Bad Taste (short story about fast food)
Sep. 30th, 2008 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonniegrrlAwhile back I wrote a short story about a vampire for the LJ community ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mcgriddlefanfic and wanted to re-post it here just in case the community ever went away...
Bad Taste
By Bonnie Burton
---------------------------
"Dammit, this doesn't help at all!" Henry growled. He spit out the cheap whiskey shot and placed the dirty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.
"Sorry mate, it usually works for your lot, maybe you should give some tequila a go," the bartender smirked from behind the counter.
"Nah, forget it. I'm not much of a drinker anyway," Henry sighed. He never liked the taste of alcohol much before, so he wasn't too optimistic that this would do the trick. Spinning slowly on his bar stool, Henry looked to the back of the bar. Not many patrons at 1 am, but enough to keep him from feeling completely alone. Ever since he left the military, making friends didn't exactly come easily.
"Fancy a little company, love?" Henry didn't bother turning towards the cigarette-coo of the barfly who decided to sit next to him. He smelled her dank lilac perfume the minute he walked in. In fact, the dishelved woman smelled more like death than he did, and that was saying something.
"Sorry, not interested." He got up quickly and walked towards the Men's Room, but the odor from toilets that undoubtedly weren't scrubbed for a few decades, made him turn a sharp left towards the payphone. He walked up to the open wooden booth and closed the door behind him. He sat on the small seat and closed his eyes. The smell of the mahogany wood was calming and for once he could think without hearing the dull murmur of thoughts around him.
Henry fumbled in his pocket for a few coins and decided to pick up the phone and call the only person left he knew who could be of any help -- Morty. Around the 5th ring, a gruff voice answered the phone, then it seemed dropped it and picked it up again.
"What?! Who is this? Whatyawant?" Morty yelled.
"It's me, Henry. Hey, why are you asleep? Aren't you supposed to be out and about, lurking in the shadows and chasing after your prey or something?"
"I just got in a little while ago after a big snack. Didn't realize my dinner date was loaded up on Valium. Man that crap can knock you right out. So what do ya want?"
"Look I'm kinda new at this so I need your advice," Henry started. "I just drank and I can't get this awful taste out of my mouth."
"You're kidding, right?" Morty laughed hard. Henry was anything but amused.
"I'm serious. I hate this taste. I feel like I've been snacking on road kill and all I want to do is puke. Nothing is working, not margaritas, not mojitos, not cosmos, not straight up whiskey -- nothing!"
"Did ya try a Bloody Mary?" Morty snorted.
"Hardy har har, that's rich Morty, real rich. You gonna tell me what I should do or are you just gonna be a wise ass?" Henry growled.
"Here's some advice laddie, maybe you're not cut out for this sort of life. If you can't hack the taste of blood, you're gonna be one pathetic vampire. Maybe you better go find yourself one of those hunter kids and let them put you out of your misery. Or better yet you could always re-enlist. I'm sure Uncle Sam would love to see ya again." And with that last biting comment Morty hung up.
"Just great," Henry sighed. He didn't ask to be a vampire. He wasn't the gloom and doom type. Hell, his favorite band was Wham. But no, he had to go sign up for the army to pay off some college loans, and ended up in Special Services because he was too smart for combat and too psycho for a desk job. That'll teach him for volunteering for the classified drug experiment. In a way, he did ask to be a vampire. He just didn't realize that he'd be tasting blood in his mouth for the rest of his undead existence.
I guess it's better than being a zombie. Henry thought. Blood was one thing, but slurping up gray matter sounded a hell of a lot worse.
Henry hung up the phone and looked out the booth window towards the bar stools. Most of the patrons had left and it looked like it would be morning soon. Luckily for Henry, he wasn't one of the Ancients. He was a manufactured vampire who could withstand the sun as long as it was dusk, twilight or foggy. Thankfully, San Francisco never got much sun and ironically in his neighborhood of the Sunset district he could avoid it all together -- lurking in the constant thick fog.
He opened the telephone booth door and walked out. Throwing a few dollars at the bartender for his trouble, Henry grabbed his coat and headed outside. He wasn't sure what to do next considering that the vile taste in his mouth -- now mixed with cheap booze -- continued to linger on his tongue and twirl in his stomach. Drinking the blood of crank addict was a bad idea. The hot liquid that ran across his lips had the pungent properties of decaying flesh and fatty tissue.
How in the hell am I suppose to do this every night? Henry thought. He glanced down the alley in hopes of finding another victim before he called it a night. Most of the homeless he preyed upon were snug in their shelter or cockroach hotel of choice, leaving the streets fairly vacant. And he wasn't about to snack on another junkie.
Just as he was about to give up completely, a flash of purple and yellow flew by him, knocking him down onto the street curb. "Ouch! What the hell!?" Henry yelled.
As he looked up, he saw a man in his late '30s on a bike, dressed head to toe in neon racing gear complete with a blinking helmet. Oblivious to Henry, he was talking his cell phone headset and dangerously wobbling through traffic holding a large coffee and a messenger bag.
"He'll do just fine," Henry grumbled. If there's one way to make the top of a vampire's grocery list, it's by shoving him into the gutter while you chat on your cell phone.
The biker didn't know what hit him. Henry learned to move pretty quickly in the army, but once he became a manufactured weapon, he could beat half he Justice League on the track if he wanted to.
Henry knocked the biker down, tore off his headset, dragged him to an alley leaving his bike in the street and proceeded to drink -- all before the man could scream for help. His blood tasted like a mix of cheap coffee and Red Bull. Better than a junkie but not by much.
He finished quickly and dumped the man's crumpled body in the nearest dumpster. The taste of blood was still there, but Henry knew he'd just have to get used to it all. He was a vampire now and that meant drinking blood no matter how disgusting it tasted. As he turned to head back home, the biker's messenger bag caught his eye. Picking it up, he opened the top flap and a glorious smell wafted through the alley air. Maple syrup, sausage, eggs.... Henry hadn't smelled anything so tantalizing since he was a little boy growing up on his grandfather's ranch. He stood there breathing in the aroma of the breakfast, with a rare smile on his face.
He grabbed the sandwich that was carefully contained within a McDonald's wrapper --"McGriddle." Henry hurriedly unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed it awhile longer. Nothing made him happier than the smell of maple syrup. He hesitated before placing the sandwich in his mouth. Was a vampire allowed to eat real food or just blood? He couldn't remember. Partial sun was fine. Garlic didn't affect him. And their kind didn't give a squat about crosses. "Screw it, this sandwich is worth dying for!" Henry said to himself. And with that, he delighted his senses biting into the pancake-wrapped treat and for the first time since he'd become one of them, he didn't taste blood.
mcgriddlefanfic and wanted to re-post it here just in case the community ever went away...Bad Taste
By Bonnie Burton
---------------------------
"Dammit, this doesn't help at all!" Henry growled. He spit out the cheap whiskey shot and placed the dirty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.
"Sorry mate, it usually works for your lot, maybe you should give some tequila a go," the bartender smirked from behind the counter.
"Nah, forget it. I'm not much of a drinker anyway," Henry sighed. He never liked the taste of alcohol much before, so he wasn't too optimistic that this would do the trick. Spinning slowly on his bar stool, Henry looked to the back of the bar. Not many patrons at 1 am, but enough to keep him from feeling completely alone. Ever since he left the military, making friends didn't exactly come easily.
"Fancy a little company, love?" Henry didn't bother turning towards the cigarette-coo of the barfly who decided to sit next to him. He smelled her dank lilac perfume the minute he walked in. In fact, the dishelved woman smelled more like death than he did, and that was saying something.
"Sorry, not interested." He got up quickly and walked towards the Men's Room, but the odor from toilets that undoubtedly weren't scrubbed for a few decades, made him turn a sharp left towards the payphone. He walked up to the open wooden booth and closed the door behind him. He sat on the small seat and closed his eyes. The smell of the mahogany wood was calming and for once he could think without hearing the dull murmur of thoughts around him.
Henry fumbled in his pocket for a few coins and decided to pick up the phone and call the only person left he knew who could be of any help -- Morty. Around the 5th ring, a gruff voice answered the phone, then it seemed dropped it and picked it up again.
"What?! Who is this? Whatyawant?" Morty yelled.
"It's me, Henry. Hey, why are you asleep? Aren't you supposed to be out and about, lurking in the shadows and chasing after your prey or something?"
"I just got in a little while ago after a big snack. Didn't realize my dinner date was loaded up on Valium. Man that crap can knock you right out. So what do ya want?"
"Look I'm kinda new at this so I need your advice," Henry started. "I just drank and I can't get this awful taste out of my mouth."
"You're kidding, right?" Morty laughed hard. Henry was anything but amused.
"I'm serious. I hate this taste. I feel like I've been snacking on road kill and all I want to do is puke. Nothing is working, not margaritas, not mojitos, not cosmos, not straight up whiskey -- nothing!"
"Did ya try a Bloody Mary?" Morty snorted.
"Hardy har har, that's rich Morty, real rich. You gonna tell me what I should do or are you just gonna be a wise ass?" Henry growled.
"Here's some advice laddie, maybe you're not cut out for this sort of life. If you can't hack the taste of blood, you're gonna be one pathetic vampire. Maybe you better go find yourself one of those hunter kids and let them put you out of your misery. Or better yet you could always re-enlist. I'm sure Uncle Sam would love to see ya again." And with that last biting comment Morty hung up.
"Just great," Henry sighed. He didn't ask to be a vampire. He wasn't the gloom and doom type. Hell, his favorite band was Wham. But no, he had to go sign up for the army to pay off some college loans, and ended up in Special Services because he was too smart for combat and too psycho for a desk job. That'll teach him for volunteering for the classified drug experiment. In a way, he did ask to be a vampire. He just didn't realize that he'd be tasting blood in his mouth for the rest of his undead existence.
I guess it's better than being a zombie. Henry thought. Blood was one thing, but slurping up gray matter sounded a hell of a lot worse.
Henry hung up the phone and looked out the booth window towards the bar stools. Most of the patrons had left and it looked like it would be morning soon. Luckily for Henry, he wasn't one of the Ancients. He was a manufactured vampire who could withstand the sun as long as it was dusk, twilight or foggy. Thankfully, San Francisco never got much sun and ironically in his neighborhood of the Sunset district he could avoid it all together -- lurking in the constant thick fog.
He opened the telephone booth door and walked out. Throwing a few dollars at the bartender for his trouble, Henry grabbed his coat and headed outside. He wasn't sure what to do next considering that the vile taste in his mouth -- now mixed with cheap booze -- continued to linger on his tongue and twirl in his stomach. Drinking the blood of crank addict was a bad idea. The hot liquid that ran across his lips had the pungent properties of decaying flesh and fatty tissue.
How in the hell am I suppose to do this every night? Henry thought. He glanced down the alley in hopes of finding another victim before he called it a night. Most of the homeless he preyed upon were snug in their shelter or cockroach hotel of choice, leaving the streets fairly vacant. And he wasn't about to snack on another junkie.
Just as he was about to give up completely, a flash of purple and yellow flew by him, knocking him down onto the street curb. "Ouch! What the hell!?" Henry yelled.
As he looked up, he saw a man in his late '30s on a bike, dressed head to toe in neon racing gear complete with a blinking helmet. Oblivious to Henry, he was talking his cell phone headset and dangerously wobbling through traffic holding a large coffee and a messenger bag.
"He'll do just fine," Henry grumbled. If there's one way to make the top of a vampire's grocery list, it's by shoving him into the gutter while you chat on your cell phone.
The biker didn't know what hit him. Henry learned to move pretty quickly in the army, but once he became a manufactured weapon, he could beat half he Justice League on the track if he wanted to.
Henry knocked the biker down, tore off his headset, dragged him to an alley leaving his bike in the street and proceeded to drink -- all before the man could scream for help. His blood tasted like a mix of cheap coffee and Red Bull. Better than a junkie but not by much.
He finished quickly and dumped the man's crumpled body in the nearest dumpster. The taste of blood was still there, but Henry knew he'd just have to get used to it all. He was a vampire now and that meant drinking blood no matter how disgusting it tasted. As he turned to head back home, the biker's messenger bag caught his eye. Picking it up, he opened the top flap and a glorious smell wafted through the alley air. Maple syrup, sausage, eggs.... Henry hadn't smelled anything so tantalizing since he was a little boy growing up on his grandfather's ranch. He stood there breathing in the aroma of the breakfast, with a rare smile on his face.
He grabbed the sandwich that was carefully contained within a McDonald's wrapper --"McGriddle." Henry hurriedly unwrapped the sandwich and sniffed it awhile longer. Nothing made him happier than the smell of maple syrup. He hesitated before placing the sandwich in his mouth. Was a vampire allowed to eat real food or just blood? He couldn't remember. Partial sun was fine. Garlic didn't affect him. And their kind didn't give a squat about crosses. "Screw it, this sandwich is worth dying for!" Henry said to himself. And with that, he delighted his senses biting into the pancake-wrapped treat and for the first time since he'd become one of them, he didn't taste blood.
