Inspiration: Lorenco’s referring to his Abuela (grandmother)
I am taking great liberties with Lorenco and his backstory, so this may never go further than this page.
Someday…in the future…
“You’re almost 40, huh?”
Lorenco hit Bomber in the arm while he was driving. His skin wasn’t as hard he it had been, being no longer of elder blood. He was in far more control of himself, his body and his Beast.
They had taken the red eye to California, non-stop, trying to outrun the sun. They arrived at 4 a.m., and Bomber went ahead to the hotel to get there about half an hour before sunrise, while Lorenco gathered the baggage and the rental. By the time Lorenco got to the hotel, Bomber was already passed out on the bed, still fully clothed.
Now it was just an hour after sunset, and Bomber was able to take a little of blood from Lorenco. He refused Lorenco’s offer to take more, instead preferring to hunt. He was addicted to it now, just as he used to enjoy hunting with a gun. The scent of the prey, the struggle as he grappled with them, the drum of their heart as he held them, and always the sweetness that tinged their blood, the taste of fear.
They got to a section called Japantown, which was surrounded by projects. Lorenco let Bomber out just at the outside of Japantown. “I’ll call you,” he said, kissing Lorenco. “Go get some sushi.”
Bomber got out of the car and in moments he was already in the projects proper, dashing between the buildings faster than a blink.
He didn’t want a drug addict or a drunk right now. He had taken a heroin junkie in Kings Row once and he remembered waking up behind a dumpster with sunrise approaching.
He found what he wanted – a big black man casually smoking a cigarette in the back of the house. He was just standing there, contemplating while smoking. Bomber approached slowly and silently. Then the man turned slightly away from him, and Bomber sprang, first covering the man’s mouth, and then putting an arm around the man’s chest. However the man was so big he couldn’t completely put his arm across him, so he used brute strength to hold him to his own chest.
The man yelled into his hand, but Bomber held him tight. “Shhh,” he said like he usually did, pulling out his Georgia accent, “I ain’ gonna hurt ya.” He tilted the man’s head so he could see the jugular. He buried his head in the man’s neck and opened a wound.
The man calmed as the ecstacy of the Kiss hit him, although his heart still raced. Bomber drank deeply, counting his swallows as he did, knowing he would have to half his normal count, as he drank so quickly and deeply.
At twenty swallows, the man’s heart had slowed to a comfortable level. Bomber had his fill, so raised his head, and looked at the oozing blood to get his normal turn-on, then licked the wound closed. He gently let the man down onto the ground. He was unconscious, but he would recover.
After Bomber was picked up at the front of Japantown, they headed out of San Francisco proper. An hour later, they crossed the city limits of Modesto. A short time after that, they pulled into the driveway of what looked like a cut-out dollhouse, that looked exactly like the other houses on the street.
He smelled a barbeque on the wind as he climbed out of the car. Lorenco waited for Bomber to clear the vehicle. He wore just a basic steel blue t-shirt and jeans, though his tattoos showed themselves along his arms, and he had his ever-present motorcycle boots.
Lorenco went first, and Bomber dutifully followed. They went around to the back, where there were a set of sliding glass doors that led out to a deck. They climbed up, and Lorenco knocked.
Someone called something in Spanish, and then the door opened. A young perky woman with braided dark hair stood at the threshold. “Lorenco!” she called, and hugged him tightly.
“Isabella,” he replied, hugging her just as tightly. He turned to Bomber. “This is my cousin Isabella. This is Bruce Michaelaine.”
He held out his hand. “Nonsense, we hug here!” She jumped up and hugged him, though her face came up to his chest. Bomber had a feeling he was going to be the tallest person in the room.
He forced himself to blush, and she laughed at it. “Come on in. Mama!” she called as they came in, and Bomber shut the door behind him. “Mama, Papa, Lorenco’s here!”
Bomber heard someone coming down some stairs. He heard the footsteps, and then someone coming down a little slower. He watched Lorenco pass by the table and chairs, and into what looked like a TV room. Off to the left of the table and chairs was a small kitchen. Bomber wondered if this was all they lived in, and bedrooms would be upstairs.
Two people came around the corner, obviously the uncle and aunt. They were introduced to Bomber as Amilcar and Luisa. “Where’s Claudio and Marcelo?” Lorenco asked.
Said his aunt, “Claudio is working, Marcelo…” She shrugged.
“Abuela!” Lorenco called and dashed out of Bomber’s field of view. Bomber went past the table and chairs to see who he was calling to.
A bent older woman with a cane stood in the doorway between the stairs and the sitting room. Lorenco ran up to her, and kissed her on both cheeks. He went off in a string of Spanish, and then stopped when she said something. The family laughed. Bomber wondered if it was a joke at his expense.
“No, Abuela,” said Lorenco in English, “he is not a new grandson.” Lorenco winked at Bomber, who smiled.
Bomber came over and held out his hand to her. “Hola,” he said, trying to draw on his high school Spanish from ages ago, “Como te llamas Bruce.”
The family laughed again – obviously he got it wrong. The woman looked up at him, and said slowly and deliberately, “You a big boy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You a very big boy. You protect nieto.”
He glanced at Lorento for a translation. “Grandson.”
Well, it’s actually the other way around… “Yes, I do.”
“Bueno,” she said, and started hobbling to the chair.
Isabella touched Bomber’s arm. Bomber figured that since she hugged him, she could get into his personal space. “Can I get you anything? A beer?”
“I don’t drink,” he said. “I’m on a special diet, I can’t have carbs.”
“Oh, like the Atkins diet?”
“Something like. Water’s good.”
She took his bicep and started guiding him to the table. He found he could keep down lighter liquids for a longer period of time. He sat and watched as she got his water for him. He was reminded of his niece, back in North Carolina.
The group had migrated to the table, and Lorenco was telling his grandmother about, as he translated, searching for his father. His grandmother kept shaking her head, telling him to leave off the hunt, that it wasn’t worth getting killed over. “Though,” she amended, looking at Bomber sipping his water, “is he helping you?”
“He’s my muscle,” Lorenco told her. Then Lorenco changed the subject to gossip of the family, who was marrying who, who died and was dying, etc. California was a long way from the East coast, so Lorenco wasn’t expected to attend his cousins’ weddings.
Meanwhile, Bomber caught Isabella staring at him a few times. He sipped his water with a smile, focusing on Lorenco. He was sure Isabella knew Lorenco was gay, and that therefore she could deduce what their relationship was.
The talk returned to Lorenco not producing more children and “wasting” his seed on men. “He looks promising enough as a stud,” she said, and when Lorenco translated his face was burning red. Bomber made himself go red too.
A little after nine, the sliding doors opened and a young man came in. He was dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, smelled of cigarette smoke, and his hair was long, pulled back into a pony tail with a blue bandanna around his head. He stopped short at seeing Lorenco.
“Oh, look, it’s my faggot cousin.”
“Marcelo!” yelled the aunt.
He ignored her and turned his attention on Bomber. “You his faggot boyfriend?”
Bomber gripped the table and forced himself not to squeeze. “I’m not a faggot,” Bomber said slowly.
“You’re fucking my cousin, that means you’re a faggot.”
“You’re wearing a blue bandanna, that means you’re a crip.” Bomber smirked, knowing that would get a rise out of him.
Marcelo’s eyes went wide. “I ain’ no fuckin’ nigger!” he roared, “I’m a Sureno! And you, mother fucker, I’m gonna kick your lily white ass.”
Bomber scraped back the chair and stood at his full height, a head and shoulders above Marcelo. “Yes, let’s do that outside.”
Lorenco stood up and pulled Bomber’s shoulder, pulling him down. He whispered in his ear, “Remember he’s human.” Marcelo turned from Bomber, tearing open the screen door.
They heard a multitude of voices outside. Many on one? Bomber grinned, heading out the door.
Bomber counted five young men standing around at the deck. Marcelo said something in Spanish and the rest of the crew laughed. Bomber vaulted himself off the side of the deck and onto the grass in the tiny postage-sized lawn.
“Well, gentlemen? I don’t have all night.” He felt the blood surge in him, ready for a fight.
Marcelo sauntered up to him. He tried to be all casual talking to his friends and making hand signs. Then he suddenly swung at Bomber’s stomach. Bomber moved just his stomach back and Bomber hit him in the temple, pulling back on his own punch. He went down and stayed there.
Bomber cracked his knuckles and looked at the other men. “Who’s next?” He looked from one to the other. “No? Okay.” He jumped back up over the railing and stood at the doorway. Lorenco had seen the whole thing, and stood behind the glass door.
“Mother fucker!” yelled one of them, pulling out a gun and aiming it right at Bomber. The young man had held the gun in the normal gang-style of sideways, which meant one’s aim was always off. He pulled the trigger.
Bomber could have easily dove out of the way, but then it would have hit Lorenco. Instead, he took the hit. Bomber ran at him as soon as he felt the bullet hit his right shoulder like a ton of bricks.
He grabbed the gun hand and barely missed getting shot in the face. He twisted the man’s wrist savagely the wrong way, and he screamed like a girl. They both fell to the ground, so the rest of them piled on Bomber, punching and kicking him. Bomber knocked out the gunman, yanked the gun out of the man’s hand, and then threw off the other three who were on top of him.
He held the gun the right way, and the young men realized he knew what he was doing. Bomber could see red and blue lights against the fence, meaning police. “Don’t fuckin’ move,” he said, and the boys didn’t. He flipped the safety on without even looking at the gun and thrust the gun into the front of his jeans. He then turned to face the lights, keeping his hands up.
By this time the family had come out to see the commotion. One cop approached, gun drawn. “I disarmed the gunman,” Bomber yelled, nodding to the boy on the ground right behind him. The cop with the gun drawn reached over and pulled out the pistol from Bomber’s pants. Bomber smirked at the homo-eroticism of that move.
Bomber explained what happened, and no, he didn’t get shot. However he kept his back to the fence, knowing there’d be blood stains on the back of his shirt. Lorenco came over after the cops finished with him.
“You took that bullet,” Lorenco said quietly.
“Of course,” Bomber replied. “It’s already healed.”
Lorenco looked at Bomber’s back. “Yes, there’s an exit wound.” He stood next to Bomber.
Bomber inconspicuously put an arm around Lorenco’s shoulder, pulling him into the darkness so none would see. “I didn’t kill them,” he said quietly.
“Did you want to?”
“No. I was a punk kid once, too.”
Words: 2039
Music: I’m Your Boogie Man – K.C. and the Sunshine Band