The Life and Times of a Modern Bloodsucking Sex
Worker
– or –
"Why is Veronica a Madam?"
By Dennis Sharpe
The voices in my head have names. No, really. They
do.
I hear them as loudly and clearly as I hear anyone
who talks to me from outside my own mind. My characters talk to me in their own
voices. They have their own accents and a tempo to their speech. They are fully
formed, very real, people… who just happen to exist only in my head (and then
by extension in my works of fiction). It's my madness. Does that mean that I
can't distinguish fantasy from reality? No. I just have characters who tell me
their stories… and I write those stories down.
Veronica Fischer – or "V", as she prefers
to be called – is one of those characters. And like all of the characters in my
fiction, she is a person first, even if she doesn't happen to be human. She has
a solid core. She had a childhood, with parents and problems. She has wants,
desires, needs, likes and dislikes. Like every other character that talks to me
– be they aliens or monsters, astronauts or politicians – she is a person, she
has a soul.
I find far too many fictional characters (in printed
words or up on a screen) are only what they are – vampire, robot, or
what-have-you, or they are only what they do – a pilot, detective, or
whatever the plot or setting call for, they aren't people outside of that. That
seriously limits where their story can take them, and it seriously limits my
interest in their story. I think that means I'm an elitist. I don't know. I've
never been too keen on labels… especially the ones I'm given.
See, I make things up. Sometimes I write those
things down, or type them up, so that other people can read them. I'm happy
when those things are read by others. I'm even happier when people have an
emotional reaction (positive or negative) to the things I've made up; because
it means that I've connected to that person in some way. I like the idea that
people I've never met – may well never meet—are experiencing an emotion because
of me. I think the label for that, in my mind, is legacy.
I'm drifting from topic…
Characters. I was talking about my characters. I
was talking about V. When I begin to tell a story I always have to look for a
window. A way in, if you will, to the story that I can use to show my reader
what it is I need to show them. I have no less than one hundred stories in my
head that I'd like to tell, I just haven't yet found the window through which
to tell them to my readers. The best window for the way that I write is generally
the main character.
With V my first window into telling her story was
the fact that she was afraid of crickets. No lie. Spider crickets, actually.
Back in 1997 she told me (in my head, not out loud) that she was afraid of
spider crickets because of the ones in the basement of her house on Summit
drive, in Pekin. I started asking her questions about that, and she began to
tell me more of story. Her childhood became my way in, and thus the way I could
tell her story. A lot of that got moved out of the first book, but it's still a
big part of her story… part of who she is. That informed so much of the way the
story unfolded. Knowing all about her made it a lot easier to explain what she
was going through to other people, to write it out for other people to read. Ya
know?
So when I was asked, during the release of Blood
& Spirits, "why is Veronica a madam?" it seemed like an innocent
question. In fact, though, the answer is a little more involved than can be
explained (or even summed up) in a tight one sentence answer.
V came to me as a fierce and strong voice. She was
independent, self-assured, vulnerable at times, but always in control of her
life. She suffered nothing stupid lightly, and she was a very feminine and
sexual creature. I was not at all surprised when she told me she was a madam. I
was equally unsurprised when she told me about her childhood, and her mother
being a working girl who was a little too pushed around by the men in her life.
V just made sense to me, and the fact that she was a madam was such a small
part of who she was that I never gave it all that much thought, really.
As I said, V’s mother was a sex worker, and she saw
a lot of what can go wrong when she was growing up. She started in the industry
as a worker as well, and fought her way up to a place of control even before
she was made an all new and different kind of ‘creature of the night’ by Jules.
It, for her, was all too logical a next step that she should seek out other
girls in the same line of work and offer them the protection that she could,
once she was relocated out of the city. In doing that she was befriended by
Lucy, a ghost who had also worked in the sex trade back in the 1880s.
If I had to venture a guess, and really you’d have
to ask V about it, I’d say that she does what she does because A) she enjoys
it, and B) because she’s a bit of a control freak. Being a madam affords her an
even more elevated control over what goes on with her, and with the girls in
her house. Men, being so easily led around by their sexual needs and desires, are
usually all too happy to give her the control she seeks (and pay well for it)
without a problem because of what is being sold. Talent, skill, and enjoyment…
right? Men who aren’t happy with the arrangement are free to move along, or be
dealt with swiftly. Again, she suffers nothing stupid lightly… and she can flip
trucks, being a bloodsucker and all… so…
I could get more in depth, I suppose, on the
psychology of V… or on my own, as she came from my mind… but I really don’t see
how much good that would do. She is what she is. She enjoys it. She owns it.
I’m not complaining. So there you go. As it turns out, Vampires make good
madams. They can give what’s paid for, and ensure that nothing happens that a
girl doesn’t want to happen… and they can do it without guns, goons, thugs, or
being out more money. A good fit, for a great character, in my opinion.
Blood and Spirits
The Coming Storm
Book One
Dennis Sharpe
Genre: Paranormal Thriller
Publisher: Booktrope Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-62015-595-0
Number of pages: 220
Cover Artist: Shari Ryan
Book Description:
Small-town life can be hard for a dead girl…
For Veronica Fischer the night to night life of a bloodsucking madam in Middle America is tough enough before she adopts Rachel Gregory, an eight year old ghost.
After her house is set on fire and Rachel disappears, all signs point to foul play. When she finds herself with a hit out on her unlife and warrants for her arrest, it becomes clear she’s going to need help.
Now she has to contend with horny zombies, violent spirits, and murderous grave robbers if she’s ever going to find Rachel and discover the awful truth of the coming storm.
A raucous ride through the dangerous lives of the lecherous undead.
Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/95oy3Sxf370
Excerpt:
Chapter
1
I’m told it’s an
oddity that I still sleep. It only comes
in short bursts, no more than forty-five
minutes at a time. Most others with my condition, and I have only known a
handful, tell me they don’t sleep anymore. Some of them haven’t in more than
five decades. I can’t imagine the hell that must be. Even in my brief moments
of rest, I still dream and in that I find relief. Even if the dreams aren’t
what I like, they are still an escape.
The soft
thickness of my comforter envelops me as I relax back into bed. Before I’m
completely awake, my mind begins to unfold, opening to the world around me. In
the distance, the fog is rolling in off the river, dense and blanketing, its
vaporous fingers right there on the edges of my consciousness. The night is
cool, and the last lights of the dying day dance across my ceiling, reflected
from the crystals hanging in my window. The light tinkle as they sway into each
other is a reassuring sound; the beautiful prisms they cast, a blessing. Not
one night comes that I don’t wake to thank Jules for having the windows in this
house ‘treated’. I can actually see the sun, even if I can’t be out in it.
I am now
completely aware for miles around me. I’m awake, and not even grudgingly so.
Not tonight. He’ll be here soon. I look forward to it and fear it all at once, but
I ask myself ‘why dwell on what we can’t change?’
A soft breeze
blows across me as I slip out of my bed, making the hairs on the back of my
neck stand out. My mind recognizes the sensation as a chill, even if my dead
flesh can’t feel as it once did.
Rubbing a hand
down from the base of my skull, in a futile attempt to warm myself, I open the
lid to the old steamer trunk Julie brought up from the basement today. She
aired out everything in it while I slept, and the interior smells as though she
even put some of my perfume on a few of the choice garments. I breathe in
deeply and can the corner of my mouth turns up slightly. Time may have dulled
Jules’ scent, but it’s still unmistakable, mingled in with the fragrance in the
clothing.
Clothes have
always held memories for me. The crimson silk of a dress drops down over me and
it’s as though his eyes were on me again. The mirror reveals the garment to be
no more out of place, for its slinky cut or lack of length, than it did when I
first wore it a lifetime ago, when I
could still remember being a girl. I first put it on in front of him and
twirled around to raise the hem, hoping to entice and astonish with my feminine
wiles, foolish enough back then to believe that because I loved him, a creature
like him was even still capable of love.
I’ve learned
from his example and years of my own mistakes – emotion is a weakness to be
managed.
Yet, here I am,
slipping into this dress that I haven’t worn since he left, simply because I
know he’ll remember it.
Stepping out
into the thick evening air, the raw power of the river hits me with the force
of a freight train. Even from this distance, the power is unmistakable.
Tonight, though, it has an odd feeling, as though it were restrained.
Standing still
with my eyes closed, I concentrate and listen to the pulse of the water rolling
heavily over the rocky bed, feel the lapping, almost angry waves against the
shoreline. I don’t know why closing my eyes helps me bond to my surroundings,
it just always has. It must be another facet of my insanity.
I’ve never met
someone with my affliction that was as sane as they had been when they were
alive. I wasn’t ever all that sane, either, but I’ve grown more detached as
time has gone by. Too often these days, I feel like a spectator. Maybe that’s
just my ‘coping mechanism’. My therapist would love to know about this fabulous
train of thought. Prick.
As I enter the
garage, it occurs to me that I’ve only got two cars at this house. Frank was to
take Julie back to town with the Charger this afternoon to keep up the
appearance that everything was normal. I’m certainly not taking my old
Volkswagen Beetle to go bar hunting, so the flat black Eclipse will get a work
out tonight. I hate this car, but she’s been fast enough to outrun a lot of
demons I didn’t feel like facing.
Pulling out of
the driveway, I already wish I’d stayed at the other house today. The drive
into town is only thirty minutes, but I’m tense enough tonight and don’t need
the wait. Telling myself that I needed to be here, for safety’s sake, only
makes me feel more upset at my fear and lack of control.
Six months ago,
I’d have talked to Lucy; she’d have taken the edge off. If she were here,
though, I’d have had no need to contact Jules. Now I get to feel like a failure
and look like one, too.
The tires scream
as I kick the car almost sideways, narrowly avoiding a deer. My lack of focus
is getting worse. As much as the idea repulses me, tonight I’m actually going
to have to go look for food instead of letting it come to me. I haven’t had to
do that in years. On one hand, it’s a fitting start to the night, but on the
other, I had really thought I’d outgrown eating out.
I always forget
how much sensory input I lose when I spend time around all the steel and
pavement. The dark moonless drive down rural roads is a blessing, putting me
more in tune with the land, at once one with the leaves on the trees, the bats
overhead, and the rocks around the base of the roadside.
The sound of the
insects in the high grass is comforting. Their flittering finds my ears even
over the engine noise. They are mine as much as everything else here; as much
as I am a part of them. It took more than twenty years to reach this level of
awareness, and I’m still not foolish enough to believe I’ve mastered it.
I used to be
able to spend time expanding my mind. I used to do a lot of things I haven’t
been able to do lately. Everything has devolved so fast and I’m still reeling.
The past year
I’ve been so caught up in the life of a dead girl, I’ve dealt with little else.
Rachel died
eighteen months ago at the ripe old age of eight; I met her after that. She was
hanging around the Jefferson House, where my girls work. If she hadn’t picked
that place to haunt, I doubt I’d be in the mess I’m in now.
The town springs
up slowly. Houses begin to sit closer together, then nearer to the road.
Side streets appear, and businesses
start to intersperse among the spider web of tight residential development,
obviously undertaken with no real planning or forethought. Then, at last, the
glow of the streetlights tells me I’m back where I’m in control. This is the
town I run, inside and out. Or I did.
Passing the
street that leads to the Jefferson House, it takes will not to turn. I want to
check up on things, but personal priorities come first and I have to trust Julie has everything well in
hand.
The dulcet tones
of a southern rock cover band blare from six blocks away tingling my eardrums.
The music is louder than usual. It should be a fun night, or at least a packed
house. Either way, I’m content.
The transmission
voices its complaint as I downshift onto the access road. I’ll never really
like this car, but she does get from A to B more quickly than most. I still
wish I’d driven something nicer tonight, something with a top I could put down.
But, in the end, the car I’m in is the least of my concerns right now.
The lot isn’t
full yet, leaving plenty of good spaces,
but rock star parking wasn’t really a concern of mine to begin with. This just
means that after I eat and pick him up, I should be able to get back here to a
manageable crowd.
If I’m lucky,
he’ll want to be social tonight. If not, then I’ll be too busy to make it back
here at all. I really want to show him that the biggest part of my life is
still under control, so he won’t only see the little girl that has to call him
in as her savior. Again.
Why do I need so
badly for him to be proud of me?
As I cross the
parking lot, the lingering scents of sweat,
cheap beer, and longing hang heavy in the air already. This might be a little
too easy. Though catching a fresh meal has never been really what I’d call
difficult. That’s why the small town, Midwestern life suits me; I usually get
what I want and rarely have to work that hard to have it. Hopefully, years of
having my food delivered hasn’t left me too out of practice.
Someone sees me
coming and opens the door and holds it for me. That’s the thing about being a
regular in a small town rural bar – you are a known commodity, more or less.
This helps and hurts when you have to hunt for food where you also gather
socially. Like a balancing act. Some are good at it; some are not. Those who
have been less than good at it around here, I’ve had to deal with. No one
pisses in my pool even once and gets to do it again.
There’s a big
cowboy at the end of the bar, a couple bikers near the pool tables, and a few
burly construction workers at a table. After only the briefest pause, my route
is clear in my mind. The first taker is my next victim. I really love playing
this game. Maybe I’m not so rusty, after all.
I don’t get the
chance to make it very far. As I pass the bar, in my peripheral vision, the
dark brown of the cowboy hat moves in my direction.
“Now this is why
I came out tonight. A good looking girl in tight fitting dress!”
The booming words
come projected from the stout bear of a man standing at the end of the bar
undressing me through his beer goggles.
The cowboy it
is; he’ll make a full meal.
I do my best to
fake a blush, while acting interested
and offended all at once.
Pretending to care what men think
is an art. It takes moments to learn, but lifetimes to master. I’d like to believe I’m an expert.
I walk over to
him smiling but with my eyes downcast. “My name’s Veronica. Who are you,
handsome?”
He puffs up in
his detail-stitched denim shirt, pushing out his barrel chest in a vain attempt
to hide his well-tended gut. He’d be fairly good looking if he didn’t obviously
take such pride in how good looking he thinks he is.
“They call me
Buck, and if I could I’d like to do a lot more than buy you a drink.” he slurs
slightly at me.
He motions to
the bartender for another round and I do my best to blush again, this time
giving a halfhearted laugh at his insipid comment.
“Here ya go,
darlin’.” He hands me a Jägerbomb and tries to force it to my lips “Bottoms up,
baby!”
He reminds me
why I live in a small town; this corn-fed hick really thinks he’s irresistible.
Well, who am I to disappoint? I down the drink like a good girl going bad,
exhale deeply, and lean over into him, letting my neckline plunge as it was
designed to do. As old and tired as this dance is, I really do love his eyes on
me. Some things never change.
“Now, that was
worth it, wasn’t it?” he asks me proudly. “Buck won’t steer ya wrong.”
“We can go
somewhere more private if you’d like…Buck,”
I whisper softly
in his ear,
pulling back almost as slowly as the wicked grin spreads across my face. His perverse smile hides
nothing. I have him now – hook, line, and zipper.
Money changes
hands as we exit the bar. I laugh a little out loud while remembering the lack
of faith I’d had in my abilities. I try to lead him to my car, but he’s intent
on going to the alley behind the building. I try to convince him, sliding my
hand slowly down over the large oval belt buckle with his name on it. But he’s
convinced the alley is what excites him, and I don’t want to take the time to
change his mind so I follow along.
It begins subtle
and playful, but it’s clear that’s not what he’s in the mood for. He pushes me
down onto my knees in a matter of seconds, quickly wrapping a hand in my hair
and beginning to jerk my head back and forth violently.
He couldn’t hurt
me if he tried so I let his game continue on his terms. Using my mouth like a
cheap sex toy is a bit insulting, I guess, but I don’t need to breathe so I’m
not gagging or choking. As always, I’m here to get what I need, and so I’ve
gotten used to allowing them what they need. I look at it like my public
service, or my good deed.
I could just
take what I want and be done, but that generally leads to more problems than I
want to deal with. I’ve even grown bored with the games of superiority and
subservience. I let them feel dominant, and powerful. It’s the least I can do,
really. Besides, the heightened state of
arousal makes them taste better, even if most of them could use a lesson in
hygiene.
It’s been so
long since I did this in public. It might even be a little exciting if I
weren’t so anxious, or if Buck were more attractive.
I’m only vaguely
aware of the fact that he’s calling me a dirty whore. A little laugh flitters
inside that he would call me dirty; the irony is lost on him but not me. I’ve
almost completely tuned him out, focused on the job I’m here to do.
And then he
makes a mistake; he hits my face, hard. If I were still alive, it would have
done some damage, broken bone, maybe even knocked me out.
This isn’t
playful anymore – this bastard actually likes to hurt women – now, I’m done
playing.
I pull back
slowly from him, looking at his fist wrapped around what looks like a roll of
quarters. He’s using every ounce of strength and leverage he has to try to hold
me on my knees. He has no more effect holding me down than the weight of my
clothes. His eyes begin to widen and he lets go of my hair as I rise slowly and
determined. His fist is still drawn back, but we both know he’s not going to
swing. I’m going over all the painful
ways I can drive home the point that he doesn’t get to hurt the girls he plays
with, all the while considering how much
I love this dress and don’t want to ruin it.
Standing in
front of him I wipe his liquid from the corner of my mouth and stare deeply. I
can see the panic in his eyes. I can smell his fear, deep, rich and growing,
and for the first time tonight, I’m actually aroused.
“Now, Buck, what
could possibly have made you think that was a good idea?” I ask in a cool and
controlled voice.
“Get back on
your knees whore! I ain’t paying you to fucking talk!” He spews the words out
loudly, in a vain attempt to regain control as he tries to force me back down
with one hand, while still menacing with his fist. He only succeeds in ripping
my dress.
Not this dress,
not tonight. He’s decided it for me; tonight is the end of his story.
“I’m used to the
rough stuff, Buck.”
In an instant, I
have his throat in my hand and his back against the wall. He’s beginning to
shake as he draws back to swing.
“I was just
going to let you off with a little pain and a warning about hurting working
girls, and look what you’ve done.”
The fear pours
off of him in waves as I disregard his raised fist and calmly show him my torn
dress. It’s enough to make even my body react involuntarily to the stimulation.
“You want a pretty girl to throatfuck, you pay for it. We’re all good. You like
it a little rough, that’s fine. But slapping a girl around hard enough to
actually hurt them? We just don’t do that,
Buck. You’re incredibly lucky I
don’t bruise easy.”
I flash him a smile and for just a moment I
can see he thinks it’s all going to be okay.
“We had a
perfectly good deal worked out, and now you’ve ensured that I’m the last thing
you’re gonna see, and given me the extra work of dealing with your corpse.”
He shudders and
wets himself.
It really is
dirty how hot this has gotten me. I’ll blame it on my state of mind, certainly
not wanting to give this bastard any credit.
I peer deeply
into his eyes, and his mind unfolds to me. I see all that he had planned for
me; I know all that is ‘Buck’. The last restraint I had left is gone. He’s from
out of town, no one here knows him, and only his trucking company will miss
him.
I apply just a
touch more pressure, and with a flick of
my wrist, he goes limp. I let go and he crumples to the ground in a heap. Quick
and painless is better than he deserves, but I’m pressed for time.
I drink from him
what I need and leave him piled up behind the dumpster. At least he’s served
his purpose, even if he was more trouble than I’d planned on.
Why this dress?
Any other dress he could have ripped and he’d still be breathing. Clearly, I’m
too stressed out.
I dial my cell
and wait, more than a little irritated when
I get voicemail. “Frank, you really
need to call me back. I have a
pick up for you and it’s time sensitive. Remind me again why I keep you on
payroll?”
I walk back up
to the end of the alley and wait for my phone to ring. The straps on the left
shoulder of the dress are ripped completely out of the back and there are two
deep tears where they had been attached. This is what happens when you have to
rush. Things don’t go as planned, and then shit gets broken.
“Can I help you
with that?”
His voice is
steady, soft, and scares me almost out of my skin. This is why I pay him so
well.
I turn to face
him and am a bit taken aback to see him dressed in jeans and a wife-beater.
He’s never this down-dressed, even when I tell him to be.
“Not with my
dress, but you can wrap that up,” I fume, nodding my head back down the alley
to what remains of Buck. “And make it disappear.”
Frank O’Leary
looks like what a Greek god should look like. Chiseled out of stone; an example
of everything that makes a man attractive. His mane of auburn hair, always
perfectly messy, hangs down between his shoulder blades. Like all men who look
this good, Frank has no interest in women. He also has very few morals, a
deviously creative mind, and an unequaled love for money. That serves to make
him an irreplaceable asset. I keep telling myself I can never trust him
completely, but he’s too smart to bite the hand that pays for his lifestyle.
Also, despite my
attempts to keep him at arm’s length, I’ve grown attached to him over the
years.
He stares, one
eyebrow raised, at the boots jutting visibly out from behind the dumpster and
nods. “Any particulars on how he disappears or just ‘out of sight out of mind?’”
“Just make it
fucking happen, Frank! I don’t have time for bullshit tonight!” As soon as the
words escape me, I’m aware they’re harsher than he deserved.
The look on his
face says it all. He understands. He’s not happy about it, but he knows why I’m
stressed and he’ll accept it for now and hope that things will get better.
“He is coming in
tonight, then?”
“Should be here
in about an hour.”
I really have to
get back to the old me, and soon. I know better than to kill this close to
where I go to relax. I know he knows that, too. It felt good to destroy that
piece of shit, and save generations of women from having to deal with him, but
I still know better.
Frank looks down
the alley again, then back to me and holds out a set of keys with a silver
skull keychain. He knows me too well. I take the keys to the Charger and hand
him back the ones to the little flat black speedster.
“How much gas
does she have?” he asks, still looking down the alley, sizing up the job.
“You need to get
some.” I call back at him, already walking toward the emerald-green muscle
machine. “You’re on fumes.”
He’s muttering
under his breath as I get in, but his voice is less than a whisper and it gets
lost under the deafening roar of the engine coming to life. I put the top down
and back her out slowly while checking my watch. Not much time left.
I leave the lot
and the mess behind me, able to count on Frank. I have to get to the airport,
and make sure everything is secure before his plane lands.
About the Author:
Born and raised in the middle of the American Midwest, Dennis Sharpe has been a writer as long as he can remember. His mother has told many people about the fantasy and science fiction stories he'd write on scraps of paper, and staple together as his 'books', before he'd attended his first day of formal education.
He has spent many late nights at diners and dives, drinking coffee with a tattered notebook to put a voice to his feelings of himself and the world around him, and other worlds that can exist only in fiction. The voices in his head don't ever stop talking to him, and so sooner or later he has to get out onto a page all that they've filled him up with.
Inspired by Neil Gaiman, Kurt Vonnegut, Frank Miller, Chrissie Pappas, Charles Bukowski, Stephen King, Issac Asimov, and countless classic literary influences, Dennis continues with the ability to write what at a glance might seem absurd, but quickly begins to resonate with our own thoughts and emotions. He writes people we know, love we've known and lost (and found again), and places we've been in our lives and in our heads. Even his fictional characters and worlds carry enough of the grey areas we experience in day-to-day life, to let us find the truth in his words, no matter how fantastic.
These days he can be found still writing, drinking coffee with friends, or spending time with his children (the true joys of his life), in Western Kentucky.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dennispsharpe
Twitter: @witlesslackey
Website:
