There's a reason we wear leather.

So, I'm back after another unexpected leave of absence. I haven't felt much like typing in a while, considering that I'm recovering from major lacerations on my right forearm due to an attack from a "wild dog."

I should probably start by telling you about this ridiculous package I received about a week after that fucking book came in the mail. This one contained this shitty black stretchy cotton/spandex type deal with what looked like a ballistic nylon snow vest with a high collar.

It was my new "uniform."

First let me say that it is 150 de-fucking-grees in San Marcos.

But what the hell, y'know? I've gotten enough grief from the damn Guild over the past few months, I figured I'd play along and wear their ridiculous outfit for a hunt or two.

And that's what got me bit.

First of all, wearing this thing, I looked like an extra from Better Off Dead. If you've never heard of this movie, then you should fuck off - you're too young to be reading about vampyrs and stuff. The collar - apparently designed to keep vamps from biting your neck - made me feel as though I was being constantly strangled by someone with the upper-body strength of an 85-year-old woman.

Whoever designed this thing has been watching the movie Monster Squad far too often. Vamps only go for the neck as a matter of convenience, because it's the anatomical location most akin to the tap on a beer keg. If they cannot get at the throat, however, they'll cheerfully bite your leg or your shoulder or your... arm. Fuckers.

See, I usually wear a beat-up leather jacket, which serves three purposes:

1. It's black, so it provides some degree of camo at night. Not against vamps, which go more by sense of smell than anything else, but from cops and people who call cops and other people who might ask you for money or something.


2. It provides a modicum of protection against asphalt, brambles, fangs, and fingernails. Most importantly, it keeps your skin from burning when a vamp goes up in flames.


3. It's much easier to get vampyr ash off of leather than any other textile I've tried.

So I'm out day-hunting in my shiny new Guild fag-vest, and I come across this sleeping vamp. Normally, I'd drag his unconcious ass out to get a tan, but this guy's at least 350 lbs. I could Jeep-winch him out, but that would probably drag him through at least four crumbling drywall partitions and a plate glass window, which might attract some unwanted attention.

So I get out the mallet and stake. I figured this guy was about 72% lard, so it'd slide right in. Unfortunately, the guy was denser than I thought, and the stake didn't make it all the way in the first time. He woke up, screamed like a little girl, and lunged at me with a mouth in desperate need of Listerine.

Instinctively, I blocked with my arm, thinking about the leather cuff that was supposed to be there. Oops.

What made it worse is that the guy's fangs got caught in the stretchy Latino dancer undershirt the Guild included with their useless vest. So he's caught in my sleeve, and I'm trying to use that hand to hammer the stake in. I finally managed to switch mallet hands and clumsily club Shamu into submission, but not before he'd put about 42 stitches worth of bite marks on my arm. Dick.

Needless to say, I'm back in my jacket, and that goddamned "uniform" is being used to clean my toilet... left-handed.

There's a reason I don't read.

I just received, courtesy of the unforgivably sweat-stained USPS guy, a manual on how to do my fucking job.

That's right. The Guild, under the previously cussed-about new supervision, has issued me a doorstop that looks remarkably like a textbook. The doorstop is entitled The Guild Tactical Manual: A Practical Guide for the Field Agent and has... let's see... 981 sheets of very uncomfortable toilet paper between its cheaply-bound covers.

It's a brilliant book, really. Not only does it quote the Malleus Maleficarum (potentially the dumbest book ever written, and a glorious example of what happens when men in power get too sexually frustrated), but it features illustrations that look like they were drawn by a pre-pubescent mongoloid:



That's supposed to be a grave stake, a ceremonial cross-shaped ash stake used for snuffing vamps. The cross tines are usually broken off after the stake has been properly blessed.

Of course, you only know this because I'm telling you. Looking at the drawing, you'd probably think it was a canoe or a dildo or something.

I'm not nearly as offended by the handwritten descriptions (Jesus, some professionalism, please?) as I am by what they point out. If you'll look closely, you'll notice they actually labeled the sharp end of the stake.

I particularly like the section about "field meditation," which tells agents to, and I quote:

Close your eyes, and slow your breathing. Keeping your eyes closed, re-create your immediate environment as a mental image. Now, as you look around your visualized environment, take the next step and become the vampyr. Feel it's hunger. Know it's fears. You must avoid the hunter. You must slake the thirst. Where, as a vampyr, are you most drawn to? When you have determined the three places you are most likely to go, open your eyes, and begin investigating in those places.

WHAT!? First of all, learn how to use the contraction it's. It's means it is. The possessive form of the pronoun it has no goddamned apostrophe. Seriously; we're talking third grade English class here.

Secondly, you left out the part where the field agent gets fucking eaten while he's standing around channeling Sun Tsu and getting his metaphysical jollies. In a vamp combat situation, you can't stand around with your eyes closed and your dick in your hands, playing silly-ass mind games - unless, of course, you're aiming for a Darwin Award.

Any reasonably intelligent field agent should - with his eyes open - be able to guess where a vampyr might go. If you have to stop and be one with the earth every time you need to track a vamp, you are in the wrong line of work, Grasshopper.

Seriously; who writes this shit?

My true complaint, however, is that the pages aren't absorbent enough to clean up beer. And they chafe.

I'm baaaaack.

First, I apologize for having been gone so long. Apparently at least one guy reads this, 'cause he asked why.

I'd like to say that I was off on secret assignment, or getting laid, or anything, but the truth is, I was ass-deep in paperwork. And it's all about this blog.

See, there was a bit of a power shift in the Guild. Not a coup, or anything interesting like that; one guy retired, another guy took over, blah blah blah. The upshot is that the new guy had all kinds of delusions about shit he was going to change (the guy actually had the balls to use the word "reform" on several occasions), and he got his panties in a wad about this blog. Said it threatened "Guild secrecy."

What you have to understand is that the Guild is as much mired in bureaucratic bullshit as any medium-sized company; only the pencil pushers have funny names like "Elder." An "Elder" is essentially a guy (or gal - we're equal opportunity shitty employers) who is too strung-out to cut it as a field agent, and who consequently ends up stuck behind a desk, thinking very highly of him or herself. The Speaker is the "head" of the Council of Elders, the Council being a group of decrepit old farts that sit around in a dusty room making motions, seconding them, and dividing into committees. And I can say this because the Guild really has no upward mobility, and they're too strapped to actually fire any of us. So if you're reading this, O Great Council, you may kindly suck an egg.

Anyway, the new Speaker (I'm no longer allowed to use real names, so I'll just refer to him as Speaker Numbnuts) decided that we should be more secretive about our activities. If you've been following this blog at all, you'll understand why this is a singularly dumbass thing to say. Vamps can't read, and nobody else fucking believes this shit, so what difference could it possibly make? The Guild passed a motion to force me to suspend the blog pending further discussion. I would have told them to fuck off if I had known the kind of paperwork "futher discussion" meant - I mean what were they going to do, fire me? Oh, dear. As it was, I wanted the bitching and moaning to stop, so I played along.

I finally convinced them to allow me to continue by pointing out that my blog did no harm, and could potentially save lives. It does no harm, because most of you assume I'm either a little south of sane or making this shit up. It could save lives if you remember any of what you read when you're trapped in an alley one day wishing you'd believed me in the first place while you're chased by one of these overgrown leeches.

Faced with my stirring and eloquent arguments (I managed cut out 90% of the "fucks" that came to my throat), Speaker Numbnuts and the Council reluctantly agreed to shut up and let me blog. So, I'm back. Questions?

It burns!

So the first "experiment" we tried involved using a high-powered tranquilizer rifle to shoot darts filled with various vile things into the vamp. We tried a bunch of shit, with varying degrees of success:

1. Tranquilizer - Yeah, that wasn't worth a shit. We tried shooting him about six different places, with no effect at all. Pretty much as expected. Wasn't until we got a direct headshot that the fucker stopped moving around for 20 minutes or so.
   
   Remember that a vamp is essentially reanimated meat - the heart, while serving as a core of some kind, doesn't actually beat. Sound weird to you? The thing eats people by drinking plasma; try to keep the weirdness in perspective.
   
   
2. Silver nitrate - We shot the first dart into old Smiley's wrist. He didn't like that at all. The skin just under the dart bubbled up like a third degree burn, and he let loose with one of those throaty, Bea Arthur-type growls the bloody vamps are so fond of. Still, silver nitrate is a fairly expensive chemical, and the effect wasn't crippling - it pretty much just pissed him off. All things considered, not a weapon worth pursuing. Still, it was neat target practice, though we had to gag him after about six shots or so; he was killing my buzz.
   
   
3. Poison - None of the human poisons we tried worked worth a shit, though arsenic did seem to make him a little itchy.
   
   
4. Ash sap - This was a stupid idea. Nat thought that maybe - because the grave stakes we used are made of ash, that ash sap would have some kind of corrosive properties. It didn't. I could've told his stupid ass that.
   
   
5. Holy water - Holy fuck, was that awesome. Holy water is always a nifty spectacle, with the burning and the screaming. But eventually, either the vamp wipes it off or it evaporates off, leaving behind third degree burns that look bad, but won't really have a lasting effect.
   
   Intravenously, though, is a different story. That shit stayed in there. The vamp was screaming and wailing for about the first half hour, then just whimpering for the next couple of hours. The holy water never loses its sanctification, and with no place to go, it just swishes around and burns.
   
   The best part was, the more he moved around, the worse it got. Stupid fuck kept shaking, and the stuff kept swishing around his useless veins and shit, burning him from the inside out. I mean sure, it's not lethal, but I'd buy a tranq rifle out of pocket just to watch that again.
   

Just a spoonful of silver...

So a friend of mine, Nathan, came in from out of state this weekend. Seems the vamp situation in Illinois has died down a bit, and he decided to take a vacation.

Only he didn't take a fucking vacation. From the moment he got here, all he wanted to do was talk vamps. Vamps this, vamps that. Always with the fucking vamps. I took him out to lunch; he talked about vamps. I took him to a nightclub: more talking about vamps. I took him to a goddamned titty bar, and he still talked about vamps.

I finally gave up on the social part of his social call, and we went hunting. Seems old Nate has been thinking a lot about weapons lately, and needed some help putting some theories in motion. So instead of killing, we went out to bag a vulgaris.

I do a damn fine job, so it was tough to find any in my city. We ended up driving all the way to Mexico, where a buddy of mine was involved in a small (but manageable) infestation.

When we found the last nest, which took all of, oh, twenty minutes (bloodfuckers aren't known for their subtlety), we kept one alive, dumped him in the trunk, and took him out to an abandoned Quonset hut on the Texas side of the border. It's a pretty useful place, if you can ignore the vague sensation of standing in a giant condom.

When sunset came around and the vamp woke up, let me tell you - that toothy fuck was not happy with us. But he's pretty well strapped in, so I could frankly give a shit.

We're gonna spend the next few days testing out weapon ideas. Think of it as research and development that just happens to look a lot like torture (Though the fact that this shitheel ate an 8-year-old boy doesn't make it any harder). I'll post our results here soon, for any of you bored enough to read them.

Say blood!

I've been negligent in my blogging duties. I'd apologize, but I honestly don't give a shit.

I got this question the other day:

Silly question, just wanted to know if u can sketch what these creatures look like. I know u probably would not be able to photograph them, because ur too busy slaying them.

Really like to see what they look like.

Do you have a system in logging each creature you come into contact with? I guess what I'm trying to figure out besides from what you carry with you...if you journal any of your adventures in a book?

Are you a full time Vampyr Hunter?

Well, actually, I can't sketch them, because my drawing skills include stick figures and smiley suns in the corner of the page. Get enough Johnny Walker in me, and I may even draw a dog. But vamps? No way.

But I was thinking of you yesterday, so I took along my camera phone and snapped a pic when I bagged a bloodmonkey.

I know, the picture sucks, but you try holding a crossbow at the right angle and managing a camera phone while lighting your picture with a big flashlight set on the floor. Ansel Adams I 'aint, but old Ansel didn't have a sleeping vamp to work around.

The next time I got a partner, I'll have him hold the camera (they make funnier faces when you toss holy water on them, but you need two hands to stake them after that).

In answer to your other question, I make reports to the Guild on a regular basis. Well, sorta; I'm behind on my paperwork, to be honest. However, I don't keep a book. This... blog-thing... is my journal. I know the Guild keeps written records, but I don't think you can just walk in and check them out like a library.

I am employed full-time as a hunter, if only so that they can be sure they can call on me, with no conflicts, 24/7. I do some contract jobs here and there - cabinetry, laying tile, etc. - because the pay sucks ass, but I don't get involved in any job I couldn't walk away from immediately.

Back.

Sorry for the extended absence; I had to haul my ass out to Tacoma, WA to take care of a multiple nest pattern in some unused storage facilities.

We lost our Washington hunter last year to a threat far greater than any vamp... his own drunk ass in a Chevy Malibu. Like most hunters, Guild hunters seem to be particularly fond of the juice. Some of us, however, are smart enough not to drive cars or select women while inebriated.

Anyway, the MNP wasn't hard to clean, once we tracked it ("we" being myself and Dan, the Oregon guy). Tracking it, though, was a bitch. Vamps tend to nest in one centralized locale; when a nest grows uncomfortable (usually 8 or more), a few rejects are booted from the pack and sent to nest on their own. Usually, they have the good sense to go far away, but these fuckers - 4 nests in all - stayed within a half-mile of each other.

Understand something: vamps have no loyalties. They're like hyenas. Two nests of vamps can't encounter each other without snarling and pissing and whatever else they do to establish territory. So either these were extremely docile vamps (bloody hell they were) or they managed not to cross paths (also bullshit). I don't know what the hell happened up there.

In any case, there was no way we could've expected that, so we wasted a lot of time. After we cleaned up the first nest, we spent fucking days trying to track vamps to spots starting at a mile perimeter around the first. Nothing. Two miles. Nothing. Sporadic kills, corpses popping up in random spots. Where the fuck were these guys hunting?

Anyway, we finally caught a break when the police scanner in Dan's truck picked up a 10-11 between two "homeless guys." The on-scene officer said it looked like one had rabies. Yeah, that guy was fucked, but we hung around after the cops picked up their dead compatriot (actually dead), and found nest 2. Once we started hunting closer to the first nest, we found the remaining two pretty easily, because of Dan's dog.

Dan had this bloodhound, Shirley, and used him (yes, him) in reverse. We'd wander around, and when Shirley didn't want to go in somewhere (when, in fact, he started pissing himself and whining - that fucking name made him a little bitch, I guess), that's where we went. Shirl hates vamps. I can't have a big dog in my building; maybe I'll train myself a hamster or a chihuahua or something.