Mason, Matlock and the Blue Vampire

Doyle Matlock was working the graveyard shift at the Take It Or Leave It convenience store, chugging Monsters and stealing dirty magazines from the shelf. Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, all the big names along with the seedier variety of High Society, Cheri and the classy Club and Club International imprint. Once a week the periodical distributor would swap out 3 or 4 titles, replacing them with new issues. The manager and the store owner's wife would always take a paper bag each, presumably at the request of their husbands, and fill it with the fresh stuff. Likewise, though management had no idea, Doyle  followed their lead in packing a copy of each "adult" periodical in his own paper bag, which was large enough to accommodate not only the magazines but a 6-pack of Michelob beer and several sticks of beef jerky as well. He liked to skim the most expensive brand of beer that he could rarely afford to buy for his own. Doyle Matlock never looked a gift horse in the mouth when it came to his impressive collection of contraband.

Yes, there's one thing you can say about Doyle Matlock. One thing, no make that two. The Matlock family name is not well known in these parts for it's generosity. Many an enemy has he made by clinging to the bizarre code of ethics he'd derived from the text of all the "adult" magazines he was reading through on a practically daily basis. Sort of a cross between Hugh Hefner's hedonistic Playboy Philosophy and his own cherry-picked values and morals, each one dragged down by the weight of values and morals. 

The second thing you must know about the Matlock's is that they are not to be fucked with. Yea, as I said they made a lion's share of enemies throughout the course of their incredibly violent reign of power. 

But, listen. Sit your ass down for a minute and hear me out. Whose to say you might walk away from this communication and dismiss it as the lunatic ravings of a second generation Rosicrucian?

Contrary to popular belief,the legendary evening in which Matlock first established his rule of the Take It Or Leave It is a subject near and dear to the hearts of women between the ages of 34-56. But no matter how wretched their existence eventually became, Doyle always rose above the failures of his family. Though it does them no good at this point you know at least it's the thought that counts. 

Doyle Matlock's face is filled with dread the moment he sees me, slapping down a five dollar bill to pay for some donuts, worried I would recognize him. I thought, You bastard, you ain't-a gonna git away this time. Yes, overdone southern charm and all, I called him out by name. 

I said, "What the hell you so frightened of? You think I'm looking to hurt you?"

"Word on the street that you is," Matlock said, demonstrating his poor grasp of vocabulary and proper grammar. "Yeah, boy, word is you the devil himself. I can see it pourin' out of ya like an aura. An aura of many. I seen that ring on yo' finger and I thought 'damn if it ain't the devil, wouldn't you know he'd be here, tagging along to get a glimpse of the Big Man.'" 

"Well I ain't no goddamn devil, boy, you better hear me and get this straight. You don't know the goddamn devil, you hear that, Boy? You ain't never dealt with the goddamn devil. I just want to know if you've seen that Mason boy loitering in the vicinity of your premises?"

Doyle's countenance fell.

"I don't know who the hell you're talking about, Hoss, you said the name was Mason? Is that first or last name o' Mason?"

"It doesn't matter anymore," I said. "I've already lost interest." 

"No, brother, it does matter."

"Okay, so it matters. Have you seen him?"

"Yeah, I seen him a couple ern hours ago. He come in here, I think he was high on methamphetamine, he kept talking in a strange language, gesticulatin' all over the place. Said he was gonna be a poet, wouldn't you know it? All high-falutin' and every which way. Got words leakin' out of him like ethanol fuel from a hole in a gas can, just a' waitin' for somebody to come along and put the flame to it."

"That sounds like Mason, all right," I said, rubbing my chin like a rogue plotting schemes in a Victorian tale. "He do like to go around thinkin' he's something special, don't he? What with those clever turns of phrase and mildly confusing couplets tainted with the magnetic lust for fame."

Doyle scratched his own beard, contemplating how much information he thought would be prudent to share. "I'm telling you it HAD to be methamphetamine he was riding. Damn tweakers get a look in their eye, ya know? It's unmistakable. Hits 'em long before their appearance starts going to hell."

Now let me stop for just one moment to tell you that my opinion of tweakers is set on a sliding scale based upon their ability to procure excessively potent marijuana in large amounts at reasonable prices. Mason's been a tweaker for years, this is common knowledge in Meeker. It's also a solidly grounded fact that I don't like poets. Since this particular speed freak had no connections for the wacky backy that meant he had two strikes going against him. I aimed to locate the loser and deliver that third strike.

"But did he tell you were he was going? What he was going to do?" I asked, by this point ready to drop all formalities and leave Doyle Matlock counting cigarettes and fudging inventory reports. I needed to know where the man had gone and daylight was burning like a billion banned books tossed into a pile in front of a library, doused with kerosene and set ablaze for the whole town to see. 

Matlock coughed, wiped spittle from his chin, coughed again, wiped an even larger gob of slobber off the counter where it had sprayed in an arc and splashed with an audible *plop*. 

"Fuckin' poet said he was going to the Watering Hole. Said he had some business he had to take care of with a regular he'd met there a few nights ago. Said this dude had some sharp teeth. Said he thought he might be a vampire and he wasn't kidding around, there was a healthy amount of fear in his eyes that flared when the suggestion was contemplated. A vampire, Billy, can you believe it? A true blue vampire! An actual dead person with lethal chompers that'll come up on ye in the middle of the night and try to take a nibble o' yer blood, that monster will just as soon bite you as tell you your house is on fire and when he DO bite you, mister, you gonna live forever, too, but you gonna find that the worst curse the Lord above could ever levy against the human element. Especially when it means you gotta drink blood to survive and you gotta watch out for wooden stakes, crosses and garlic. And get this, you have no reflection in the mirror or really any reflective surface...It means you will live on until the end of time and afterwards but you can never see what you look like. After a couple hundred years I warrant you're liable to forget so the rest of your days, at the very least until someone gets smart enough to put a stake through your heart, you're gonna walk and talk the moonlight hours without a clue as to what you even look like. Some might say that could be a liberating experience but just as many will point out that it's hard to maintain effective grooming habits, including the management of one's hair, when you've been robbed of the ability to gauge your appearance."

This was news. I was hoping vampires wouldn't rear their ugly heads in this tale. They may still not. I could put the kibosh on the whole undead thing in a heartbeat and the mood I'm in right now makes that sound like the most prudent option. 

"So Mason's got himself entangled with a blue vampire, you don't say?"

"I don't say. But that's what I said. I mean that's what HE said. Who knows how far you can shake a stick at a tweaker, you know? Who knows if that's Pinocchio's nose dribbling snot, distributing it throughout the short hairs of his unkempt moustache? It's hard to tell, but that's what he told me. Be honest I thought he was full of shit, myself."

"He probably is full of shit, Doyle ol' boy. But vampire or not he probably was on the level about heading to the Watering Hole. Looks like that's going to be my destination too but I will tell you that of all the places I might want to spend the rest of this evening, the Watering Hole is not on that particular list."

"I hear ya, chief. I try to avoid that dive whenever I possibly can."

"Smart man, Mr. D.M. Matlock. You are an intelligent human being. What time are you getting off work anyway? You think you might want to accompany me? I could  use another hand in subduing Mason when he finds out what I'm there for."

"Billy Jack, I appreciate the offer, I really do. Your confidence in me is inspiring. But I don't think any higher of that cesspool Watering Hole than you do and besides I owe money to the bartender. I think you're going to have to make this visit all by yourself. Besides, I'm gonna be here another three hours or my ass is on the unemployment line. By the time I'm clocking out Mason will either have already moved on or he'll be laid up in a hospital bed...if'n he turns out not to be a vampire."

I turned it over in my head. On one hand like I said it would have been nice to have some backup muscle in case things went awry. On the other hand I was not looking forward to walking into that joint with Doyle Matlock in tow because indeed he does owe money to the bartender just like he probably owes money to 75% of everyone else there. His inability to keep his debts paid has made him a very unpopular man in certain circles, the Watering Hole definitely at the top of that list. It would have been social suicide to be seen with him. It could have defeated the entire purpose of my presence in that shithole. After I contemplated the enigma for a moment or two in silence I came to the realization that the latter scenario was more probable so I was glad he decided not to go.

"You're right, dude. I'd better go now before that blue vampire sends somebody out on a stretcher. Doyle, thanks for this. I can always count on you for solid information. Y'know not everyone has a grapevine connection like I have with you. Maybe I'm gettin' too sentimental and gushy but I have always felt like you and I had a good thing going, I ask you a question, you generally give me a good, useful answer. That's an arrangement which many better men than I would kill to have. You always give me great intel and when I shake your hand I hope you know that I'm squeezing it as hard as I do because it's a subliminal signal that I appreciate the way your calloused fingers slide across the back of my hand. It's a feeling that's almost sensuous. No, did I say "almost"? Indeed it is the most sensuous sensation I've experienced since adolescence. Stay true, Doyle. I'm outta here."

"Buh buh buh buh buh bye bye Billy Boy," he half sang, affecting the tone and mannerisms of Jackie Gleason. "Good luck with your tweaker. Watch out for that blue vampire"

I turned my head, fixing my gaze on the surprised countenance revealed in his facial features. 

"Son, there ain't no such thing as blue vampires. Just meth junkies, their crap poetry and the tall tales they weave."