Loxarchos
Getting worse in the best way possible
Randall Nightwraith—really Randy Lodzinksi, at least according to an expired driver's license—let out a yelp of pain as he tripped backwards over one of his man-cave's easy chairs. The trip did save him from being eviscerated by the gleaming blade that missed him by a hair's breadth. So he thanked the stars for small mercies and rolled to one side, narrowly avoiding a follow-up downward slash. It always paid to keep moving when pursued by a vampire huntress wielding a katana.
"Not long now, you monster.."
Randall came upright and circled to his left, keeping a table littered with Warhammer miniatures in between him and the huntress. He was panting and consumed in anguish not just from the fact that she was trying to kill him—it's sort of what vampire hunters did, after all —but at what she had done to his man-cave so far. She had slashed open his couch, torn through his Real Madrid poster, toppled over his bookshelf filled with the Xanth series first editions (including one signed by Piers Anthony!) and had just interrupted his viewing of his newly acquired Grease blue-ray (now muted on the 64-inch flatscreen behind her). Life totally sucked right now.
"Listen," he said desperately as they circled each other. "I am a vampire but I don't kill people." Well, not anymore, but she didn't need to know that. The last human he had killed was decades ago. In self-defense. Mostly.
"You're all monsters," she spat, her katana in a two-handed grip, which meant that when her dark bangs fell over her eyes she had to blow them away with a puff of her breath. Randall tried to take advantage of her bad hair day by sprinting for the west exit but she caught on and cut him off, and they were back to circling.
The vampire licked his lips, his nerves flying in lots of different directions, which probably accounted for his next comment. "Did you not get your standard issue ninja outfit for this gig?" he squeaked out. Most vampire hunters sported tight-fitting black outfits. She wore charcoal leggings and some kind of rainforest green cardigan. "Or do you just have problems with colors?" That last sentence caused parts of his brain to scream at other parts of his brain. Why piss off someone with a katana even more?
But the huntress actually gave an involuntary giggle-snort . "Bad laundry day," she smirked, advancing on him again. "I'll make this fast, bloodsucker…"
"Don't kill me," he said with an earnest enough tone to make her pause, at roughly the same time his panic-stricken brain came up with a final, desperate gambit. The television remote lay directly in front of him on the table.
"One good reason," she said, her grey eyes fixed on his.
"Uh, this," Randall said, fumbling at the remote and un-muting the flatscreen behind her.
"YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT," belted out John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John at an ungodly decibel level. "OOOH, OOOH, OOOH." The huntress shrieked in surprise and smashed the flatscreen with a backward thrust of her katana.
It was now or never. With an anguished, angry snarl Randall launched himself at her, knocking the katana out of her hands and tackling her to the floor.
"Not long now, you monster.."
Randall came upright and circled to his left, keeping a table littered with Warhammer miniatures in between him and the huntress. He was panting and consumed in anguish not just from the fact that she was trying to kill him—it's sort of what vampire hunters did, after all —but at what she had done to his man-cave so far. She had slashed open his couch, torn through his Real Madrid poster, toppled over his bookshelf filled with the Xanth series first editions (including one signed by Piers Anthony!) and had just interrupted his viewing of his newly acquired Grease blue-ray (now muted on the 64-inch flatscreen behind her). Life totally sucked right now.
"Listen," he said desperately as they circled each other. "I am a vampire but I don't kill people." Well, not anymore, but she didn't need to know that. The last human he had killed was decades ago. In self-defense. Mostly.
"You're all monsters," she spat, her katana in a two-handed grip, which meant that when her dark bangs fell over her eyes she had to blow them away with a puff of her breath. Randall tried to take advantage of her bad hair day by sprinting for the west exit but she caught on and cut him off, and they were back to circling.
The vampire licked his lips, his nerves flying in lots of different directions, which probably accounted for his next comment. "Did you not get your standard issue ninja outfit for this gig?" he squeaked out. Most vampire hunters sported tight-fitting black outfits. She wore charcoal leggings and some kind of rainforest green cardigan. "Or do you just have problems with colors?" That last sentence caused parts of his brain to scream at other parts of his brain. Why piss off someone with a katana even more?
But the huntress actually gave an involuntary giggle-snort . "Bad laundry day," she smirked, advancing on him again. "I'll make this fast, bloodsucker…"
"Don't kill me," he said with an earnest enough tone to make her pause, at roughly the same time his panic-stricken brain came up with a final, desperate gambit. The television remote lay directly in front of him on the table.
"One good reason," she said, her grey eyes fixed on his.
"Uh, this," Randall said, fumbling at the remote and un-muting the flatscreen behind her.
"YOU'RE THE ONE THAT I WANT," belted out John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John at an ungodly decibel level. "OOOH, OOOH, OOOH." The huntress shrieked in surprise and smashed the flatscreen with a backward thrust of her katana.
It was now or never. With an anguished, angry snarl Randall launched himself at her, knocking the katana out of her hands and tackling her to the floor.