I came back home and reread this and realized it was a total mess. That’s what happens when you sneak-write while you’re at work, and post it fresh and raw. That’s what the purpose of this blog is for anyway.
She called herself Galatia. She loved high heels and short skirts, and performed at the club Kings and Queens over in Steel Canyon. It was an obvious gay club, with its rainbow flag at the front door and men in tight leather catching a quick smoke outside.
Galatia was a pole dancer of the best sort, and even though she never took all her clothes off, men and women alike loved her dancing, and she was showered with money often. Drake took his cut and would smack her on the ass, sending her on her way to the dressing room.
She had gotten off early, and stood outside the backdoor of the club to wait for her boyfriend. He didn’t mind her dancing, found it a big turn on actually, he told her. Because they could all look, maybe get a quick feel, but he was the one who could have her every night, while they could only have her in their fantasies.
Patrick showed up a few minutes later, tossing aside a cigarette. He had dressed in his leather jacket and jeans, trying to look badass, but he was too thin and scrawny to pull it off.
“I wish you’d stop that nasty habit,” she said, her voice more baritone than most females. She pulled away when he tried to kiss her. “Yuck!”
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. She was rather thin herself, so it was easy for him. “I got you anyway,” he joked, and kissed her.
The couple walked out of the alleyway in Steel and started heading down the street. Patrick had his arm around Galatia’s waist as they sauntered the six blocks to their apartment. Galatia rested her head against his shoulder as he guided her down the sidewalk.
“Oh, look!” She stopped at the jewelry store, peering into the window.
“Honey, you know I can’t afford any of that.”
“Honey!” mocked a lilting voice, just to the side of them, “you know I can’t afford any of that!”
A group of Outcasts came from seemingly nowhere to surround them. Three of them carried bats, which they casually flipped in the air with one hand. Patrick stood in front of Galatia protectively, but one of them came up from behind him and grabbed her away.
She tried to stomp on his foot with the stiletto heels, but the big Outcast merely laughed, as it didn’t even go through the leather of his boot. The Outcast with blue skin encased his hand in ice and then punched Patrick solidly in the stomach. Patrick fell, clutching his gut.
“Can’t afford that, then you can’t afford the toll,” the man said, advancing. “We’re the trolls under the bridge, and you gotta pay the toll.” He kicked Patrick in the kidney while he was down. Then he held his hand out for the bat, like a doctor looking for a scalpel. One was handed to him.
“Hey!” The Outcast who was holding Galatia had lifted up her skirt, showing her thong, and something inside it. “This chick’s a dude!”
The iceman looked down at Patrick. “Oh, a faggot, too. We charge twice for those.” He swung the bat hard at Patrick’s knee. Patrick howled and grabbed onto it. He swung again at the same time, crushing his hands instead.
Meanwhile the other Outcasts stripped Galatia of his dress and false bra, leaving her only in her heels and thong. She had a tattoo of a butterfly over her heart. There was another swing of the bat by another Outcast, this time to Galatia’s groin.
It never connected.
Something black, like a huge raven, flew out from her right, and tackled the Outcast with the bat. They tumbled, and somehow the black figure rolled to his feet, bat in hand. He was bald, neck to toe in black, from trenchcoat to boots, with blue eyes that looked like sapphires.
Now the powers came out. The Outcast he had tackled stomped his foot to cause an earthquake. The black-clad man moved faster than the eye could catch, and slammed the bat into the Outcast’s shoulder. He stepped away with a cry of pain, and ran out into the night.
A gun fired. The dark man whirled, lashed out with the bat. It flew out of his right hand, skittered across the concrete and into the parking lot a few yards away. The man held his upper arm, and glared at the shooter, who stood over Galatia.
Galatia saw fangs flash in the man’s mouth as he snarled, “Now it’s personal.”
At the same time the iceman threw a ball of ice at his head. It cracked into the dark man’s skull, sending him reeling. The shooter got his nerve back and tried to shoot again. It got the other man square in the chest, and blood spurted from the wound once, then oozed down his shirt. Iceman advanced, another ball of ice ready to go.
The roar that came from the man was certainly less than human. He tackled the iceman first, grabbed him by the neck and turned him toward the shooter. The shooter pulled his gun up and fired into the air, not wanting to hit his leader. The black-clad man threw him into the shooter, knocking them both over.
He walked over to the shooter and stomped hard on his groin, causing him to scream in pain. Then he went to the stunned iceman and grabbed him by the shirt, lifting him up. He shoved the man’s head sideways hard enough that there was a crack as something broke. Then he tore the side of the man’s throat out and bent his head to the bloody wound.
Galatia shoved a fist in her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. She couldn’t move anyway, as terrified as she was. She could hear the black man slurping, gulping, and then watched as he threw the man to the ground, a huge gaping wound in his neck.
Galatia couldn’t see the man’s face but imagined it full of blood as he turned to the shooter. “No, man, Jesus, please, God, no–”
The man slapped him hard to shut him up and bent to the shooter’s neck. This time it was much quieter, and the shooter sighed against him. Galatia finally could move, as the man was busy now, it seemed. She went to Patrick, who was moaning in agony. She put her arms around Patrick and started to cry helplessly.
“I’ll take him to the hospital,” came a deep voice.
Galatia turned to see the black-clad man looking down at them. She backed away in horror.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said calmly. “But what you saw, tell no one.”
Galatia shook her head. The man took off his trenchcoat and handed it to her. His arms were muscular, and he could see his six-pack abs through the t-shirt. He had what looked like snake tattoos going down his arms. “I’ll be back for that, don’t get it dirty.”
He effortlessly picked up Patrick, who moaned in his arms. “Hospital’s not far,” he said, “Hang in there, guy.”
Galatia watched him walk into the alleyway. She put on the jacket and huddled into it, shaking and trying not to cry again.
It wasn’t very long until a man in red and white spandex suddenly sped up to her. “Blackhawk sent me,” he said with a smile. “Said you need a ride to the hospital.” He turned his back to her. “Climb aboard!”
Galatia climbed onto his back, and he held her legs around his waist. “Hold on tight!” Then he took off, and she held onto his neck for dear life. The hospital came into view, and he blew his way through the emergency doors. He set her down just inside.
The bald vampire – yes, it had to be a vampire – was standing at the desk, arms crossed. He turned and pulled a pile of scrubs from the desk. “Get dressed,” he ordered.
Galatia took the scrubs, a very frightened look on her face, and went into the unisex bathroom. Slipping out of his coat, she saw a huge hole in the upper arm, covered in blood. There was a part of a hole on the left side of the chest that went through to the back also etched in blood.
She got into the scrubs, which looked horrible with stilettos , but she couldn’t be choosy. Now more unisex-looking, at least from the knees up, he opened the door and saw the vampire standing a few feet beyond. He handed him his jacket.
“Your boyfriend’s in the back.” He fixed his blue eyes on him. “Remember what I said.” He shrugged into the jacket.
Galatia only nodded silently, not meeting his eyes. The man turned from him, and calmly went out the door.
The man in red and white spandex sipped his Pepsi and watched him leave. “Now, that’s a Byronic hero if I ever saw one.”
“Byronic?”
“Lord Byron. ‘Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know.'”
Words: 1451
Inspiration: Bomber’s statement, “I’m going back to hunting.”
Music: Arise – e.s. Posthumus