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Kevin Temple’s obsession with vampires began at an early age.
It was a Wednesday night in 1971 and Kevin, eight years old, watched the ABC movie of the week with his three older brothers. The movie, called the Night Stalker, unlike the usual crap the networks played, was actually pretty decent. Darin McGavin was a loser of a Vegas reporter who was the first to discern that it was a vampire ripping people throats out and draining their blood. That it was set in Sin City obviously raised the degree of difficulty in terms of identifying a vampire as the culprit as opposed to, say, the thousands of casinos that perform the same act day after day.
The next day, Mother left the boys alone. She said she had to pick up a few things at the store but Kevin never believed it. This was a set up, pure and simple. Kevin made the mistake of leaving the couch to handle a personal hygiene issue. Upon his return, he found his eldest brother Derrick lying straight as a board on the couch, arms neatly folded in front of him. The other brothers had disappeared. Derrick, eyes closed and face expressionless, slowly bent at his torso to raise his upper half from the couch. His eyes opened with a flash and he growled and bared his teeth.
Kevin, believing his brother was a real vampire, ran for his hiding place, the underside of his bed.
Kevin refused to come out even after Mother had whipped Derrick and made him smile at Kevin while explaining that he was just playing.
Kevin knew the truth - his brother was a vampire. Years later and he’s still not comfortable around him wearing a shirt with an exposed neck.
The nightmares began that night. Over the last thirty-six years, the nightmares have morphed into their own genres.
There is the political genre, where the vampire makes some type of stump speech, then to Kevin’s horror begins to rip the throats out of his constituents until, finally, he discovers Kevin at the back of the room. This dream, like most others, usually ends with the vampire in hot pursuit, its saliva and hot breath reaching Kevin’s neck.
The zombie genre is a crossover of sorts. You have the typical Dawn of the Dead type creatures roaming about but, instead of brains, they want to suck your blood.
There is the barricaded in your own house genre. Typical in this, Kevin is holed up in his house with a brother or his wife. The waking point, when Kevin screams or flails himself awake, is when the brother or wife turns into a vampire and comes for Kevin.
With fatherhood, Kevin developed the juvenile genre, where his six-year-old daughter is the star. Kevin either has to save little Bethany from the vicious night creatures or, and this is truly sad, he imagines the poor child as a vampire, trying for her father’s neck after a loving embrace.
There are many others that I won’t tire you with. Needless to say, Kevin Temple has vampire issues. It could be argued, and the trained psychologists among you surely will, that Kevin is expressing deeply held anxieties through his dreams.
Despite it all, Kevin has been reasonably successful in life. He has married a dependable if not overly bright or beautiful or clean or rich woman, Audrey, and they have the above mentioned daughter, regrettably already on her mother’s path to mediocrity, and a fine single family home on .45 acre in the far suburbs. Kevin works as an area manager for a satellite TV company, a position of little duty or accomplishment but sufficient cheddar to keep the bills paid.
This evening, Kevin Temple has come home to an empty nest - Audrey and Bethany were at the Y for a Brownies meeting. After cleaning up the dishes lovingly stacked in the sink by his wife, Kevin changed into his lay around the house clothes, fixed himself a plate and ate in blissful silence. He tidied up the kitchen, grabbed a book and proceeded to fall asleep in his comfy chair.
The doorbell woke him. Who would be at the door at this hour? In the burbs, the only people who showed their faces at your door after dark were the police. Kevin, remembering his wife’s attraction to the side doors of other passenger vehicles, stood up as if electric shocked. His concern was for his daughter, already the survivor of more accidents than a veteran NASCAR driver.
Kevin undid the double locks and opened his front door. A man stood there, an unremarkable man dressed plainly in a black suit, white shirt and red tie.
“Can I help you?” Kevin asked.
“I’m here to help you,” the man said. His thin lips barely moved as he spoke.
“Who are you?”
“I’ve been sent to help you,” the man said.
“Sent by who?” Kevin looked past the man. There was no one else out there, not even a vehicle.
“I’ve come because of your dreams.”
“My dreams?” Kevin vaguely remembered last night’s nightmare, the one where the vampire pimp turned Kevin out as a gigolo before sucking his blood. “Did Audrey send you? Damn it, I told her I don’t need any shrinks.”
“I was sent by my fellows.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I would be glad to explain, inside.”
“Screw this!” Kevin shouted and slammed the door shut.
Some time later, Kevin had the occasion to use the upstairs bathroom. After he concluded his business he washed his hands. As he dried them he felt that someone was watching him. He turned to his right and just outside his window, hovering a dozen feet above the driveway, was the man.
Kevin watched him calmly. He understood now what the man was. He was saying something. Kevin opened the window so that he could hear the words.
“I would like to come in to discuss your dreams.” The man’s mouth opened wider than before and Kevin could clearly see the man’s enlarged incisors.
Now Kevin, the consumer of media images of vampires from Christopher Lee to Buffy, knew that he was in control here. He, the homeowner, had to invite the vampire inside or he couldn’t enter.
“How do I know you won’t just suck my blood?”
“You don’t. You have to have faith.”
“Faith. Are you God?”
The man seemed to consider the question.
“No, I don’t believe he is one of us.”
“I don’t want to let you in.”
“If you don’t, I’ll simply wait for your wife and daughter to return and ask them if I may enter.”
It was the first aggressive, threatening statement the man had made. It chilled Kevin, the thought of his daughter accosted by a vampire. Admittedly, some part of him thrilled at the image of his wife lying in the boysenberry bushes with her throat ripped out.
“I’ll let you in,” Kevin said and walked downstairs. The man was waiting as Kevin opened the front door.
Kevin opened the door wide. The man didn’t move. “You have to say the words,” he said calmly.
“Please come in,” Kevin said dryly.
The man walked past him and Kevin shivered.
The man stepped into the family room. “Mind if we get comfortable?” he asked.
“No,” Kevin replied and, before he could catch himself, he asked if the man wanted something to drink.
The man’s fangs extended well past his lips, his eyes took on a yellowish, bestial glow.
The two stared at each other for a half-minute, each torn between primordial responses.
The creature sighed and the teeth retreated and his eyes looked as bored and benign as before.
“You may want to avoid that particular invitation,” he said dryly.
Kevin, a bit shaken, motioned for the man to sit on his couch. Kevin sat opposite in his comfy chair.
“So, what do you want?”
“My name is Richard Frump. My fellows have sent me. My objective is to stop your dreams.”
Kevin’s face turned sour. “Richard Frump? I thought a vampire could come up with a cooler name. Like Ricardo Jett or something.”
“Hardly. This is what I was named three hundred and forty seven years ago and this is what I am still called today.”
“Who are these fellows? Are you guys like a club or frat?”
“I refer to my fellows in the legion of the undead.”
“You mean vampires?”
The man winced like he had just suffered a paper cut.
“We don’t use that term. We prefer the undead. If you must, call us nosforatu. We kind of like that, it sounds vaguely exotic. But vampire...” He shook his head. “That phrase is sooo...demeaning.”
“How do y’all know about my dreams?”
“Who doesn’t know? You even told the parts supplier at your job.”
“Bennie?” Kevin shook his head. “Nah, don’t tell me Bennie is down with you guys?”
“Yes, Bernard is one of the undead.”
“Little Bennie? My God, he wears glasses and walks with a limp.”
“The undead are very inclusive.”
“Who else do I know is a vam...uh...undead?”
“You’re wife’s best friend Velma is one of us.”
“That bitch! God dammed pain in my ass for years! How about my mother in law? She’s gotta be an undead.”
“We did look at her but some among us thought her too vicious to admit.”
“I hear Bin Laden said the same thing.” Kevin laughed.
“We have many personalities, Kevin, just like any other group of people.”
“People?”
“We’re people too, Kevin, just different.”
Kevin nodded.
“Anyway, on to the issue at hand.”
“My dreams.”
“Yes, they are becoming a problem.”
“How can something going on in my head be a problem for you?”
“If they just stayed in your head that would be okay. Unfortunately you tell everyone. Frankly, Kevin, you’re hurting the image of the undead.”
“You guys have an image?”
“Sure. Bram Stoker got the ball rolling in the mass media with a fairly bleak image, one we’ve been trying to recover from for over a hundred years. We’ve had some success in the recent past with positive images, where the undead is a sympathetic character, even heroic. Have you seen Angel?”
“Sure. The vampire with a soul.”
“There goes the v word again.”
“Sorry.”
“Old habits die hard, I know.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it’s been brought to our attention that you are considering mental health care.”
“Damn Bennie.”
“Actually it wasn’t Bernard who told us. Ethel Smith informed us.”
“My librarian?”
“Yes. Did you know Ethel came to the New World at Jamestown?”
“Jamestown? Isn’t that where an entire colony disappeared?”
“She went on a little binge.”
“Oh.”
“Kevin, if you see a psychiatrist, he or she will be compelled to write about your strange compulsion in a well read journal. Right now, the negativity you spread is localized. By the time you die, you may have infected a couple hundred people with a negative image of the undead.”
“If the shrink publishes something, thousands of people may read it.”
“If it hits the Internet, millions may read it, canceling out all of our hard work over the centuries.”
“I get it but why do you care about an image anyway?”
“A bad image leads to an unhealthy fear of vampires, which will lead eventually to some wacko leading some kind of war on the undead.”
“If it goes as well as the war on drugs or war on terror, you won’t have a worry in the world.”
“We don’t want to take that risk.”
“So what are you going to do, kill me?”
The man smiled. “Nothing quite so dramatic. We thought, my fellows and I, that if you got to know us, see that in many ways we are just like you, regular people, your dreams may end.”
“Regular guys who tear people’s throats and drink their blood.”
“Celebrate people’s differences Kevin, don’t put them down.” Kevin nodded.
“Sorry, I’m a little prejudiced against murder.”
“We’re just trying to survive.”
“Whatever. Okay, you and your fellows want to come over, hang out, watch the game or what?”
“Do you bowl?”
Kevin sat forward in his comfy chair.
“Are you kidding? I’ve led my league six years straight! I kill at bowling.”
The creature’s teeth protruded a bit then hid back behind his lips. “Sorry,” he said. “Words like that excite me.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“So, why don’t you meet my friends and me at the Glasgow Bowl-a-Rama Tuesday night? We have a league game and could use a fourth man.”
“Okay.”
Kevin showed Richard to the door. He opened the door and his guest stood on the front stoop.
“Well, I hope to see you Tuesday night.”
“Sure, just one more thing. My brother Derrick. Is he...?”
“A nosforatu?” He shook his head. “Your fears have been misplaced.”
Kevin smiled. “There goes one nightmare.”
“Wonderful, hopefully we can rid you of the others.”
Kevin opened his mouth to reply and found himself looking at a bat. The animal flew around his head then disappeared into the darkness.
Two nights later Kevin, in his red and black custom bowling shoes and holding his fire red custom ball, strolled into the bowling alley. Richard Frump stood in lane one, wearing the alley’s worn shoes, watching Kevin walk in. He had a smile on his pale face and was flanked by two men, each more non-descript than the other.
“Fellows, this is Kevin. Kevin meet Howard Fineman...” The taller non-descript man with the balding head and thick black glasses stepped forward and shook Kevin’s hand. His palms were sweaty.
“....and this is Julius Fenkel.” The other man was like a walking fireplug. “What’s up?” he said as he extended his hand.
Kevin shook the man’s hand. It seemed strangely dry, almost like sun-baked leather.
“Let’s bowl!” Richard shouted and they did. The team they played, although each man wore his hair a little long, appeared normal. Kevin wondered if they knew they were playing a bunch of dead men.
Kevin started hot and stayed hot. Howard was the best of his hosts with Richard bringing up the rear.
Richard’s team, with Kevin bowling a 290, won the match. Richard invited Kevin to join the team and he accepted. The team, called the UnHoly Rollers, easily won the league title.
There was a celebration at the Newark Holiday Inn and Richard and Kevin shared drinks at the bar as the others partied to their rear.
“So, has this helped your nightmares?”
Kevin gulped down his beer and raised his hand for another.
“Yes, I haven’t had a nightmare in weeks.”
“Very good. So, there will be no shrink?”
Kevin smiled as the pretty bartender handed him his beer. He watched her backside as she sashayed off.
“No shrinks for me, man,” he answered finally. He took a long pull on the drink.
“I have spoken to the fellows. They would like you to stay on the team.”
Kevin thought then shook his head.
“I like you guys and all but it still creeps me out that you suck blood.” He said this quietly so that the bartender would not hear.
Richard’s fangs extended, prompted by the mention of either ‘suck’ or ‘blood’.
“Sorry, man,” Kevin said.
“That’s okay.” His fangs retreated back where they came from.
Kevin finished his beer and stood.
“I gotta go, Rich. See you around, okay.” He clapped Richard on the shoulder.
Kevin walked for the door, which now was blocked by several of the celebrants. Two dozen men, women and children were striding very purposely in his direction.
Kevin backed up until he bumped into Richard.
“I’m sorry, Kevin. My fellows have decided – you are too good of a player to let off the team.” His fangs were fully extended and his eyes had that yellowish glow.
Faced with this moment he always feared, Kevin felt supernaturally calm.
“This was never really about helping me was it? You just wanted me to help your team.”
“We did want to help you, Kevin. But you can’t blame us if we helped ourselves in the bargain.” Richard smiled and saliva dripped from his fangs.
Kevin pointed to the bartender, whose fangs were showing as well. “At least let a brother be turned by her,” he said.
Richard nodded. The bartender flew over the bar. She and Kevin went off to a private room where she kissed Kevin with an animal intensity and allowed him to make love to her. At the height of their passions she made him one of the undead.
Kevin divorced Audrey and sees his daughter every weekend, Kevin being careful to stay indoors until it gets dark outside. He married the bartender, Venus, thoroughly enjoying the company of a woman who sucks the life out of other men, not him.
The UnHoly Rollers continue to play and win championships but after their last title Howard Fineman ran into a wooden stake held by a vampire hunter in Argentina. Howard was down there looking for a new market for the rubber sole shoes he manufactured.
The UnHoly Rollers are looking for a new fellow. Are you an excellent bowler with minimal prejudices? If so, there is room for you on the team.
