The night turns brutal in Atlantic City when a serial killer who indulges in necrophilia crosses paths with a vengeful Vampire. Cyber punks and tourists make way for the Vampire and killer as they square off in a blood-soaked romp under the harsh glow of neon and a full moon.
In the light of day, Atlantic City is like a war zone. At night, city’s glitzy exterior of neon and multi-billion dollar casinos masks the grime that lies just below the surface.
The best part of Atlantic City is the number of disposable teens that stalk the night streets with sneers and baggy pants. The former is a result of the bravado of perceived invulnerability. The latter slows the little youths down to a pants-yanking shamble. Many of Atlantic City’s youth are cheap, wanna-be gangsters who know nothing about real life and death. They’re the kind of punks who brag about guns and murder and their plans to one day move to the Big City, where they’ll be players, with plenty of whores and drugs in easy reach. These little thugs beat and rob tourists, rape girls and boys in back alleys, and fight endlessly over perceived territory violations.
They are the kind of scum that the police would just as soon quietly disappeared.
She’s the vampire for that particular task.
Enjoy this excerpt from Divine Wine:
A hard rain pounds Atlantic City as I stand in front of a pawn shop under a rusted metal awning and wait for the little fucker to make his nightly visit to the screamo bar across the street. It’s too early in the evening for his arrival, so I take the time to scan the streets for other potential meat scrambling through the city. My thigh-length black leather jacket is zipped to my neck. I keep my eyes low and face averted so humans don’t see my face – porcelain white and pale as a scream. My black hair loose around my shoulders.
A wiry little black man approaches and flashes a toothy, but wholly human grin. “Got a match?” He’s got one hand in his pocket and tries to appear threatening. I make eye contact and show my fangs. His eyes widen. He shakes his head and moves on.
The rain is relentless, and it lashes both the streets and the crowds of nightlife seeking shelter and a euphoric release from their lives. Atlantic City doesn’t have quiet nights. Gamblers and hookers, tourists and punks: they all flood the streets at night, looking for a score. A quick fuck. A needle. A bag of cash, or a sucker. The streets of AC are garish with graffitied walls and casino neon flashing come-hither messages like fuck-me dolls. Huddled under umbrellas, the passing crowds are like mushrooms scurrying into casinos, pawn shops, strip clubs, bars and restaurants.
Some of the steady stream of passersby keep to the streets and sidewalks instead of ducking into a building, as the night is steamy with the day’s leftover heat, despite the rain. I don’t give a fuck about the weather one way or the other. Dead flesh doesn’t suffer the elements.
In front of me, an Asian couple, sheathed in leather, latex and chains, stops long enough to maul one another. He gropes her ass, and she responds by grinding her pelvis against his thigh. Each has multiple facial piercings, and I wonder whether they lock themselves together at night and fuck like jangling clowns. His hair is bright red and splayed from his head in short spikes. Her lips are painted black. She’s wearing a blue, leather corset over a tight, white latex catsuit.
A vagrant white man, his thin coat soaked through, stumbles up to the couple. As he does, he grabs the girl’s arm: “Spare a dollar?” the bum mutters. His eyes are wild and unfocused. “Spare a dollar? Spare a dollar?”
The Asian boy snatches the vagabond’s hand from his girl’s arm, and bends it back to force the bum to the ground. “Fuck off!” The Asian boy spits the words out and emphasizes them with a kick to the downed man’s chest.
I mentally mark both the old white man and the Asian boy for their potential: one is easily forgotten, the other easily violent.
I love Atlantic City, and I’ve hunted here off and on throughout much of the last six decades. The city has a low profile, because crimes that would be national news anywhere else are kept off the media’s radar by sleazy politicians greasing palms with cash, drugs or prostitutes – sometimes a combination of all three. Those same politicians talk about the rebirth of the city and the changes made possible by gambling and the wealthy Middle Eastern and Asian tourists. But what the politicians really do is jam as much cash into their pockets as fast as they can, fucking over the island’s neighborhoods and screaming poor-mouth when the actual decline of the city does make the news.
In the light of day, Atlantic City looks like a war zone. Not that I venture into sunlight, but my current lair is in just one of dozens of abandoned buildings that blight the south side of the island city.
At night, Atlantic City’s glitzy exterior of neon and multi-billion dollar casinos masks the grime that lies just below the surface. Mobsters and slavers made the city their home long before gambling was legalized in the 1970s.
Just beyond the neon lights and casinos is Atlantic City’s famous Boardwalk, where whores, drug addicts and schizophrenics live under the planks, fighting and fucking beneath the feet of tourists and teenagers. Occasionally a dead body turns up, the stench rising through the slits in the boards. But most times the city’s small population of ghouls take care of the corpse long before the tourists are inconvenienced by the vaporous rot.
Ghouls are necessary to a city like this one. They’re smarter than zombies and more efficient than werewolves.
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