[7 / 1 / 7]
So you're sitting there in your office, past twilight, fork on one hand, knife in the other hand, bib on, the blinds pulled down, the gun on the table—loaded (you're not crazy)–the chunks of lamb braised to the tenderness of fresh cheesecake, television on mute, the sign on the door, definitely (definitely) flipped to "Closed", and in comes this broad, knocking on the glass window, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering in like she's scoping out the place for a robbery later, and your disappointment is immeasurable and your night is ruined.
"We're closed," you say.
"What?" She knocks some more on the window.
With the reluctance of a vampire lover breaking up with a phlebotomist, you put down your knife and fork, almost consider the gun, and then shuffle without it to the door. You open it about half an inch, to better hold up the red sign to her face, but the woman pushes the door wide open and enters with an equine quickness, leaving behind a trial of pungent, citrusy perfume that stings your nostrils like hot bleach.
"Mr. Helsing?" she asks.
"We're closed," you say.
"Please, I need your help."
The Helsings have always been suckers for damsels in distress. Even now you can feel the pull of the old blood, even with the meal you've been savoring for at least a month and a half sitting untouched on your desk, even when that meal is critical to your livelihood; to your very survival.
You sigh. "You don't mind if I eat, do you?"
She shakes her head and follows you into the office proper. You shut off the television, drag out a chair for her to sit on, and sit down yourself. Damsels, as a rule, are pretty, and she is too, you guess, in a fat kind of way. She has that trouble-in-Chinatown-look: white dress, white fedora slightly askance on her head, white teeth. No fangs. That's a good start. You don't want to have to change offices again.
She stares at you expectantly.
>What do you do?
>The usual Sherlock Holmes stuff [cerebral]
>Bully her into keeping it short and sweet [gung-ho]
>Let her talk at her own pace; eat your food [humble]
"We're closed," you say.
"What?" She knocks some more on the window.
With the reluctance of a vampire lover breaking up with a phlebotomist, you put down your knife and fork, almost consider the gun, and then shuffle without it to the door. You open it about half an inch, to better hold up the red sign to her face, but the woman pushes the door wide open and enters with an equine quickness, leaving behind a trial of pungent, citrusy perfume that stings your nostrils like hot bleach.
"Mr. Helsing?" she asks.
"We're closed," you say.
"Please, I need your help."
The Helsings have always been suckers for damsels in distress. Even now you can feel the pull of the old blood, even with the meal you've been savoring for at least a month and a half sitting untouched on your desk, even when that meal is critical to your livelihood; to your very survival.
You sigh. "You don't mind if I eat, do you?"
She shakes her head and follows you into the office proper. You shut off the television, drag out a chair for her to sit on, and sit down yourself. Damsels, as a rule, are pretty, and she is too, you guess, in a fat kind of way. She has that trouble-in-Chinatown-look: white dress, white fedora slightly askance on her head, white teeth. No fangs. That's a good start. You don't want to have to change offices again.
She stares at you expectantly.
>What do you do?
>The usual Sherlock Holmes stuff [cerebral]
>Bully her into keeping it short and sweet [gung-ho]
>Let her talk at her own pace; eat your food [humble]
