Saint Patrick's Vampire Story:

I could do with a glass of green beer. It would go down real well right about now. But it was green beer that got me into this mess.

I had wandered into the Irish pub for quick brew last Saint Patrick’s day. I always had loved the atmosphere of corned beef and stale beer, particularly after a long day sitting in front of my computer. The pub had been stacked standing room only with merry-makers, most of them strangers in town just for the parties and the “authentic” green beer. The sawdust on the floor shouldn’t pass health inspector’s, but this bein’ New York and all, they were well paid not to notice it, and the bar seemed more real because of it – so the money passing paid off in tourist trade. It was what they did in the old-country, or so the bartender always told tourists, but really the sawdust was great for soaking up beer spills and vomit, so there was less fuss at cleanup each night. Sawdust was cheap.

I wormed my way through the crowd careful not to spill my beer. The whores from Hell’s Kitchen and the barrio rubbed against me as I tried to find a perch. Finally I took my beer and lodged myself in a corner close to the dart-board, and I leaned back against the handy wall to watch two very short men throwing darts. Although I was just medium height myself, I felt a positive giant next to them.

“You couldn’t hit the bull’s-eye if it were ten feet thick!” the shorter, bearded, red-haired one taunted the other just at the moment his friend released the dart. “Damn you to hell, Patrick,” the second one exclaimed volubly as he tucked the tail of his flannel shirt further into his overalls. “You made me miss that shot!”

“You didn’t need my help, Aiden!” Patrick replied, laughing as he walked over and pulled the dart from outer edges of the board. “Let me show you how it’s done.” He strutted (amazing how little guys can do it) back to the throw line and quickly threw three into the bulls-eye before his friend had a chance to pull the same thing on him, which he did on the forth throw, making the dart shoot towards me. It clunked into the wall next to me, a good half-inch deep.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the one named Patrick told me as I pulled the dart out and handed it over to him. “You don’t happen to play now, do you?” he asked as he took it from my outstretched hand.

I considered for just an instant before I answered. I was due at my fiancés in an hour and she raised holy terror if I was even a few moments late.

But I really loved playing darts, and considered this a challenge since the men seemed quite good. So I said yep, I didn't mind if I did.

Thorough the first few games the men were real good, but I was just a tad better. My scores were consistently just a bit higher than either of theirs. Now if I hadn't had a few more green beers during those first few games, I might have wondered if they were purposely throwing the wins my way; it as unlikely that Patrick who was able to throw three bulleyes in a row without really paying attention would suddenly only be hitting two each game. But I had had several beers while the other men threw. They had, of course, been keeping me company on my drinking. We were getting quite social, arms around each other and such. First name basis.

Suddenly I realized the Pub had begun to empty, and noticed the time. Late! My fiance would kill me, or she would dump me which would be worse.

It was about then that Aidan asked, "Want to make this a wee bit more interestin'? Maybe lay a wee wager on the game?"

His friend Patrick quickly agreed that a wager would indeed make the outcome more interesting. I was too tipsy and worried by then to realize I was being set up. After all, Patrick and Aidan were the best of mates (their words), so why would I suspect them even if I'd been fully sober. I did protest that I'd best run; I was due at my fiance for dinner with her parents two hours ago.

"You're too late already," Aiden told me with an arm over my shoulder, "might as well be hoist for a wolf as for a lamb."

It made perfect sense to me by then, sad to say, and I agreed that a small wager might be in order. The first wager was only for the next round, and it was quickly won, and downed, as was the second. By then I was too far gone to notice that we were now the only patrons, and the bartender was looking at us with less than affection. He wanted to close, but was unwilling to approach either of my companions.

That was when my luck turned -- of course it had turned a long time earlier, had I but known it. By the time the bartender finally screwed up the courage to noisily clean the tables around us I was several hundred dollars in debt to the wee men. I was also four or five sheets to the wind -- shit faced for those readers who don't get me. Not even owing more than my pay to a couple of strange wee ones sobered me up at all. After all, my drunken mind said, what could they do to me... it wasn't as though they really knew me or knew where I lived. I would just stagger out, catch the first cab, and bums your uncle -- no more little men.

They escorted me out, one on each side each with one arm around my waist like they'd read me mind and the bartender was happy to see us go. I staggered toward the street, but there were no cabs hanging about Hell's Kitchen that late -- not worth the risk to get the fares. Before I went ten feet they had be down the alleyway and into an overhanging doorway. There was red lights and laughter in the rooms around us, but no one would lift a finger to interfere -- see no evil being the operative.

Little ones my ass. They had me down on the step before I could even begin to resist and remember I had two feet and fifty pounds on them. "I'll make you an offer," said Patrick. "You can keep your money..."

"Yeah," Aiden hissed agreement, "keep your money. You've got more valuable than money."

Fear was startin' to sober me up by then. Never thought I'd be feared of two wee men, but they were weirdin' me out and part of my brain knew I was in deep and sinkin' fast. I bunched my muscles tryin' to get my weight back under me so I could stand fast and run.

That was when the woman appeared at the mouth of the alley. She was a pretty thing -- accent on bein' thing. But all I reacted to was the pretty face and slim figure, and the two men releasing their hold on me as they turned to face her -- boxing me in behind them.

"What have you got there?" she purred at them, slithering to a stop in front of the doorway. "Looks like a pretty..."

"He's ours," Patrick told her. "Bought'n paid for."

"And he's made his wish?" She asked. And no, I still don't know what the heck that referred to.

"No. But he's bought. Fifteen hundred dollars worth of bought."

She laughed lightly, and the red lights from the windows around us winked out. Then she addressed me. "Shall I buy your contract out?"

I thought at the time that she was my life-line. Savior. Sent for fools and children. Well, yes. I could claim she was hot, but it wasn't just that. Fear of two wee men. Cowardice. I agreed. She pulled a small bag off her belt and handed the two several bills, reached between them, and pulled me towards her. They muttered darkly but accepted the gelt and -- they simply vanished. Just weren't there anymore.

I thought I was home free. Work out terms with her, some kind of a payment plan perhaps -- or visa; who doesn't accept visa?

She had other ideas. Not to put too fine a terms upon it, she soon had me back in the doorway, head burrowed in my neck. She had her way wi' me.

It were green beer that got me into this mess, and I'm stuck drinking blood red for eternity.