Liora tells me things I didn't know, mostly because I've been too caught up in my own shit. Turns out that Tony—that filthy German with a messiah complex and the charisma of a televangelist—doesn't just want followers. Oh no. He wants worshippers. Fanatics. Vampires who kiss his feet while he promises them a "new dawn" or some other recycled esoteric crap. He wants to be a savior. A fang-bearing redeemer. The chosen one who'll take us all to "the next level." Please. How many times do we have to hear this fucking story? How many more idiots with delusions of grandeur and flocks of drooling sheep do we have to endure? Religious vampires. Now there's a first. Devotees of a cardboard prophet with a German accent. Tony wants to be what Jesus is to Christians. A kind of Teutonic Muhammad, laying down vampire scripture to be obeyed without question. A fang-wielding Führer. He wants to found his own little Fourth Reich right here in Portuondo. Disgusting. Hilarious. Makes me want to set him on fire.
I caught one of Tony's followers. They call him Skinny Jan. A vampire so scrawny I could crush him with one hand. And I will. But first, I need something more valuable than his blood. I paralyzed him with my mind alone—didn't even lift a finger. Would be nice to do the same to Tony. But let's be real. That raving German lunatic isn't just any bottom-feeding vampire. Well, maybe to Du la Font he is. I'm pretty sure Du la Font would've wrapped this up in a blink. Ah, my dear Du la Font. My monstrous, magnificent Du la Font. I hope I get to talk to him again someday—not as a worm groveling at his feet, but as someone worthy. I want to see him again and hear him say: "Look at you, boy. What a marvel you've become. What a pleasure to witness the form I once only imagined. You've left behind the mud, the filth. Now you walk tall among the immortals. I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. Deep in the night, even when you were just an insignificant whisper, I knew this moment would come. Come now. Claim what's yours. The blood of the virgin bodies has been offered—and it is worthy of you." Anyway. Enough daydreaming. If they kill me, I won't get to enjoy the future I've been imagining. If they kill me, goodbye to the dream—which, by the way, isn't that far-fetched: Living in a big city with Irene. Getting accepted into Du la Font's bloodline. Becoming a vampire of noble standing. Not fearing Agnes anymore because my powers would equal hers—or maybe even surpass them. But yeah. That's enough. The ones who dream too much never get to live. Back to business: I need to kill Tony.
I ask Skinny Jan, "What's all this about, you filthy cockroach?"
He looks at me with a crooked smile and says, "I've seen vampires pray."
"Pray?" I blink. "Wait… what the fuck did you just say?"
"I've seen vampires pray," he repeats.
"Oh, fuck off. Pray? A vampire? Pray to what? The Fang Fairy?"
He ignores me. Looks up at the ceiling like he's witnessing divine bullshit dripping from a water stain.
"I've seen vampires bleed," he adds.
"Well, that one I believe. I've seen plenty of them bleed. Some even scream—if you're not in a rush and feel like getting creative first."
Skinny Jan lowers his head, locks eyes with me, and says, "Only those who do both understand what we are."
"What? What the fuck are you talking about, man? Is that a riddle? A church hymn? Are you trying to sell me some kind of dark vitamin supplement?"
And then he gets all intense. His pupils dilate. His face stretches like he's about to morph into a biblical revelation.
"I've seen vampires pray. I've seen vampires bleed. Only those who do both understand what we are."
And again:
"I've seen vampires pray. I've seen vampires bleed. Only those who do both understand what we are."
And again.
I watch him go at it one more time, that face of his lit up like a cheap prophet who just found enlightenment at the bottom of a dog's artery.
"Pray and bleed, huh?" I say.
Then I slam his head against the wall.
"Well, your turn to bleed, then.
This bastard, Skinny Jan, is crazier than a rabid goat. Tony fried his brain already. Turned it into cult-flavored mashed potatoes. Still, this little chat with the enlightened one wasn't a complete waste. Now I know Tony doesn't just want power. He wants total control. He's brainwashing people, branding minds, slipping into the cracks of every lonely vampire in this city. And here's the uncomfortable truth: I was never safe. Not even if I had handed over Portuondo on a silver platter, gift-wrapped with a fucking bow. Tony would've come for me anyway. He would've demanded my surrender. And what does that look like, in his preacher dialect? Easy: me, kneeling down and kissing his feet. Saying: "Yes, Tony, you are the chosen one. Our guide. Our glorious bloodsucking leader. Show us the way, oh magnificent degenerate German, and lead us to the vampiric utopia where no one thinks, we just obey and clap." And of course, since I wouldn't do that in a million fucking years—because I have something called dignity—Tony would've taken me out. Not alone, obviously. He'd come with his pack of devoted little sheep. His sectarians. His glassy-eyed vassals. Vampires I could shred without breaking a sweat if they came at me one by one. But they won't. They'll swarm me. Corner me. Tear me to pieces. There's no such thing as a fair fight. There never was. And that's something my mother taught me. You know, the prostitute. And now, dear friends, let me tell you a short but juicy little story.
When I was a kid, about eleven years old and still going to school—a waste of time, by the way—there was this boy who beat me up every day. One of those types who'd flunked two grades already, with a liver-shaped face and a brain made of pumice stone. He hit me for fun, for habit, for sport. He hated me. Envied me. Not to brag (okay, absolutely to brag), but I was a really pretty kid. A young Tadzio. A rare flower blooming in a garbage heap. And he, of course, was the opposite: ugly, clumsy, a gorilla with less brains than a chicken.
Punches to the gut. Kicks to the chest. A black eye. I got home, and my mother asked how many were against me. I told her it was just one. She looked at me with disgust and said:
"Why'd you let one guy do that to you? What, are you crippled or something?
I cried. Through sobs, I said:
"Because he's stronger."
And she—loving as ever—slapped me so hard I swear it echoed all the way to Hawaii.
"Stop crying like a little girl," she said. "Because I swear, if you don't shut up, the next one's gonna knock your head off."
I tried to stop crying. I really did. But I couldn't. She raised her hand again.
"Please, Mom! Okay! Okay, I'm stopping! Just give me ten seconds! Or five! Three!"
I barely managed to shut off the tears. She stared at me with those veteran-general eyes and said:
"You have to face him."
"But he's stronger. He always beats me."
"Of course he's stronger. And you're an idiot. Tell me—what do armies do when the enemy is stronger, huh?"
"I don't know, Mom."
She smacked me again. Not too hard. Just enough to reset my brain.
"You stupid boy! You don't know anything. You can't even analyze a basic situation. I can't believe I gave birth to such a moron."
"Sorry. Sorry for being stupid."
"When the enemy is stronger," she said, "you attack him by surprise. That's how you win."
"From behind?"
"Exactly."
"But my fists aren't that strong, Mom."
"I know. Don't remind me. You've got arms like overcooked noodles. At some point you're gonna need to hit the weights, because no one respects a boy with girl arms. Now tell me something."
"What?"
"Do rocks not exist? Do sticks not exist? That baseball bat your father stole and then gave you like it was a fucking heirloom—does that not exist?"
"Should I hit him with that?"
"Yes. And don't hold back. Hit him like you're sending him straight to the ER, to spend the rest of his miserable life eating mush through a straw."
I hit that kid so hard he never went back to normal. He turned into a drooling vegetable. Really unpleasant. Horrible, actually. I waited for him in an alley, and when he passed, I walked up and hit him. And hit him again. And kept hitting him until the bat begged me to stop. No one ever found out it was me. And something changed in me that day. My eyes changed. After that, no one ever messed with me again. I guess my face started saying: "If you mess with me, I'll kill you. I don't care. I have no limits. Consequences mean nothing to me." And that, believe me, sends a message. Mom helped with that. She'd fought her own battles. She knew what it was. Once, she killed one of her pimps. Stabbed him in the back while the bastard was sleeping face down. Dad—yeah, that charming little con man—helped her with the body. They wrapped him in sheets and dumped him in a garbage container. That's where they found him. In the trash. No one investigated anything. Come on. He was just a street pimp. Another piece of societal scum.
Anyway. Back to the present. Or the past, technically. I've got Skinny Jan in my kitchen, reciting some nonsensical mantra. A room I never use, of course. Not to heat blood. Not to pretend I'm civilized.
I tell Liora:
"Go. And close the door."
"Are you going to kill him, sir?" she asks.
"Obviously. What did you think? That I invited him over to have a nice chat and watch a movie? And hell, I already told you not to call me 'sir.' Just say Zico. Zico's enough."
"Okay, sir."
"Oh, for fuck's sake. Just go."
Liora leaves and shuts the door. I destroy Skinny Jan. No theatrics. No mercy. His body vanishes. All that's left is his head, lying like a soccer ball near the fridge. The fridge, by the way, is empty and unplugged. The kitchen is a disaster. Blood everywhere. There's more splatter in here than in Braindead. And that's saying a lot. I'll have to hypnotize a couple humans to come clean it up.
While I stare at the head, I think of Tony. That bastard. Soon I'll see you in the same pitiful state as this loyal little follower of yours affectionately known as Skinny Jan.
I walk out to the living room. Liora looks at me. I'm covered in blood.
She says, "Do you want me to clean the kitchen, sir?"
"I already told you not to call me 'sir.' And no. That's what humans are for."
"But if you want, I can do it. I want to be useful."
"You can't be, Liora. Not in this war. You're an artist. Just do what you know how to do. I'll protect you."
"Thank you, sir."
"I told you—ah, screw it. Do whatever you want."