Untitled Peter Vincent Fiction
Untitled Peter Vincent Fiction
Legal Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to DreamWorks SKG and Albuquerque Studios. No copyright infringement is intended and all work was done within Fair Use guidelines. This story has been written for my own enjoyment and for the enjoyment of my friends and readers. No profit ever has or ever will be made from its existence.
Simple Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing, except for a very warped, messed up mind that likes playing with other people's characters and universes. I make no money from any of this, so please don't sue me. Besides, I've only got about five bucks and half a bottle of whiskey anyway.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Category: Gen
Fandom: Fright Night (2011)
Relationship: None
Characters: Jerry Dandridge, Peter Vincent
Published: 2012-02-06
Words: 2683
Chapters: 1/1
Places Posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/334045 & http://vilawolf.livejournal.com/
Summary: Jerry vs Peter. One on One.
This is likely a one shot, but if I ever get the itch to write about Peter again it may be Peter on Stage and Jerry showing up to finish things. I'm thinking about Peter on stage vs Peter off stage and what would happen and how would the show change with Peter a vampire now and how high would the body count be if Jerry showed up during one of the shows....
So the closing is a sloppy, I hope I got across something about Peter here.
Gripe:
Ok, I just want to say something about this version of Peter Vincent. Yes, I understand his reluctance to fight a vampire. Especially the same vampire that terrorized him as a child and murdered his parents. I understand that in his own home flight overrides fight no matter who dies.
But there is no need to rip him apart in some of the fan fictions that I’ve read people. NONE AT ALL.
What you are missing folks, is that Peter is /damn good/ at his day-job. He HAS to be good at illusion and escapes or he would not be working the holy bloody grail of magical jobs = The Las Vegas Strip. AND… don’t forget, he’s not putting on his show in someone’s basement or the over-stuffed lobby of a back alley casino. He’s headlining the Hard Rock Hotel.
Remember this fact next time you decide to lock him in a closet with a stock door-lock. HE CAN GET OUT. If memory serves one of the deleted/extended scenes was him performing Houdini’s dangling straight-jacket escape. BEING UPSIDE DOWN DOES NOT BOTHER HIM.
HANDCUFFS, CHAINS, PADLOCKS, DOORS, WONT STOP HIM IF HIS ASS IS ON THE LINE. Escape is a vital part of ‘get me the fuck out of here before I die.’ And he is DAMN GOOD at it, you do not get paid a Vegas Headliner’s salary if you suck.
-------------------------------------
Five of them held him down, ripped his shirt and he felt the flesh of his stomach and chest tear as they scratched and bit him. He felt his life drain and in a moment the alcoholic content of his blood nearly doubled, causing the room to spin wildly. Before he had been able to follow the kid here he had taken as much liquid courage as he dared and now with so little blood left in his body he was quickly going from drunk to shit-faced.
They pulled their fangs back and he moaned. A voice from somewhere off to the side, he couldn't quite understand what it said but the vampires backed off. He forced his eyes to focus then wished he hadn't. Jerry was there, standing over him. The face that had haunted his sleep since childhood. The face that had murdered his parents and left him alone in the world. The face that had in a strange way made him the magician he was today.
“Did you really think this would work Pete?”
Somewhere in the blood loss, the torn muscle in his arm, the drunkenness, Peter thought it sounded like a bad line from a show he'd once done.
He groaned when he had meant to say something meaningful, perhaps even defiant. The vampire leaned over him and grabbed him by the now empty ammo belt around his chest and lifted him up. As the room swam he caught a brief look at Charlies body, the girl still over him with blood on her face and it was all he could to not to puke as he thought 'Stupid kid. I told you this would happen.'
Jerry half carried him, half dragged him across the room, up the short steps, down the hallway, and tossed him in a tiny room, no bigger than a storage closet. He landed hard against dirt floor as the door closed and he subconsciously heard the door lock. He picked himself off the floor, his cell was empty save for a large plastic trunk, he leaned against the back wall and slid down into the corner behind the trunk, pulling his knees against him.
He woke up in dim light, more afraid to find himself still alive than glad in his good fortune. The fresh stinging on his neck told him Jerry had been back. The wounds on his chest looked bad, he could barely move one arm and he was sure his leg was infected. He knew what the thin black lines spreading across his body meant. Some desperate, foolish part of him clung to the hope that he could get out of here in time even as he knew it was already too late.
He reached for his cell phone but his pockets where empty. Even the hidden ones for tiny lockpicks, keys and other items he used in his shows and carried out of habit or because he just felt off with out. He looked at the trunk he was hiding behind. Covered in dirt, he brushed it off with a bloody hand. Plastic, gaudy, a goth look to it. The sort of think they sold tourists at the gift shop of the hotel he worked at. No. No, it wasn't... he went around the other side and knelt, brushing off the front of it and winced as he read his name and saw the logo of his show.
A fist to the top, directly over the lock and it popped open. “cheap tourist crap” Why he wanted to look inside he didn't know. With Jerry it could be anything. A body, body parts, apples, or tools. He was hoping for tools, would probably scream if he found body parts, but saw only dirt. He dug in to it but found nothing. He froze as he heard footsteps above him, eyes widening as he tracked them to the trapdoor, relaxing as they moved back. He looked at his watch, rubbing dirt off it's face with a thumb. It had been almost twenty four hours.
He needed a drink, desperately wanted an entire bottle of Midori at least. It was what any self respecting emotionally crippled Englishman lock inside his own nightmare come to life would do in his place. Drown the fear so he could at least die with dignity. The nightmare beast in the closet he knew to be real had finally stepped out of the shadows, reached out a grabbed him and was above him this very moment and he was it's prisoner, it's food until it was done with him and he was either dead or turned. He should have run. He shouldn't have let Charlie convince him he was anything other than the coward he had always pretended to be. He had tried to warn him, tried to tell him to take his girlfriend and run. Now he was dead an she turned and he was locked in a fucking box half dead and starting to turn.
He didn't want to deal with this. He wanted to run. His penthouse wasn't secure or far enough away. Back to England? With his costume and fake tattoos he knew no one back home would recognize him as the magician. That was how he had designed it. So he could go anywhere he wanted without being mobbed by crowds demanding he make their car vanish. But... Jerry had crossed the sea once, probably did it every few years. The part of him that was sober was telling him it was already too late.
The vampire would be back and soon and he was locked in a fucking closet buried thirty feet below ground with nothing of any use. Even the skeleton key that had opened every lock to every hand cuff, padlock and crate in his show he kept for emergencies. All he had was this cheap plastic crate with his name on it, mocking him, screaming at him in large pin-stripped letters 'MASTER OF DARKNESS”.
He was going to die. Jerry was going to kill him. A strange emotion sparked in the back of his throat. There was no such thing as a Magician Proof anything, all it took was time. Enough time and he could get out of a bank vault. Of course anyone could do anything given enough time so an artificial time limit would always be imposed. The coffin on the conveyor belt being drawn into a wood chipper for instance. Any magician worth their stuff could get out of police issue cuffs in less time than it took to close the lid. The time for the coffin to move towards destruction was to give the audience something else to look at while the guy inside knocked out the back panel and dropped to the ground behind the mirror places in front of the belt. Sometimes you didn't even have to slip the cuffs. The trick still worked as long as you made your mark around the other side of the truck (of course in the opposite direction the wood chips would fly so no one saw you crouch-running) and gave a loud enough shout.
He looked at the mocking crate then his eyes slid to the metal plate where the door nob should be, up to the single dim bulb behind plexiglass. He had plenty to work with.
His ear caught the sound of a do it your self brand lock sliding. The kind he had picked nightly while hanging upside down thirty feet in the air with his hands tied behind his back. That stunt came in the second act of his show... the three hot chick vampires would tie him up, hang him by his ankles in a recreation of one of Bathory's many cruelties. All it took was the though of his show to remind him of Ginger....sure they had given each other crap but they had always stuck together. Their relationship was like that. They could yell and insult one moment and hold each others life their hands next. It was the closest he had allowed himself to get to another person, the closest to a normal relationship to another human he had had since his parents and now...
God, she was dead...
The door opened into the blacked hallway, the sober part of him noted the internal hinges on the door as Jerry stood there.
“You're a bastard you know that?”
“And you are a coward.”
“I know that.”
“You taste like you mother.”
He had nothing for that and only watches as the vampire seemed to fill the room while the sober part him tried to tell him it was only because Jerry was blocking the light. In the moment he looked away his eyes and the side of his head suddenly throbbed a pounding ache and he dropped to his knees, not sure if he was punched or kicked. He felt a sharp pain on his collar bone, a nerve pinched an his arm felt like it was simultaneously on fire and going numb. He clenched his jaw, caught his breath and it took every ounce of him not to scream as Jerry fed.
The door was closing and he was crying. His arm was numb to the fingertips and he used his other hand to stuff the injured one into it's pocket. He pulled himself to his corner behind the dirt filled chest and wedged himself in. How many now? Two from Jerry. How many from the others? His chest and leg counted five minimum. He had to get out of here. He had to.. no.. not to sleep. That was bad.
Jerry's voice some how clear even down the hall … “Not long now. Not, if you die during the day Pete.”
He hissed back, though weak and a voice wracked with pain and grief “fucking snacker.”
He just wanted to lean back and sleep. To close his eyes for a moment. He could set the alarm on his watch to wake him up. No. The sober part of his mind was now screaming at him to stay awake. He tried to stand but his heart couldn't take any sudden movements and he nearly blacked out. The blackness edging in his vision, the numbness behind his ears, the faint and already fading taste of a copper penny in his mouth. He tried again, pulling himself up slowly.
If he could not get out of here, he had no right calling himself a Master Magician let alone the Master of Darkness. He kicked the crate over, picked it up and shook out the dirt.
“CHEAP PLASTIC TOURIST CRAP!” he rammed it against the door as above him Jerry smiled, nursing a beer and listing to everything going on under him.
He ended up having to stomp the crate swearing about injection molding until he had broken off a piece small enough for his purposes. He rubbed one side of it against the cement wall until his arm woke up, then used that hand to keep working at the edge, looking at his watch every so often. Around five am the footsteps above him moved in the direction of the trap door and he slipped the sliver of plastic into the long pocket in the waistband of his jeans.
The lock clicked and Jerry smiled.
“Now why did you do that? I paid good money for that when I saw your show last month.”
“I'll get you another one.”
“Some master of the dark arts you are Pete. A vampire in your audience and you didn't even know.”
“You have any idea how many faces I see every night?”
He couldn't help but feel annoyed at the familiarity of the bad show-like dialog.
The vampire smiled, set the flask on the dirt pile gave one more smile and locked the door. Minutes ticked away as he stared at it. For the first time in a long while he knew he shouldn't drink. His heart and liver probably could not take it and he had something to do. He picked it up and looked at it. He flicked it open and took a sip. Just a coward who pretended nightly to be a fearless vampire killer. What the hell, it was already too late.
He was exhausted & dizzy but he did not let himself sleep. He had worked on that bit of plastic for most of the day, thinning one end of it until it would be useful to him, the rest of it had gone swimmingly fast. He eyed his watch, waiting for the moment he knew would come. Once out of his cell, he locked the door, made for the few items he wanted to take with him, and was up the trapdoor. Here he waited a moment, watching his watch again. He could hear the vampire in the main house, waiting for his mark. It wouldn't do to have Jerry see him try and tun for his life … finally his cue came with the garage door sliding closed. He opened the panel in the closet and was out of the house.
At the entrance to the subdivision he stopped a car, borrowed a cell phone and in a few minutes Hotel Security had a small army of police at Jerry's while he was long since whisked away back to the hotel. The Hard Rock offered the man who's cell phone he had borrowed several thousand to never blog or talk of this until an official statement was given, while also putting he and his wife up in the hotel. While in the ambulance he over heard the emt comment on his too low bp on the radio and he said something about a psychotic who thought he was a vampire who had kidnapped him. He'd seen bodies in a dug-out basement... the Hotel Representative sitting next to him looked at him, looked at the emt and was on the phone with the hotel about that thing they had always talked about but never thought would actually happen.
He turned on the news two days later to a reporter talking about a house of horrors. He had convinced the hospital staff to allow him to leave once his more severe injuries were looked at and tended to. Severe anemia could easily be treated at home, when money wasn't an issue. The at home nurse looked from her charts and machine as the raid unfolded live to the world. His name wasn't mentioned in a single report (that's the PR department for you. They has assured him a 'leak' was planted to let his name slip in a few weeks, however, an engendered reveal for the most bang)
Seven bodies were found and brought out, at least two of them bursting into flames once the sun touched the half zipped body bags. That left five vampires plus Jerry. He'd have to remember that. Jerry wasn't home though, the obvious signs of quick packing in the house. He wondered how long it took it to realize he was gone and how long of a head start he'd really had, or if it had simply let him go. Had it been angry or amused? The clock told him it was 2 pm. His bedroom windowless yet brightly lit. The windows in the main room were wide open to the sun as long as she was here.
He pulled a shirt on, and put his wig on, the mustache and goatee went on in the doorway. Pulled his long coat on and cocked a finger at the nurse as he pushed the button for his elevator. By the time he reached the stage he was in character. A quick rehearsal, two shows later and a girl was sharing the elevator ride back up with him. She was only slightly drunk as they poked around his collection. Neatly cleaned up and repaired in his absence.
They chatted about this and that until he remembered that he had promised her dinner. She laughed until she caught his reflection.
He loved this town.
Legal Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to DreamWorks SKG and Albuquerque Studios. No copyright infringement is intended and all work was done within Fair Use guidelines. This story has been written for my own enjoyment and for the enjoyment of my friends and readers. No profit ever has or ever will be made from its existence.
Simple Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing, except for a very warped, messed up mind that likes playing with other people's characters and universes. I make no money from any of this, so please don't sue me. Besides, I've only got about five bucks and half a bottle of whiskey anyway.
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Category: Gen
Fandom: Fright Night (2011)
Relationship: None
Characters: Jerry Dandridge, Peter Vincent
Published: 2012-02-06
Words: 2683
Chapters: 1/1
Places Posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/334045 & http://vilawolf.livejournal.com/
Summary: Jerry vs Peter. One on One.
This is likely a one shot, but if I ever get the itch to write about Peter again it may be Peter on Stage and Jerry showing up to finish things. I'm thinking about Peter on stage vs Peter off stage and what would happen and how would the show change with Peter a vampire now and how high would the body count be if Jerry showed up during one of the shows....
So the closing is a sloppy, I hope I got across something about Peter here.
Gripe:
Ok, I just want to say something about this version of Peter Vincent. Yes, I understand his reluctance to fight a vampire. Especially the same vampire that terrorized him as a child and murdered his parents. I understand that in his own home flight overrides fight no matter who dies.
But there is no need to rip him apart in some of the fan fictions that I’ve read people. NONE AT ALL.
What you are missing folks, is that Peter is /damn good/ at his day-job. He HAS to be good at illusion and escapes or he would not be working the holy bloody grail of magical jobs = The Las Vegas Strip. AND… don’t forget, he’s not putting on his show in someone’s basement or the over-stuffed lobby of a back alley casino. He’s headlining the Hard Rock Hotel.
Remember this fact next time you decide to lock him in a closet with a stock door-lock. HE CAN GET OUT. If memory serves one of the deleted/extended scenes was him performing Houdini’s dangling straight-jacket escape. BEING UPSIDE DOWN DOES NOT BOTHER HIM.
HANDCUFFS, CHAINS, PADLOCKS, DOORS, WONT STOP HIM IF HIS ASS IS ON THE LINE. Escape is a vital part of ‘get me the fuck out of here before I die.’ And he is DAMN GOOD at it, you do not get paid a Vegas Headliner’s salary if you suck.
-------------------------------------
Five of them held him down, ripped his shirt and he felt the flesh of his stomach and chest tear as they scratched and bit him. He felt his life drain and in a moment the alcoholic content of his blood nearly doubled, causing the room to spin wildly. Before he had been able to follow the kid here he had taken as much liquid courage as he dared and now with so little blood left in his body he was quickly going from drunk to shit-faced.
They pulled their fangs back and he moaned. A voice from somewhere off to the side, he couldn't quite understand what it said but the vampires backed off. He forced his eyes to focus then wished he hadn't. Jerry was there, standing over him. The face that had haunted his sleep since childhood. The face that had murdered his parents and left him alone in the world. The face that had in a strange way made him the magician he was today.
“Did you really think this would work Pete?”
Somewhere in the blood loss, the torn muscle in his arm, the drunkenness, Peter thought it sounded like a bad line from a show he'd once done.
He groaned when he had meant to say something meaningful, perhaps even defiant. The vampire leaned over him and grabbed him by the now empty ammo belt around his chest and lifted him up. As the room swam he caught a brief look at Charlies body, the girl still over him with blood on her face and it was all he could to not to puke as he thought 'Stupid kid. I told you this would happen.'
Jerry half carried him, half dragged him across the room, up the short steps, down the hallway, and tossed him in a tiny room, no bigger than a storage closet. He landed hard against dirt floor as the door closed and he subconsciously heard the door lock. He picked himself off the floor, his cell was empty save for a large plastic trunk, he leaned against the back wall and slid down into the corner behind the trunk, pulling his knees against him.
He woke up in dim light, more afraid to find himself still alive than glad in his good fortune. The fresh stinging on his neck told him Jerry had been back. The wounds on his chest looked bad, he could barely move one arm and he was sure his leg was infected. He knew what the thin black lines spreading across his body meant. Some desperate, foolish part of him clung to the hope that he could get out of here in time even as he knew it was already too late.
He reached for his cell phone but his pockets where empty. Even the hidden ones for tiny lockpicks, keys and other items he used in his shows and carried out of habit or because he just felt off with out. He looked at the trunk he was hiding behind. Covered in dirt, he brushed it off with a bloody hand. Plastic, gaudy, a goth look to it. The sort of think they sold tourists at the gift shop of the hotel he worked at. No. No, it wasn't... he went around the other side and knelt, brushing off the front of it and winced as he read his name and saw the logo of his show.
A fist to the top, directly over the lock and it popped open. “cheap tourist crap” Why he wanted to look inside he didn't know. With Jerry it could be anything. A body, body parts, apples, or tools. He was hoping for tools, would probably scream if he found body parts, but saw only dirt. He dug in to it but found nothing. He froze as he heard footsteps above him, eyes widening as he tracked them to the trapdoor, relaxing as they moved back. He looked at his watch, rubbing dirt off it's face with a thumb. It had been almost twenty four hours.
He needed a drink, desperately wanted an entire bottle of Midori at least. It was what any self respecting emotionally crippled Englishman lock inside his own nightmare come to life would do in his place. Drown the fear so he could at least die with dignity. The nightmare beast in the closet he knew to be real had finally stepped out of the shadows, reached out a grabbed him and was above him this very moment and he was it's prisoner, it's food until it was done with him and he was either dead or turned. He should have run. He shouldn't have let Charlie convince him he was anything other than the coward he had always pretended to be. He had tried to warn him, tried to tell him to take his girlfriend and run. Now he was dead an she turned and he was locked in a fucking box half dead and starting to turn.
He didn't want to deal with this. He wanted to run. His penthouse wasn't secure or far enough away. Back to England? With his costume and fake tattoos he knew no one back home would recognize him as the magician. That was how he had designed it. So he could go anywhere he wanted without being mobbed by crowds demanding he make their car vanish. But... Jerry had crossed the sea once, probably did it every few years. The part of him that was sober was telling him it was already too late.
The vampire would be back and soon and he was locked in a fucking closet buried thirty feet below ground with nothing of any use. Even the skeleton key that had opened every lock to every hand cuff, padlock and crate in his show he kept for emergencies. All he had was this cheap plastic crate with his name on it, mocking him, screaming at him in large pin-stripped letters 'MASTER OF DARKNESS”.
He was going to die. Jerry was going to kill him. A strange emotion sparked in the back of his throat. There was no such thing as a Magician Proof anything, all it took was time. Enough time and he could get out of a bank vault. Of course anyone could do anything given enough time so an artificial time limit would always be imposed. The coffin on the conveyor belt being drawn into a wood chipper for instance. Any magician worth their stuff could get out of police issue cuffs in less time than it took to close the lid. The time for the coffin to move towards destruction was to give the audience something else to look at while the guy inside knocked out the back panel and dropped to the ground behind the mirror places in front of the belt. Sometimes you didn't even have to slip the cuffs. The trick still worked as long as you made your mark around the other side of the truck (of course in the opposite direction the wood chips would fly so no one saw you crouch-running) and gave a loud enough shout.
He looked at the mocking crate then his eyes slid to the metal plate where the door nob should be, up to the single dim bulb behind plexiglass. He had plenty to work with.
His ear caught the sound of a do it your self brand lock sliding. The kind he had picked nightly while hanging upside down thirty feet in the air with his hands tied behind his back. That stunt came in the second act of his show... the three hot chick vampires would tie him up, hang him by his ankles in a recreation of one of Bathory's many cruelties. All it took was the though of his show to remind him of Ginger....sure they had given each other crap but they had always stuck together. Their relationship was like that. They could yell and insult one moment and hold each others life their hands next. It was the closest he had allowed himself to get to another person, the closest to a normal relationship to another human he had had since his parents and now...
God, she was dead...
The door opened into the blacked hallway, the sober part of him noted the internal hinges on the door as Jerry stood there.
“You're a bastard you know that?”
“And you are a coward.”
“I know that.”
“You taste like you mother.”
He had nothing for that and only watches as the vampire seemed to fill the room while the sober part him tried to tell him it was only because Jerry was blocking the light. In the moment he looked away his eyes and the side of his head suddenly throbbed a pounding ache and he dropped to his knees, not sure if he was punched or kicked. He felt a sharp pain on his collar bone, a nerve pinched an his arm felt like it was simultaneously on fire and going numb. He clenched his jaw, caught his breath and it took every ounce of him not to scream as Jerry fed.
The door was closing and he was crying. His arm was numb to the fingertips and he used his other hand to stuff the injured one into it's pocket. He pulled himself to his corner behind the dirt filled chest and wedged himself in. How many now? Two from Jerry. How many from the others? His chest and leg counted five minimum. He had to get out of here. He had to.. no.. not to sleep. That was bad.
Jerry's voice some how clear even down the hall … “Not long now. Not, if you die during the day Pete.”
He hissed back, though weak and a voice wracked with pain and grief “fucking snacker.”
He just wanted to lean back and sleep. To close his eyes for a moment. He could set the alarm on his watch to wake him up. No. The sober part of his mind was now screaming at him to stay awake. He tried to stand but his heart couldn't take any sudden movements and he nearly blacked out. The blackness edging in his vision, the numbness behind his ears, the faint and already fading taste of a copper penny in his mouth. He tried again, pulling himself up slowly.
If he could not get out of here, he had no right calling himself a Master Magician let alone the Master of Darkness. He kicked the crate over, picked it up and shook out the dirt.
“CHEAP PLASTIC TOURIST CRAP!” he rammed it against the door as above him Jerry smiled, nursing a beer and listing to everything going on under him.
He ended up having to stomp the crate swearing about injection molding until he had broken off a piece small enough for his purposes. He rubbed one side of it against the cement wall until his arm woke up, then used that hand to keep working at the edge, looking at his watch every so often. Around five am the footsteps above him moved in the direction of the trap door and he slipped the sliver of plastic into the long pocket in the waistband of his jeans.
The lock clicked and Jerry smiled.
“Now why did you do that? I paid good money for that when I saw your show last month.”
“I'll get you another one.”
“Some master of the dark arts you are Pete. A vampire in your audience and you didn't even know.”
“You have any idea how many faces I see every night?”
He couldn't help but feel annoyed at the familiarity of the bad show-like dialog.
The vampire smiled, set the flask on the dirt pile gave one more smile and locked the door. Minutes ticked away as he stared at it. For the first time in a long while he knew he shouldn't drink. His heart and liver probably could not take it and he had something to do. He picked it up and looked at it. He flicked it open and took a sip. Just a coward who pretended nightly to be a fearless vampire killer. What the hell, it was already too late.
He was exhausted & dizzy but he did not let himself sleep. He had worked on that bit of plastic for most of the day, thinning one end of it until it would be useful to him, the rest of it had gone swimmingly fast. He eyed his watch, waiting for the moment he knew would come. Once out of his cell, he locked the door, made for the few items he wanted to take with him, and was up the trapdoor. Here he waited a moment, watching his watch again. He could hear the vampire in the main house, waiting for his mark. It wouldn't do to have Jerry see him try and tun for his life … finally his cue came with the garage door sliding closed. He opened the panel in the closet and was out of the house.
At the entrance to the subdivision he stopped a car, borrowed a cell phone and in a few minutes Hotel Security had a small army of police at Jerry's while he was long since whisked away back to the hotel. The Hard Rock offered the man who's cell phone he had borrowed several thousand to never blog or talk of this until an official statement was given, while also putting he and his wife up in the hotel. While in the ambulance he over heard the emt comment on his too low bp on the radio and he said something about a psychotic who thought he was a vampire who had kidnapped him. He'd seen bodies in a dug-out basement... the Hotel Representative sitting next to him looked at him, looked at the emt and was on the phone with the hotel about that thing they had always talked about but never thought would actually happen.
He turned on the news two days later to a reporter talking about a house of horrors. He had convinced the hospital staff to allow him to leave once his more severe injuries were looked at and tended to. Severe anemia could easily be treated at home, when money wasn't an issue. The at home nurse looked from her charts and machine as the raid unfolded live to the world. His name wasn't mentioned in a single report (that's the PR department for you. They has assured him a 'leak' was planted to let his name slip in a few weeks, however, an engendered reveal for the most bang)
Seven bodies were found and brought out, at least two of them bursting into flames once the sun touched the half zipped body bags. That left five vampires plus Jerry. He'd have to remember that. Jerry wasn't home though, the obvious signs of quick packing in the house. He wondered how long it took it to realize he was gone and how long of a head start he'd really had, or if it had simply let him go. Had it been angry or amused? The clock told him it was 2 pm. His bedroom windowless yet brightly lit. The windows in the main room were wide open to the sun as long as she was here.
He pulled a shirt on, and put his wig on, the mustache and goatee went on in the doorway. Pulled his long coat on and cocked a finger at the nurse as he pushed the button for his elevator. By the time he reached the stage he was in character. A quick rehearsal, two shows later and a girl was sharing the elevator ride back up with him. She was only slightly drunk as they poked around his collection. Neatly cleaned up and repaired in his absence.
They chatted about this and that until he remembered that he had promised her dinner. She laughed until she caught his reflection.
He loved this town.