Un-Made is a
novel that I worked on in my youth, at age 25. I'm proud of the story, and
can't wait for you to check it out. It was born out my frustration with the
wimpifying of modern vampires. It's a cynical piece that is brutally honest, as
was the man that I was some years ago. It's a dark piece of fiction, which some
will find too dark, but the truths contained within are a rarity.

At the very
least, it's a novel unlike any vampire novel I've personally seen. It's also a
risk-taking novel that is written the way that my past-self felt like books
should be written, unflinching and with a certain amount of risk involved.
There are moments in the book that may leave you scratching your head, and
moments that may blow your mind. Either way, the experimental nature of the
writing should keep you reading.

The book is
part of a larger series kicking around in my mind, and like the past-self that
wrote this book, it agrees that many will be surprised by the shape of subsequent
entries. Hell... the protagonist might even get a name!

Chapter 1: Tears of the City

Moving in was
the worst. The sun was still up and burning and it was only 5 in the afternoon.
He hated the sun, cursing it silently as it beat down on his heavily tanned
arms. Sweat dripped into his eyes from his soggy eyebrows as he trudged back to
the U-Haul for another load of stuff. He scanned the back of the truck to see
if anything was missing since his last trip up to his new apartment. Everything
looked like it was there, but he felt uncomfortable as he picked up another box
marked “DISHES.”You never knew who was walking around with sticky fingers in
the city.

He would give
anything to just stop for a second and get a drink of water, but he wanted to
get the job done before the sun went down. He got a good grip on his “DISHES”
and began the three story climb up the stairs. He was almost to the second
landing when he tripped and crashed, face first, on top of his dishes. One side
of the box caved in and he heard the crash of broken glass. The large pebbled
texture of the steps ripped through the knee of his jeans and he immediately
felt the drip of blood down his shin. To make matters worse his nose was
pouring blood from where his face had smashed into the box. Maybe it wasn’t the
sound of dishes breaking, but his nose instead.

He
repositioned his load and carried the box into his apartment. The King’s
Castle, as he thought of it, had one room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The main room
was filled with boxes and had a great view of the building across the way.
Someone across the way was lying on their back and lifting weights. He wondered
how anyone could lift weights in this kind of heat. It was stifling in his
apartment and his pants stuck to the sweat of his crotch just as the leg of his
jeans stuck to the sticky blood on his knee and shin. He felt dirty.

He moved to
the kitchen sink and began cleaning up his blood. He had heard somewhere that
blood wasn’t a liquid, but actually a tissue, like muscle. Where had he heard
that? Probably in some class that didn’t matter, in some place that didn’t
matter. What the hell would he ever need to know about blood anyway? All he
needed to know now was where his fucking towels were. He peered through the
little opening between his kitchen and his throne room and tried to find the
box marked “KITCHEN STUFF.”

He couldn’t
find it so he walked over to his things and began opening boxes looking for
anything he could use to hold on his nose. He could hear drops of blood thud to
a halt on top of his boxes as he tore through them. He finally found something
he could use in a box marked “OLD SHIT.” He pulled out an old Dio T-shirt and
put it up to his nose. He plopped down in the only piece of furniture that he
had moved so far, a threadbare old recliner that leaned to the left when you
sat in it. He stared out the window as he waited for his nose to stop bleeding.

The man across
the way had stopped lifting weights and had begun a new exercise. His pants were
around his ankles and he was now jacking off. Lovely. He moved to the window
and closed the blinds. What kind of guy jacks off with the window open? What a
scumbag.

After about
five minutes the blood finally slowed to a drip, and he went to the bathroom to
look at the damage. His jeans were plastered to his knee where a red gash
peeked through and his nose had swollen. He could already see the bruises
forming around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. His wifebeater had drips of
blood down the front of it; he looked like he had been drinking blood.

He finally
began the long trudge down the three flights of stairs. He still had all of the
big stuff to move. It was going to be a pain in the ass to haul his bed up
three flights of stairs by himself. Maybe he could black mail Mister Jackoff
across the way into helping him carry his stuff. Nah, it wasn’t worth getting
some guys cocky hand germs all over his shit.

As he skipped
off of the last step, he saw someone clearly trying to lift something out of
the back of the U-Haul.

“What the fuck
are you doing?”

The man in the
back of the truck stopped and froze like a deer in headlights; slowly he turned
his head and he got a better look at him. He had eyes like a weasel or a cat,
something feral, and copper-red hair peeked out from under a confederate flag
bandana. The man grinned back at him, until he noticed all the blood and then
he stammered as he said, “I was just getting a look at the goods. I need a new
lamp for my place and I was seeing if you had anything I might want to buy.
What happened to you?”

“Something to
buy, huh? It looks like you were planning to steal my shit.”

The man seemed
to get uncomfortable and he could see the wheels turning in his head ‘Should he
run or try to play it out?’ Decisions apparently weren’t his greatest strength.

“Hey, you
gonna move all this shit by yourself? I could help you, if you have some cash.”

He thought
about it for a second and decided he might as well pay the guy to help him
move. It was better to have the guy helping him and in his sight than to have
him hanging around down here while he was dragging a mattress up three flights
of stairs.

“I tell you
what, you help me and I’ll give you ten bucks.”

“Sounds like a
deal.”

The man held
out his hand and they shook on it. The man had a nasty habit of scratching his
arms. Any time his hands weren’t occupied his clawed fingers would find their
way to his vein corded forearms and begin scratching. He noticed the scabs that
ran up and down his arms. The man was skinny, but not in a good way. He was
Iggy Pop skinny, the type of skinny that is almost uncomfortable to look at. He
looked like a starving sailor, Old Captain Skin and Bones.

With the
Captain helping him out, they made short work of the rest of his things. There
really wasn’t that much and if the Captain had helped him from the beginning it
probably would have taken a couple of hours. As it was his back was covered in
sweat and his nose was throbbing. He could feel his heartbeat through his face.
He just wanted to pay the Captain and go to bed.

“Alright, let
me get your cash.”

He walked
towards the kitchen counter to grab his wallet and suddenly the only light in
the kitchen went out.

Cap’n Skin
& Bones had grabbed a lamp and cracked him on the back of the head as soon
as he turned his back. The Cap’n watched silently as the body slumped to the
floor like a bag full of jelly. For a second, he just stood there scratching
his arms and looking at the man on the floor. Somewhere in the back of his head
he felt bad; in the part of him that still had feelings he knew that the guy
was just a kid with nothing to his name, but that was more than he had right
now. He moved to take the guy’s money and all he found was ten bucks.
Dejectedly, he grabbed the slightly damaged lamp and closed the door as he
left.

“Good night,
hillbilly.”

Chapter 2: Aftermath

He woke up in
a puddle of blood. It wasn’t a huge puddle but there had definitely been some
seepage from his nose and from the back of his head. Despite the fact that he
had been knocked unconscious, he had gotten some good sleep. There was a slight
throb in his head and a little dizziness when he stood up, but other than that
he felt fine. Then he touched his nose and tears sprang to his eyes.

He looked
around for a clock and then realized that they were all packed up. It was
definitely dark outside, but he didn’t know if it was the darkness of 10 at
night or 3 in the morning. He stumbled his way to the wall next to the door and
searched for the light switch. He flicked it on and the dirty light bulbs lit
up and spread their sickly orange glow over the apartment. Where he had been
laying there was a puddle of blood like spilt wine. That was definitely not
coming out of the carpet. There goes his security deposit, on the very first day
too.

He walked to
the bathroom and threw his bloody clothes into a pile, all the while wondering
if they were salvageable or garbage material. He climbed into the shower and
gasped as he turned on the water and its cold kiss assaulted him. The water warmed
up and he gasped again as he ducked his head into the warm spray only to feel
the sting of water on the small gash on the back of his head. He finished his
shower and emerged into the steamy bathroom. There was no ceiling fan to
alleviate the oppressive steaminess from the shower so he opened the door and
felt the stale, but considerably cooler, air from the rest of his apartment
rush in. He used his hand to wipe down the bathroom mirror and look at himself.

He looked like
he had been smacked in the face by Charles Bronson and his famous “sock full o’
quarters.” Maybe he should go to the hospital and get one of those little
pieces of tape that he always saw on people that had broken noses. He wondered
what good a piece of tape did for a broken nose. Maybe it was just there so
that people knew to be careful around your nose. Maybe if you had a piece of
tape people would be extra careful to not throw footballs at you. Maybe they
wouldn’t play that one joke where someone tells you that if your hand is bigger
than your face then you’re not stupid. Then, after you put your hand in front
of your face, they hit your hand, causing it to smack you in the face. Then you
know you’re stupid.

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