MicroHorror

I always liked Drake Mistake (I never knew his real name, only his alias).

Anyway, Drake got caught up in the crazy world of rock ‘n’ roll music, and has been working as a roadie for me for ten years now. I picked him up on my Rock My Dreams tour somewhere between New York and Los Angeles.

Drake was a good kid, just a little weird looking. Scrawny as a light pole with long, straight red hair and wild, bulging eyes. He was a harmless little groupie-roadie that could find dope like nobody’s business. Good dope, not that weak shit that you’d find in Kentucky.

About a year ago, I told Drake it was time for him to move on. Life on the road is murder, and he wasn’t a murderer. But Drake begged me to let him stay. Continue to follow me from town to town. Place to place. So… I agreed.

Now, Drake’s laying on a silver gurney with a long tube protruding from his arm. The tube is turning red: filling up with his blood, and draining into a steel bucket. Drake’s once tanned face is losing its color. His wide, bright green eyes are fluttering. “Why?” Drake asks, trying not to swallow his tongue. “Why are you doing this?”

I run my clawed hand over his head. “I tried to get you to move on, my old friend,” I say to him as I expose my long white fangs. “But a vampire’s got to eat.”