So, I know this vampire.  Odd, I know.
We run in overlapping circles.
Most of the time,
we don’t talk much.
It’s mostly
a professional relationship
based on the undead thing.
Socially, we’re not exactly peers.

One night he asks
if I’m hungry.

I reply,
well, in fact,
I could do with something.

He says, why not
sit at the table
with a blood fattened man,
then?

Why not, I say.

So we sit.  In the dark,
of course,
in deference to his issues.

Have this cup, he says.
It’s full of
the gray part of me.
I don’t really need it.

You’re giving up easy,
I say.  Yes,

he responds, I’m ready.
Tired of chasing moonlight
snacks.  Or at least,
of thinking about it.
Don’t know if I’ll die this way,
but brainless has to be better.

The cup’s full
of some wormthread slop.
It’s gooey tough and tastes like
unripe Brie.

Hey, I could use a little libation
myself,
he says.
We could trade —

I doubt it would be to your liking,
I laugh, it’s mostly dust
and other folks’ memories. In fact
there’s a particular flavor to it right now —

probably a child —

she must have seen
a circus right before meeting me
and got scared by
someone in greasepaint.
I suspect you’d hate the taste.

Well, he says, you’re right,
that doesn’t sound pleasant.
Guess I’ll pass.

After a bit he says

It’s funny, the things we fear.
Kids fear clowns,
I fear the sun.  You?

I mostly borrow other fears, I say.
Not sure at this point
if I know my own.

You know, I’ve got a confession, he says.
When I sought you out
I wasn’t expecting you
to be so articulate.

It’s a common misunderstanding,
I say, sucking down
the dregs of the cup
I’ve just scooped full of his headstuffing.
It’s growing on me.

He doesn’t say much after that.

Once I’m done
I drag him into the sun
and watch him burst and shrivel.

I shamble off, can still hear his voice
long after he stops twitching —
something about immortality,
a murmur about the night.

The light makes me queasy now.
A vampire brain
keeps faith with its source,
I guess.  And a zombie keeps faith
with his resources.

You wouldn’t believe
how smart I’ve become.
But then comes the howl in my head
and always, now, the damn clown.

I ought to lay off the kids,
them and their phobias —
eh.
Who doesn’t have phobias?
Suck on enough brains
and you’ll get them all
eventually.

That, and apparently an urge to juggle
the brains before swallowing them,
tooting my own horn
the whole time.