Would you like a little rot with that?

"Oh, you're thirsty?" She inquires sanguinely. "My dinner can wait. Why don't you, like, come inside for a drink?"

"Me, too?" I yelp.

"Totally! You've gotta join us!" Enthused, the woman grabs my arm at the wrist. "You're the best smelling thing I've met in awhile. Not the prettiest, though. My boots are the prettiest. Aren't they totally cute?"

"Totally," I grimace at the word choice. What's that smell?

I follow the jacketed woman over the threshold and into her home.

"Pick your poison," she laughs. Her slender hands gesture at a liquor cabinet. "Take whatever you want. It's no good to me. I don't drink...alcohol." Again, she giggles.

"Actually, I hoped for something warm." Lazarus insinuates as he enters the home.

"Oh, sure! Something hot, coming right up."

"What's that smell?" I can't hold in the question any longer.

"You're that smell." The girl answers. "And you smell so delicious."

"No," I counter. "I mean the bad smell."

"Oh," she stops bustling. The oblique kitchen light glints in wedges on her shaded eyes. "You smell it too?"

"It's hard to miss."

"I figured it was, like, a vampire thing. Ever since I got turned, the whole world totally smells." Then she smiles. "Except you, of course."

"Wait. You're a vampire?" Lazarus exclaims. "I knew it!"

"You didn't know it," I rebuke. "Just give it up, Lazarus. Your dark power does nothing but leave you in the, well, dark."

"You guys have powers? That's, like, totally cool."

"I do." Lazarus asserts. "I am The Vampire Lazarus, and I read minds."

No, you don't. I broadcast a signal on the mental airwaves. Lazarus doesn't tune in. Obviously, he listens to the wrong station.

"Really?" The woman coos, wide-eyed. "So, can you guess my name, Vampire Lazarus? Lazzzaruss," she repeats. "Laazzzaruss. Your name slides like a slippery snake. I like it."

"Of course, I can reveal your name, babe. But, it isn't guessing. It's prophesy. And, names take a bit of concentration. I need to gaze into your eyes."

Gosh, I don't think this postmortem flirting ritual could get any weirder.

"Come closer to me. Put your hands on my chest."

OK, yes it can.

"Relax." His fingers massage her shoulders.

It really can.

"Just relax."

With soft hands, he traces the line of her hood, all the while, penetrating its shadow with his lurid stare. "Just relax," he soothes. Like a priest blesses a dark sacrifice, he cupped his palms on the crown of her hooded head. "Focus on your name. Whisper your name."

"Elle," she murmurs. I roll my eyes.

"I have it," he divines. "As I unveil you, your name will be revealed."

His hands slip beneath her hood, sliding along her silken hair. In a sensual flourish, he brushes the cloth from her head. He staggers backward…in a not-so-aphrodisiac way. Clenching his hand to his face, he falls against the floor in an awkward convulsion that I'm sure I've copyrighted.

He's discovered the source of the stench. And, the smell is coming from Elle.

Hey, that rhymes.


The duo has become a trio, and it seems that one of them is truly decaying. What happens next?

A. Deirdre and Lazarus scramble their way out of the stinky house. (Does it smell like eggs in here?)
B. With his verbena-infused cape, Lazarus cuddles up to cry in the corner
C. Deirdre introduces Elle to a new perfume…myrrh.
D. They continue their search for Desmond, this time they use the white pages, and set off with Elle in tow (Or, is that toe? She definitely smells like one). Surely, Desmond will have some gas masks they can use.

Immortality in a bubble

"Why don't you use your dark power to find this Desmond fellow?"

"It doesn't work that way, Deirdre."

"More like: it doesn't work at all." I snort. The burst of disbelief blasts a string of verbena balloons from my right nostril. Whoa, immortal snot bubbles attack.

Their inflated bodies tickle delicate nose hairs and provoke a bout of effervescent sneezes.

"Oh no!" Lazarus exclaims. "The allergies."

"What?" Sneeze. "This is what," sneeze, "you're," sneeze, sneeze, sneeze "worried about?" With two hands, I seize him by the cape. Burying my face in his giant handkerchief, I unleash a fragrant gush of gassy goo. "My hay fever is worse than this."

"My cape!" He shouts, dismayed. "Aw, you've ruined it."

"I told you to loose that cape. You look ridiculous."

"It strikes fear in the hearts of my victims." He pouts.

"It strikes laughter in the bellies of your victims, is more like it."

Considering this possibility, he strips off the costume. "Fine. Let's just find Desmond before you decide to barf on my shoes."

Angry, he marches up the steps of the neighboring house and hammerfists the door. No one answers.

The house is dark, and the car is parked at the curb, yet the radio blares from the upstairs room. Obviously, the occupants vacation in New England for a clambake, but desire that would-be-thieves assume they're at home.

Not wishing to repeat his mistake, I target the next house. Mosquitoes buzz around the porch light as I approach the door.

Dressed smartly in a hooded jacket, a startled woman emerges on the front stoop. "Oh," she exclaims. "I was just heading out to grab a bite to eat."

"At this time of night?" Lazarus sprints toward us when he spots the live body on the porch. "You should be careful. Dangerous creatures crawl the night, and some of us are thirsty."


What happens next? You decide.
A. The decaying duo take the woman out for dinner.
B. The woman invites the two inside for a couple of drinks.
C. Deirdre bums an antihistamine.
D. The clambaking neighbors groggily stumble over to see if the promiscuous woman cares to join them.