PSYCHOPATHIC REVENGE-PART TWO

 This is my Friday flash for the Vamplit Blog this week. Zane returns!



Psychopathic Revenge-Part Two



     Zane feels the rejuvenation powers of the young lovers' flesh working on his body. He is younger, stronger, and doesn't look at all like a zombie any longer. He laughs. This is the way it always works. The best part: until he peers into a mirror, he has no idea what the new Zane looks like.

     Upstairs, in the balcony, behind the curtains, he has some new clothes. When he trolls after feeding, it is imperative he looks good. After all, the last thing the party crowd wants around them is some blood-soaked psychopathic fiend waiting to make bar food out of them.

     "Better than pretzels or chips any day!" Zane thinks. "Yes, but not politically correct. Heh, heh."

     He grabs a towel and wipes the blood and loose flesh off. Once the chunks stop the shredding process, he removes his old clothes and slips into the new ones.

     "Ah, I'm ready now," he says.

     He leaves from the rear of the theater, the rats scurrying out of his way. Even in his human facade, they know him for what he is. There have been times in the past when his human food ran low and he consumed some of their brethren. He was fast and didn't care how many of the furry bastards he had to eat to sate his hunger.

     And the balcony area: yes, they must never soil his sleeping quarters, or they themselves will sleep and not wake. He doesn't care about the rest of the theater; let them do what they want; but his resting place must not be dirtied.

     Zane walks through the slums without a sound. Over time, the time it took for him to adapt to the new him, he has learned the importance of keeping a low profile. While it is true he is stronger and more cunning than his adversaries, there is only one of him and many of them.

     One day, yes one day things will change.

     The slums give way to the new yuppie town homes converted from old warehouses and selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Built around them is a fancy mall with many shops and a slew of fancy drinking establishments. It is to these that Zane is going.

     He ambles into the Disturbed Zebra, a garishly appointed bar with loud techno music seemingly playing from everywhere. True to its name, the walls are painted with zebra stripes and distorted pictures of the beasts scattered around. Even the baby grand on stage, an instrument not getting much use in this gin mill, is painted in black and white stripes.

     The music is extra loud tonight, and the grating effect on Zane's brain is pushing him to the very edge of what he can and can't handle.

     Why did he come in here?! He could hear the music out on the streets; knew the effect it would have on him, and yet he still walked through the doors and sat his ass on a bar stool.

     Just when he thinks it might be best if he was to walk out the door and find a more soothing place, the barmaid comes up, and he orders a beer.

     "Only one, Zane," he thinks. "Yeah, no more than that."

     The music! The fucking music is pounding deep into his mind, bringing out memories of the last day; the day before his new world began and the old one ceased to be.

     And there . . .there in the corner, sit Joann and Frank. Damn them! What right do they have to be so happy when he is not? But it didn't happen to them, did it? No, only to him-the sacrificial lamb. He wasn't even asked. They just did it.

     Zane's beer comes and he drinks it slowly, trying to enjoy it even with his tortured brain spinning into overdrive.

     But it doesn't work. The music; the memories; the sight of young lovers from work, from that evil place that brought him to this, are all working against him. He spins into a rage and leaves his stool, his eyes fixed on Joann. They never even notice his approach, and if they had, would have never recognized Zane anyway with his new face, one they've never seen before.

     Before they can react to him, Zane lifts Joann up with his left hand around her neck, and shoves the beer bottle up her vagina with his right, not stopping until blood pours from her and she screams out the worst of possible sounds, begging for him to stop.

     "Sure, bitch!" he shouts, as he twists her neck violently and her struggles cease. "Is that better?"

     Frank is in a state of shock, too much of a coward to do anything, the rapidly spreading moisture in the front of his pants giving credence to his total lack of manhood.

     Zane picks him up, carries his worthless carcass to the stage, and shoves a microphone holder down his throat, twisting and plunging it deeper and deeper, not stopping until Frank stops his pre-death dance ritual.

     Patrons run everywhere, screaming no end, as Zane grabs Joann and Frank and toss them over his shoulder. The police sirens sound off in the distance and the Zombie knows he has to hurry. He retraces his steps, and goes back to the theater; his place of refuge; his home. No one has been able to follow him here, the blood from his victims always having stopped flowing long before he reached his domicile.

     Once more, the rats make way for him, knowing as long as they accede to his wishes that they will get to pick the bones clean when Zane is done with them.

     Zane feeds from both of them, feeling stronger and replenished but too stuffed to look for another meal. He needs to sleep now.

     Yes, he also needs to stay out of sight for at least the rest of the evening. The streets will be filled with cops. But none will come here.

     They never come here . . .



Blaze McRob