Extras

Hey man, how you doin’! I’m good, I’m fire. Just walkin’ along, thinking, you know. I get my best ideas walkin’ these streets, just letting the chemistry do its work. No place like the city, just diggin’ the rhythms.

So I was thinking, you know, about the music and about getting ourselves out there. You and me. And I thought maybe, what if you me an’ Shattler—yeah, I know, I know. He’s not, you’re right, he’s not the finest bass player on Earth, haha! And he’s got a stupid name. An’ his voice is . . . But his sound mixing is fire. And he never asks for money, which is a big plus in my world, haha.

I just want to build something. Get the brain cells pumpin’, put stuff out there. Show what we can really do, you know?

It’ll be fire.

Yeah. Yeah, I hear you but but but listen to me for a sec. So I just thought if we could get it out there, get the stuff in front of people . . . put up like one song a week, get it on Spotify or whatever. That’d be fire. Right? So then people could find it, listen to it and come back for more. Nothing fancy, just a storefront or something. Maybe sell shirts. Shit, maybe ball caps like the president does. I dunno.

What? Oh. Oh man, that’s rough. Get that looked at. You don’t want to fuck around with those things. She what? Oh dude, that’s so Arya. Yeah, I know she loves you. I’m sure it’s nothing. You’ll be around forever, man, you and her both. You’ll be together forever.

I was thinking about a name . . . Apocalypse Porn. For the band! Maybe, yeah, or maybe Porno for the Apocalypse. So one minute I love it and the next minute I hate it. Is it too, I don’t, pre-me-too?

You’re what? When? NO WAY! Tell me what night, we will blow the doors off the fuckin’ joint, man. We will send you home naked and pissing your pants. How old? Twenty-seven? You ancient fuck. What. What? I’m just fuckin’ with you. What?

Oh. Yeah. The health insurance. Can’t stay on Arya’s anymore. Well. Well . . .

. . . Don’t worry, man. Don’t worry. The music, that’s what’s important. Right? We’re gonna do this. I need to call Rog up at Tidal, shit, is Tidal still around? Is it part of Amazon now? Maybe Apple, they got some new shit going. I dunno. There’s always something new, someplace else you can show off. That’s what’s great about this world.

Hey, I’m sure that’s . . . I’m sure it’s nothing. Arya’s, she was always . . . I remember comin’ over your house in sixth grade, maybe, an she thought she had an’ ulcer. She was poppin’ those stupid pink chalk capsules. It’s all in her head, most of the time. But she’s the best, man. Used to lie to my mom, used to get us brownies before legalization. She’s fire, Arya.

Huh? I’m only twenty-four, man. And a half. Haha! Yeah, fuck you! Made you laugh, right! Hahahahahaha!

Listen, you don’t want to lose focus. Life is short, it can really, it can be short. And it’s all about the music, right? Right? The shit we do to express ourselves, the power inside that’s gotta come out. That you got to share with other people. That’s beautiful, right? And then you build your “brand”—yah, I know, I know, but that’s all part of it. That’s how they find you.

Are you crying?

No. No, stop, don’t say that. No apologies, man, not ever. I know. I know things are tough. We all got this emotional shit inside us, that’s where the music comes from, it’s gotta come out and sometimes we just wind up dancing in different directions. You take some time. Do what you got to do. I got, shit, I got another call comin’ in. You do you, go take care of bidness. Kiss Arya for me, on the lips like I used to in seventh grade. KIDDING! You fuck. Be good, be well. Yeah. Yeah you are. Fuck you.

*

Hey, I’m callin’ for . . . Shattler! THE SHAT! You fuck, what was that, a fake rapper voice? Sounded like Jay-Z or some shit. You talented fuck!

So I got this idea. About you and me, just us, about getting the music out there. You’re gonna love this, you’ll shit yourself when you hear it. It’s fire.

Destroying robots is a great way to meet girls.

Wait, let’s back up a bit. In 1980-something, gaming arcades were everywhere. And inside them lived scores of hulking video games and pinball machines as far as the eye could see. And kids just like me—and you too, probably, if you grew up in the ‘80s—frequented those places. We’d spend time at the arcade after school, on the weekends, and during summer vacation to escape the sticky heat and the relentless, omnipresent mosquitoes. Slipping away into near-total darkness, illuminated only by flickering CRT screens and marquee lights, we were briefly transported from the drudgery of homework and yard maintenance to the glory of pixelated battlefields, mazes, and raceways.

One humidity-like-a-punch-in-the-face summer, I met a girl—let’s call her Sally—at the arcade. We were in the same grade but Sally went to school across town. Sally also happened to be an expert at Robotron: 2084, a classic humans-versus-robots contest that featured dual-joystick control. The left stick moved the player while the right stick fired in eight directions to vaporize evil robots. The goal of the game: destroy the robots, rescue humanoids, and run up the highest score. Destroying robots is a great way to meet girls.

In an attempt to impress Sally, I started playing Robotron for a few hours a day on our home gaming system. The home version of the game was packaged with a plastic tray, cleverly designed to secure two joysticks in place, mimicking the intuitive controls of the arcade game.

As the days progressed, so did my Robotron skills. (Insert clichéd training montage set to Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger”—the only appropriate training montage song, apparently, judging by the last 35 years of film and television—here.) I honed my skills so thoroughly that when I looked into the mirror, a Robotron master stared back at me.

The next time I entered the arcade it was with unmatched confidence inspired by my recently sharpened reflexes and coordination. Sure enough, Sally was there too, running up an insanely high score on Robotron. When her game was done, we dropped in a couple of tokens and started up a two-player contest.

Sally took the first turn as I watched impatiently, eager to showcase my newly acquired skills.

After what felt like ten minutes, but was probably closer to three, her turn ended. We switched places, and I took my first turn.

Enemy robots killed my hero immediately.

We switched places and Sally played for another few minutes. Her turn ended, and we hurriedly switched places once more.

I was killed immediately. Again.

This process repeated for a third and final time. Utterly disgraced in front of the first and only female Robotron ace I had ever met, I stared blankly at the screen, ironically frozen to the squeaky-clean arcade floor. “What in the hell was that?” I asked myself out loud.

Sally had disappeared back into the dark corners of the game room. As the sounds of the J. Geils Band tune “Love Stinks” played through the arcade sound system, I dropped another token into the machine and fired up a new game.

I was killed immediately. Something was very, very wrong here. What was happening? Where were the skills I’d spent countless hours honing? After a few more attempts with the same outcome, I managed to put it all together.

While practicing the game at home, I had placed the controllers into their plastic holder . . . backwards.

Not only was I experiencing a third-degree case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing, both hands had been bamboozled into thinking they were the other one.

“So how do we fix it?” I asked nobody.

The short-term solution was obvious: left hand on right joystick and vice-versa.

It was just crazy enough to work.
Actually, the solution was quite sane given that, with that

configuration, my muscle memory now properly matched the backwards control scheme that I had hastily assembled at home.

It was just sane enough to work.

And work, it did. I instantly reignited the Robotron skills I spent days developing. In fact, my new skills were on par to elevate my score even beyond those reached on the home console version.

I peripherally sensed Sally’s return. The robots were quickly reduced to atoms by my precision laser fire, every humanoid was rescued, and I ran up my personal high score as Sally looked on.

Upon the game’s conclusion, I turned to Sally, internally beaming with quiet pride, prepared for the validating expression on her face that was sure to accompany words of praise.

“Wow . . . you . . . look like a real douchebag with your hands crossed like that,” Sally said with a look on her face that could only be described as quizzical disgust. She turned and walked away.

And despite many trips back to that arcade, I never saw Sally again.

Destroying robots is a terrible way to meet girls.

“I want to grow old with you.” Gabriel said.

Miranda felt likewise.

So they booked their fast-forwarding that afternoon.

In spite of the name, it was not really time travel, but rather a radical cosmetic change. It had been developed as a process to help actors “play older,” though it had since been refined to become less expensive, and rolled out for public consumption as well. Along with being cheap, it was pretty much painless, which meant they could both remain conscious throughout. The surgeon kept chatting and telling them jokes, but seemed wholly sincere when he wished them good luck.

They were discharged from the clinic in under an hour, and made their way out of there hopping and laughing; despite their appearance, they had no fear of falling or breaking their hips. Internally, they felt the same as they had done that morning, and even the same as the day that they met— which, after all, was only a week ago—but now they looked as if they’d been paired up for years.

The people they passed in the halls and waiting room, and the others who trudged through the underground car park, all of them stopped for a moment and stared. Well, aside from one teenaged couple, who were actively, pointedly doing the opposite: not making eye contact and not holding hands. Miranda watched them instead, with a curious mixture of pity and pride. She had avoided that moody, insecure stage with Gabriel, and could look forward to a future of comfortable love.

He flashed her a smile as if he’d had the same thought, and it was exceedingly gummy and almost too big for his zip-puckered mouth. It was just how she’d pictured him. She smiled back even wider, till her face was a filigreed crosshatch of wrinkles, which reminded him, pleasantly, of the doilies his gran used to put beneath cups.

Their new shared apartment had a musty aroma and was furnished with things from their old, separate flats, which had also been aged by a crack team of craftspeople, an extra they’d chosen as part of the deal. They traced wizened fingers across each piece in succession, oohing and aahing at the finely-honed shabbiness, and how well it all suited this stage in their lives. While they were afflicted with sagging and creases, the sofa was burdened with crumples and stains; while they bore the leopard-print of liver spots and faint jaundice, the wallpaper was sun-bleached and starting to peel. The rustic kitchen table matched the texture of their skin.

The double bed was the only unfamiliar item, because neither had actually owned one before; the mattress had a uniquely chaotic topography, as if they had used it together for years. They fit into it perfectly and still had the zest for other things besides sleep.

It was just as they’d hoped: they felt nervous, excited, and yet settled, content.

Afterwards, across the gap between both of their pillows, Gabriel smiled and Miranda smiled back.

“Did you ever really think that we’d make it this far?” She squeezed his fingers.

“I wasn’t quite sure,” he said, squeezing harder, “but I certainly hoped.”

Much as they might have preferred it to do so, the procedure did not speed them on to retirement, or even to promotions in their respective careers. Miranda was still technically on a three-month internship, and Gabriel was a blogger for a gossip magazine.

What he found, though, increasingly, was that in-office gossip was focused on him. He got fewer assignments, and was told to only conduct interviews via email or phone. It might have been discrimination, but he wasn’t sure on what grounds. It couldn’t really be ageism, because he was, for all purposes, still twenty-three. So he didn’t complain, and just hoped to win favor again through his work.

Besides, it perturbed him much more when his friends acted strangely. As Miranda’s did, too. When they met to go shopping, or popped down at the pub, they all seemed standoffish, or even ashamed. They were reluctant for Gabriel to go get a round in, as if the effort might strain him. And Miranda often went to the toilets alone. It wasn’t appealing, it seemed, to have a chat by the mirrors with someone much older; strangers might think you were out with your mom.

A few people mentioned this, and other worries, in private.

Aren’t you concerned that it might be too serious?

Don’t you think that you’re moving a little too fast?

“They’re just jealous,” said Gabriel, when Miranda got sad.

It seemed to make sense, so Miranda agreed. Of course, they would be a target for envy, having found the right person to be with through life, while their friends were still sleeping around with whoever, and accruing emotional stress and regret.

Gabriel never made use of the hoover. And Miranda never emptied the washing machine, let alone hung the clothes out to dry in the yard. Gabriel wanted takeaway six nights a week, and on the seventh expected Miranda to cook.

All that she liked to make was seafood paella, but Gabriel wasn’t a big fan of rice, and found shellfish disgusting, especially shrimp.

“Sometimes,” he told her, “it’s like you don’t even know me.”

Miranda felt likewise, but never said it out loud.

Whenever she went quiet, which was increasingly often, Gabriel reached for the TV remote. They binged new seasons of shows that she’d watched in the past, though most of them not since a previous breakup; the characters that remained had all noticeably aged, and whether this was a result of the procedure or not, she couldn’t help being curious about plotlines she’d missed.

“Do you remember what we told each other the first time we met?” she said, in a gap between series.

“Of course,” he replied. “That we were searching for someone to share our adventures, and it felt like we’d found them.” He gave a brief flash of that bright, gummy grin.

It was hardly surprising they recalled the scene vividly: it had happened a month ago.

But they couldn’t really name other exploits of note.

They sat across from each other at the antiqued kitchen table, feeling as weathered and drawn as they looked.

Miranda had cremated the toast, yet again. And Gabriel hadn’t put enough milk in her coffee, and three lumps of sugar instead of just two. They had their first proper argument, which was also their last.

“I’ve given you too much of my life,” she said, crying.

“If I could do it all again, just the same,” he replied, “then I don’t think I would.”

He noticed she’d put her cup straight on the timber, instead of on one of the doilies he’d bought.

At six weeks, the procedure was still under warranty, so they booked their rewinding at no extra cost.

On their return to the clinic, they avoided all eye-contact, especially with patients who were heading back out. They didn’t feel remotely like hopping and laughing, and Gabriel was purposely dragging his feet.

The surgeon seemed just as reluctant as they were, and a bit disappointed, if not entirely surprised. He didn’t crack as many jokes in the operating theatre, but at least remained affable enough to assure them that it wouldn’t really hurt any more than before.

“You might still have a few extra lines,” he admitted. “But I guess that’s just often the way of things, isn’t it, whenever a serious relationship ends.”

Amid the Coronavirus pandemic, as people are confronted with their own mortality, lawyers and online legal services are reporting a marked increase in will preparations. But people aren’t the only ones who are getting their affairs in order. Yesterday, to my surprise, this arrived in my mailbox, addressed to my cat, Fluffy.

I, Fluffy, aka Fluffernutter, The Fluff Meister, Fluffo, Fluff Daddy, Da Fluffa, being of sound mind and furry body, do hereby declare this document to be my last will and testament, executable only upon the completion of all of my nine lives.

I revoke all wills and codicils that I have previously made, especially that one a few years ago when, hallucinating from the effects of some bad tuna and mackerel, I left everything to the American Kennel Club.

I nominate the law firm of Katz and Katz to serve as Executor of this Will and I hereby instruct them to distribute my estate in the following manner:

To my sister, Phoebe, I bequeath my entire collection of cat toys, including any and all little felt mice stuffed with dried up catnip, which can be found under various beds and dressers; 27 homemade tinfoil balls, all of which are located under the stove; and an unknown number of dust-laden toys which can be found scattered throughout the house.

To Roger, the family dog, though our relationship got off to a rocky start that required you taking a trip to the vet for deep scratches to your nose, I want to let bygones be bygones. Therefore I bequeath to you your down feather bed, the same one which I booted you out of the day I arrived and enjoyed napping in every day thereafter. Though you are four times my size and weight, for years you inexplicably chose to cower on the cold, hard floor instead of just booting me out. Pleasant dreams, schmuck.

To my long-time veterinarian, Dr. Karpinski, whose dedication has kept me alive these past 18+ years, who successfully treated me for ticks, heartworms, urinary tract infections, and hairballs the size of baby fists, I leave my laser pointer toy—FOR YOU TO SHINE DIRECTLY IN YOUR EYES UNTIL YOUR RETINAS ARE FRIED LIKE A STICK OF BUTTER AT THE IOWA STATE FAIR, YOU SADISTIC CASTRATING BASTARD!!! WHAT, YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT? NEVER! NEVER!!!

To my human family, who rescued me from a kill shelter when I was a mere kitten, who constantly scoured supermarkets and websites in search of foods that I wouldn’t just sniff and walk away from, who showered me with unrequited love and affection, and who spent thousands of dollars on me in medical care when I ate tinsel off the Christmas tree back in 2012, and again in 2015, 2016, and 2018, I bequeath my most treasured possession, my litter box and all the contents therein.

And to all my beneficiaries, I leave you this last wish: may your food bowl always be full, and your flea infestation manageable.

Witnessed and signed this day,

Fluffy

The Ravenmaster lets out a whistle. All seven of the glossy black beasts take roost on their assigned spots. Aubrey, the one farthest away from the Ravenmaster, shudders its feathers into place. Something about the motion troubles the Ravenmaster.

The gates clank and squeak as they open. Children of all species under the Empire’s flag jump and waddle and ooze off of the buses.

“Urchins,” mutters the Ravenmaster, uncharitably. “You’re awfully grumpy, for a robot,” says his assistant. “You are typically rude, for a human. And late as usual.”

Children and guardians are getting the first pamphlet on their appendage displays. The devices emit sounds, scroll text and waft scents so that everyone can understand the grand tradition of this historic place, no matter their species. “The whole tower complex is a replica of the one constructed many millennia ago, in London, on Earth. Many of the stones and metals used in the construction were transported across the vast reaches of space, from the home world itself, to recreate this essential icon of the Empire.”

Some adults, mostly loyalists to Charles the 23rd, marvel at the details. Kids are generally more interested in the ravens.

“You should love the kids. They are the only ones who care about your ravens.”

The Ravenmaster bristles. “Without my ravens there is no Empire.”

“You sound like that would be a good thing.”

The first group has made their way to the grassy area where the ravens reside. The Ravenmaster lets out an impressive whistle. The group falls silent.

“The ravens protect the tower, the monarchy, and the Empire. They are modeled on ravens bred in Somerset, some six thousand years ago.”

A bluish appendage shoots up. “What’s a Somerset?”

“Shame. You have not studied your historic geography! Demerits!”

The youngster pulls all of its limbs into a central trunk. An adult tries to console it.

“Just because you don’t know, doesn’t mean you should take it out on the kid,” whispers the assistant.

The Ravenmaster favors her with a scathing glance.

“The ravens to your right are named Gripp, Merlin, and James Crow. To your left are Bran, Winston, Markel, and Aubrey.”

“Which one can play dead?” another youngling asks, careful to not raise a hand.

“I see you’ve done your reading. James Crow is famous for her occasional display. Perhaps, if we are lucky, she will favor us with one today.”

The bluish child moves to the back of the group. It shud- ders and drops silvery tears, falling like tiny diamonds on the grass.

Aubrey cocks a head toward the glistening tears.

The Ravenmaster goes through his whole routine, signal- ing James Crow to play dead.

Aubrey hops down from his perch and picks up one of the tears. He swallows it. Then another, and another. He allows the bluish child to pet his tail.

To revive the bird, the Ravenmaster insists the children sing “God Save the King”, at full volume. James Crow hops up and ruffles her glistening black feathers.

The Ravenmaster notices Aubrey missing from his perch. He lets out a whistle. Aubrey flies up, cawing and making a big show of circling the perch before landing.

The children applaud. The Ravenmaster is not pleased. He sends them on to view the crown jewels and armaments.

He puts up a sign: “The ravens are resting and will return after their nap.”

The Ravenmaster takes Aubrey into the workshop.

While he is away, the assistant notices the little tears. She goes inside to get something to collect them in.

She returns to find Winston, Markel, James Crow and Bran all eating the tears. She uses the whistle on her lanyard to call them to attention. They ignore her.

She returns to the workshop. Aubrey lays open on the diagnostic reader. Glistening nanobots seethe out of him, sliding up the hand of the Ravenmaster and into his slack mouth.

The assistant goes back to the yard. Gripp has joined the others, eating the silvery tears. Only Merlin, the one actual raven, stands alone. She scoops up the bird and carries her to a transport chamber.

The assistant and the bird materialize deep in the secret vault of QI6 HQ. They step off the platform.

“Ravenmistress.” The guard bows to her.

“The intel was good, another attempt on the ravens. We’ll have to revert to more avians until we can sort this.”

“You were able to save the mother bird, then?”

Merlin lets out a triumphant “tok cr-r-uck” and flies to the highest spot in the room, the tiny nanobot clinging to the hock of her right foot unnoticed.

The stranger’s name was Zachary Ulysses Griffin, and when we first laid eyes on him, he was steering his immaculate 1972 Buick Riviera into the parking lot of Clarence and Mattie’s Seasoned Skillet.

The Seasoned Skillet is where most of Franklin goes for breakfast when it’s too hot to fry bacon in your own kitchen. Clarence and Mattie are without question two of the least gifted cooks in Franklin, but they compensate for their food’s lack of quality by offering generous portions of it.

When Zachary stepped into the establishment every eyeball in the place rolled in his direction. He looked as cocksure as a Marlboro cowboy as he sauntered up to the counter, took himself a seat and ordered a cup of coffee.

Like the rest of us, Mattie was curious as to what could possibly bring such a charismatic stranger to Franklin. Unlike the rest of us, Mattie has never been shy about sticking her nose into the personal affairs of a total stranger. She poured him a cup of weak, lukewarm coffee and commenced to peppering him with questions about everything from his birthplace to his hat size. After learning that Zachary preferred boxers over briefs, Mattie finally got ’round to posing the question that we were all so desperate to have answered.

“What brings you to Franklin?”

We all stopped grinding our teeth on burnt toast and leaned a little in Zachary’s direction so we wouldn’t miss a word of his response. He took a sip of his coffee, winced, looked Mattie dead in the eye and said, “I’m here to slay your vampire.”

Now, folks in Franklin have had a ringside seat to a whole lotta oddities that defied science, reason and propriety. As a result, we’re not too quick to dismiss even the strangest and most peculiar of notions as out-and-out nonsense. But there are two things about which we remain absolutely certain: time travel is hogwash and there’s just no such thing as vampires. (Our list used to consist of three things but the tragedy that befell Jada Navarro’s quinceañera proved that pterodactyls are definitely not extinct and definitely not vegetarians.)

Anyway, upon hearing that Zachary fancied himself a vampire hunter, Mattie emitted an involuntary snort that spoke for just about everyone in the diner. She refilled his cup with more of her watery blend and politely informed him, “There’s no such thing as vampires.”

Whereupon Zachary smiled at Mattie from across his cup of unpalatable coffee and made her blood run cold with the simplest of queries.

“Are you sure?”

Those three little words floated through the Seasoned Skillet like a bunch of dandelion seeds riding on a warm breeze. They drifted into our ear canals, spun ’round our cochlea and came to rest deep inside our brains. They might have withered and died there, but Zachary was quick to nourish them with plenty of fertilizer.

He turned on his stool and regaled us with thrilling tales of the vampires he’d dispatched and the grateful people who scrawled poems about his adventures. But his most harrowing recitation was the story of a town filled with skeptics who came to ruination because they could not accept the fact that a bloodsucking monster could be hiding in plain sight.

At this point Randy Patton—he teaches math at the high school—had heard just about enough from Zachary Ulysses Griffin. Randy stood up from his plate of undercooked eggs, interrupted Zachary and firmly reminded us that vampires simply do not exist.

Zachary was clearly agitated by Randy’s impertinence. He slid off his stool, tossed a crumpled fiver on the counter and headed out the door while throwing an ominous, “You’ve been warned,” over his shoulder.

For a little while it seemed like that was the end of it. But that afternoon, the seeds Zachary planted began to germinate.

Carter Gibbs was in the process of shoplifting a bag of chocolaty Butterfingers from Siddig’s Market when he caught sight of Mattie loading two dozen bulbs of garlic into her shopping basket. Mattie tried to claim that she was preparing to whip up a tub of tahini sauce, but given her aforementioned lack of culinary skills, she was clearly being dishonest.

Mattie sheepishly confessed that Zachary’s horrific tales had put a scare in her. And while she didn’t necessarily believe in vampires, she also didn’t see the harm in stringing together a garlic necklace as a purely precautionary measure.

After Carter slithered out of the market with his ill-gotten candy bars, he immediately spread the word about Mattie’s purchase. And as you might expect, that led to an all-out, full-blown, no-holds-barred run on garlic.

Within an hour every store in town was hanging a “No More Garlic” sign in the window. That left a lot of fearful people clamoring to get their hands on anything that might protect them from the evil creature of the night that was undoubtedly living right next door.

Fortunately, the trunk of Zachary’s Buick Riviera was practically bursting with garlic bulbs, holy water and pointy wooden stakes. And as luck would have it, he was willing to part with the tools of his trade for just slightly

more than the retail price. We were in a frenzy to fork over cash for everything he was selling, when Randy Patton elbowed his way to the front of the crowd.

Randy Patton has never been one to raise his voice. He usually lobs his pertinent observations at us while standing a healthy distance away from whatever fracas might be taking place. But on this day, that changed. Randy clenched his fists, took a deep breath and expended every bit of it when he let loose on the whole lot of us.

He read us the Riot Act for allowing our actions to be governed by irrational phobias and falling prey to a mendacious, fear-mongering charlatan who had never glimpsed, encountered or slain a vampire, because vampires simply do not exist.

At this point Zachary Ulysses Griffin had heard just about enough from Randy Patton. He was a blur of motion as he whirled around, yanked a wooden stake from the trunk of his car and plunged the pointy end of it straight into Randy’s chest.

To be sure, Randy was most times an annoying know-it- all. But he was also the man who’d dedicated his life to teaching our sons and daughters the value of trigonometry. And the sight of him bleeding heavily from a massive chest wound was more painful than anything a vampire could have ever done to us.

When Randy fell to the ground Doc Mendoza was by his side in the blink of an eye. She did her best to stop the bleeding while Bumpy Tate called for an ambulance. And as they sped Randy to the hospital the rest of us trailed behind them with all the speed we could muster. But Clarence and Mattie stayed behind. They had to clean up all the wooden stakes and garlic we’d hurled to the ground in their parking lot.

Though the vampire-killing stick didn’t turn Randy into a cloud of smoke and ash, it did fracture two ribs and collapse a lung. But Doc Mendoza says that after a few weeks of physical therapy, Randy’ll be back to teaching young minds about cosines and tangents.

As for Zachary Ulysses Griffin, he disappeared. In all the confusion he must have hopped into his immaculate Buick Riviera and sped out of town. We don’t imagine he’ll ever return to Franklin. After all, we are more certain than ever that vampires do not exist.

But we have concluded that there are some monsters capable of hiding in plain sight.