldn’t even see any damage if you didn’t crawl under and look at where the fire hydrant had sort of rearranged a couple of wiry-looking things. And Hondas are totally waterproof for the most part, so no biggie, right?

So, it was like this-

I drive totally ninja all the way to the Ace Hardware in the Castro, but I didn’t park because it involves backing up, which is not in my skill set. So I’m, like, double-parked, and I run in and this crusty guy behind the counter is all, “You can’t park there.”

And I’m like, “Fuck off, butt-munch, I have a guy.”

’Kayso, I find my gay Builder Bob guy, and he’s all, “Darling, how are you? Fab boots!”

And I’m like, “Thanks, I like your apron. I need a Shop Vac.”

And he’s all, “What size?”

And I’m like, “It needs to hold about a hundred rats.”

And he’s all, “Girlfriend, we need to party or go shopping and dish.”

And I’m, like, totally flattered, because shopping is a sacred thing to gay guys, but I stay on mission, and I’m all, “In red, if you have it.” Because red is the new black and because it will match my Docs.

And so we’re going to the Shop Vac section, Bob is like, “So, how’s the dark lord?”

And I’m all, “Oh, he’s gone. He tried to tear out my jugular vein, so the Countess threw him out the window and it hurt his feelings.”

So Bob pats my shoulder and goes, “Men. What are you gonna do? He’ll be back. The drill worked okay, though?”

And I’m like, “Oh yeah. We got him out, but he broke both his legs because he was kind of eager.”

Then Bob gets all protective Daddy-voice on me and is like, “Safety word, sweetheart. Everyone needs a safety word.”

So I’m all, “’Kay.”

Then Builder Bob helps me get my Shop Vac into the car, because it turns out that it takes a vacuum big enough to sleep inside to suck up a hundred rats.

’Kayso, then I drove and that thing happened with the car and the cops came and they were all, “You don’t have a license and you’re not allowed to drive on the sidewalk, blah, blah, oh my God my insipid cop life is so boring I should just eat my gun, bluster, blah, blah.”

And I’m all, “Chill, cops. Call my cop minions Rivera and Cavuto, s’il vous plaît. They will confirm that I am on a secret cop mission and should not be fucked with by pathetic day dwellers like yourselves.” Then I presented them with Rivera’s card, which I whipped out of my messenger bag like it was my badge of badassness.

So cop one, who is in charge because he has the car keys, is all, “I’ll check this out, wait here while I go make radio noises in the car like a humongous loser while my wife is home boning some huge stud-muffin.”

I’m paraphrasing.

And in like two minutes, up pulls Rivera and Cavuto, and they have a dog now. His name is Marvin, and he’s très cute. He’s all red, and like a Doberman or something badass, but he totally likes me and his little stubby tail was wagging and I let him drink some of the hydrant water out of my hand, and he did, even though there was plenty of water everywhere, but I guess it tasted like street and whatnot.

So I’m like, “Hey, Rivera, tell these douche waffles that you and the ass bear are my bitches.”

And Rivera is all concerned quiet cop voice, “She has mental problems.”

“Head injury caused Tourette’s syndrome,” goes Cavuto.

“We’ll handle this from here,” goes Rivera.

So I got to ride in the back of the cop car with Marvin and the Shop Vac. It was really crowded and Marvin was all doggie licky love face, so my makeup was très fucked up by the time we got to the loft.

So I’m all, “Marvin loves me good long time, cops.”

And Cavuto’s all, “Figures, he’s a cadaver dog.”

And I’m all, “Sure, just make up things to make yourself sound cooler.”

And Rivera’s like, “Out. Tell your boyfriend we need our jackets ASAP. And after you deliver the message, go home. You’re supposed to be at your mother’s house.”

’Kayso, they abandoned me on the sidewalk with my Shop Vac and drove off. I could see little tears of doggie despair in Marvin’s eyes.

So I text Foo that I need help getting the Shop Vac up the stairs and he comes down just as the tow truck pulls up, so all the crying and the screaming happens, and Foo is totally inconsolable, even when I offered him a hand job, which is really the best I could do on the sidewalk with people going by and whatnot, but I was rejected, proving, I think, that he really does love his car more than me.

So it’s like, Oh noez! And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.

I needed to mope and grieve for my lost innocence, but no. We had to fix the vacuum so it would suck vampy rat fog and turn it into vampy rat chunks. So while Foo wired science stuff into the Shop Vac, I had to get Jared down off the kitchen counter, where he had decided to stand and chuck a major spaz because he hit his rat fog tolerance level.

And Jared’s all, “Get them off me! Get them off me!” And he’s swinging the tennis racket around like a friggin’ windmill, when the rat fog isn’t anywhere near him, but running around the edges of the room like a steamy baseboard.

And I’m all, “You must chill, Spunk Monkey, my boots are scratching the counters.”

Which Jared takes as his cue to start screaming like a little girl. (When Lily and I were going through our Gothic Lolita fashion phase, which we both abandoned later, me because I’d just gotten my lip ring and I kept dribbling lattes on my lacy parts, and Lily because ruffles made her ass look huge, we used to go to Washington Square Park and practice our horrified little-girl screams, but even without practice, Jared was way better than either of us ever was. I think maybe it’s his asthma. Me and Lily could pown him at creepy staring, though.)

Anyway, I was just glad that Jody took his dagger away from him, because someone could have lost an eye if he was still holding on to it when I swept his feet out from under him with the same stainless-steel torchiere lamp that the Countess had used on Tommy. (Although it was kind of bent now.)

And he’s all, “Ow, ow, ow.”

And I’m all, “Your cross-dressing sissy-man kung-fu is no match for my superior household lighting kung-fu.”

And he whines like, “I’m going home. You hurt me. You suck. This sucks. I have to go have family dinner-with my family-and I’m going to school tomorrow so you can just fuck off and die, Abby Normal.”

And I’m like, “Fine, give me my boots.”

And he’s like, “Fine.”

And I’m like, “Fine.”

And it would have been way better if he could have just stormed out right then, but it took us about a half hour to get my boots off of him, with me sitting in the sink and him on the counter, guarding me with the tennis racket, because it turned out that I have a pretty low tolerance for rat fog trying to bite me, too.

’Kayso, we got my boots off of Jared and he decided to stay and help because it turns out that even a stream of biting rat fog is more fun than family dinner. So Foo had the Shop Vac all scienced up with sunlight LEDs and whatnot and he turns it on and starts sucking in the mist with most awesome suckage. (Gay Builder Bob rocks hardware!) And it’s so cool, because we can see the fog go in-then we can hear the thump as the sun LED turns the rats to solid again and they hit the inside of the plastic drum.

And Foo is all yelling over the motor, “We may have to unload and put them in their boxes before we get too many. We don’t want to open this and try to deal with a hundred rats.”

And I’m all, “Why don’t we just leave them in there until sunup and then they’ll all be asleep?”

And Foo looks at me, all surprised, and I’m like, “Shut up. I can be smart and hawt.”

And he’s all, “’Kay,” which I don’t know whether he meant sarcastically, or that I couldn’t be smart, or that I wasn’t hawt. But I never found out, because right then the Shop Vac starts making this, foof-thoop splat noise, and Jared lets loose with his little-girl scream.

And it turns out that the exhaust of the Shop Vac is blowing vampy rats out the back side, which is the foof-thoop noise, and splattering them against the wall, which is the splat. And with every one, Jared is eeking. So it’s like, Foof-thoopsplat-eek! Foof-thoop-splat-eek! Foof-thoop-splat-eek! I know! It would make a totally cool industrial beat for a dance groove. But I didn’t sample it because there was stuff happening.

And Foo is all, “Pick them up and put them in their boxes. Seal them with duct tape.”

’Cause it turns out that vampy rats are pretty durable, and after they splat and slide down the wall, they are starting to pull themselves together again and sort of limp away, but slow enough to catch. But they’re still all squishy and whatnot.

So Jared and I just turn to Foo and give him our best, “Bitch, please,” look.

So Foo’s all, “Okay, then, you work the hose.”

And I’m all, “Sure, now you want me to work your hose-”

And he’s all, “Abby, please!”

Up until then I thought Foo was the most chill love ninja in the Bay Area, but it turns out that if his science gets a little sideways he goes to pieces. So I take the hose and start doing the rat suck, while Foo finds some rubber gloves and a spatula to scrape up the splatter pets.

Then Jared gets the idea of shooting the rats right into their little plastic cages, which, as it turns out, kind of works after we blast a couple of them through the plastic and he starts holding the boxes against a pillow he tapes on the wall. And Foo starts duct taping on the lids before the vamp rats can pull themselves together.

Then I’m all, “You know, if we could use this to shoot tiny dogs at the vamp kitties, we’d be finished with this nonsense in a day or two.”

And Foo and Jared both roll their eyes at me like I’m high or something, when they are the ones sealing in mashed rats for freshness. ’Kayso, by, like, midnight, we have all the rats boxed again, and most of them are kind of fixed, but some of them are still pretty fucked up from the flight, and Jared is all, “I’m going home. I have issues.”

Which I know probably means that he is going to go home and break the news to Lucifer 2 that they are no longer BFFs because Jared has lost his rodent wood forever due to our night of rat carnage, which is a good thing, I guess.

Then Foo is like, “I have to go, too. I have to meet with my academic advisor in the morning, and I have to prepare, then I have work in the afternoon.”

And I’m all, “You can prepare here.”

And Foo’s like, “I don’t think I can.” And he looks away.

I was going to tell him that I had decided to become a creature of the night, but they were bailing on me, so I was all, “Fine. You two run along. I’ll stay here.”

And Foo was like, “Wait until dawn, then give each of them a water bottle of blood. They’ll heal. But make sure you tape their cages back up so they can’t escape. Blah, blah, biology, science, behavior, science word, science word, blah, blah.”

So I kissed him like it was the last time, and went into the bedroom to lie down and wait until dawn, but there was like this huge maze made out of wood on our bed, so I went back out into the living room and chilled with the rats on the futon until dawn. I couldn’t sleep anyway, because I was thinking of all the people I was totally going to get revenge on when I was nosferatu, after I found Jody and Tommy and rescued them, of course.

’Kayso, like the Terminator (the liquid one, not the one that was governor), I will rise from the wreckage of my own metallic spooge to conquer all who oppose me. I know what I have to do. When Foo is at work, and Jared is at school, I shall use the blood that is blessed with the dark gift and become nosferatu. So suck it, bitches!

’Kayso, at dawn, when all the rats stopped scrambling around in their little cages, I found one of the syringes that Tommy had gotten from the needle exchange program when he was pretending to be a junky, and I drew blood from the most healthy vamp rat we had. Then I had to decide to drink it or inject it, and after a while, I decided to inject it, which it turns out works just like in the movies and hurts way less than getting your eyebrow pierced.

So then I lay down and waited for the vamping to come on. I thought about Foo, riding the BART all the way back to his parents’ house in the Sunset instead of staying with me, and how that was kind of an assbag move on his part. And I thought of our time together, over six weeks, and how it would be hard on him when I was a superior creature of unspeakable evil and supernatural beauty. And I thought that maybe the Countess and Flood and I might have to live together in a ménage à trois, and Foo and Jared might have to be our bug-eating minions, like Renfield in Dracula, except Foo would still have his fly manga hair and I would do him occasionally out of pity.

And I cried a little, over the loss of my humanity and whatnot, because I realized that as soon as I was done saving Tommy and Jody, and enslaving Foo and Jared, I was going to sneak into Mr. Snavely’s living room one night-come in as mist under the door-then form into my most awesome alabaster naked badassness and freak him completely the fuck out for failing me in Biology, and that it would be kind of an inhuman thing to do. And as I grieved, I fell into the deep sleep of the undead.

I know. Très awesome.

But no! Now I’m awake, and it’s still light out, and the vamp rats are still out and I don’t have super powers and my evil is still totally speakable. Fucksocks! I forgot, I have to die before I change. I looked all over for that potassium chloride stuff that Foo said they killed the rats with, but all I found was the hammer, and I was all, “I don’t think so.” So I went up to Market Street and thought I’d throw myself in front of a bus, but then, what if they left my body out in the sun and I burned up? So that was out. So then I was like, “Oh, duh, cut your wrists?” But it hurt like holy fuck, so I only kind of cut one wrist a little bit, and I bled for like a half hour and I wasn’t even light-headed, so I was all, “Fuck this fun-free circus, I need an accomplice.”

So I called the suicide hotline.

And I’m all, “I need help.”

And the guy is all, “What’s your name?”

And I’m all, “You don’t have caller ID? What kind of lame hotline is this?”

And he’s all, “It says here that your name is Allison. Are you okay, Allison?”

And I’m all, “No, I’m not okay. I’m calling the suicide hotline.”

And he’s all, “You don’t want to commit suicide, Allison.”

And I’m all, “Exactly, doofasaurus, I need someone to take me out. I need it to be quick, private, painless, and it shouldn’t fuck up my hair too much.”

And he’s like, “But there’s so much to live for.”

So I’m like, “You’re burning my minutes, fuckstick. I need a number for a hit man or one of those Kevorkian doctors.”

And he’s all, “I can’t help you with that.”

So I’m all, “Loser!” And I offed my phone.

I can’t believe it, but it turns out that the Motherbot was right. Sometimes, the only people you can trust are family. (“’Scuse me, I barely suppressed a rainbow yawn when I typed that.) So here I am, waiting for my little sister, Ronnie, to get home from school so she can murder me, then hide my body under the bed until I return as the true Mistress of the Greater Bay Area Dark. This will be my last entry as a mortal. I have to go pick out an ensem for my death.

I wonder how she’ll do it? It better be painless or the first thing on my undead to-do list will be to open a bottle of Whoop-Ass P.M. on little sister.