Now, though, I regret my short-sightedness. True,I never could have seen my radical new philosophy coming, but even abit of help from the great scholars of the ages would be nice. Howdoes a nobody with a message become a sage with a cause?I could go the religious route. My dad did,twenty-something years ago, when he agreed to let a pair of Jehovah’sWitnesses into our house. The whole family converted the next day. Idon’t remember how they got into his head, but my dad was always ahighly suggestible guy anyway, so maybe their method isn’tairtight.I could try and be an enlightened dictator, andforce my dogma on the masses. Not the most path, I know – AdolfHitler certainly doesn’t enjoy worldwide popularity these days, andI’d never call him ‘enlightened’ – but pushing the truth onpeople may be best. I don’t think I’ll get listeners unlessthey’re made to see the truth.But don’t you need an army for that? I don’thave an army. Hrm.The problem with my decision is the degree ofdifficulty. Nobody I know wants to stand around all day, staring atthe world. I suppose I can understand, since the average joe needs toeat. Vapid appreciation of life doesn’t necessarily include eating.I don’t need to eat. The hunger in my mouthdoesn’t extend to my belly. It’s a hunger of the righteous, andmy teeth the delivery device for my faith. The compulsion to bitepeople in order to show them the truth... I guess that’s the way to go. Just... bite.It’s a kind gesture, after all, despite the warning signs in mybrain every time I lurch for someone’s neck. I’m doing the persona favour. I don’t understand why authority figures get so uppitywhenever I dive in for a mouthful. It’s like they think I’m doingsomething wrong.
Take my slow walk home. There aren’t many peopleon the streets right now, though as I’m shuffling across thepavement I find a cop talking to an older woman. I feel aninstinctive need to approach them, and I do.The cop smiles and me and grunts. The woman backsaway several steps. I extend my hand to stop her. “Don’t worry,I’m just here to chat. Wouldn’t you like to talk a bit?”My words have the opposite effect of what I’dintended. The cop’s smile vanishes as he steps in front of thewoman, his chest puffed. He grunts some more, his mouth twisting inways I can’t understand. What’s wrong with him? I shamble forward a few more steps, my fingerstouching the man’s uniform. “Don’t worry, I’m going to makeyour life better.” And I lunge for his neck.The cop takes me down in an instant, pinning me tothe concrete. A tooth wobbles loose inside my mouth. He didn’t slamme down too hard, so I don’t know why that happened. I can see thewoman running off, her mouth a wide O of fright. The cop mumbles to himself some more, his voicedeep and vicious. He confers with somebody over his walkie talkie,then, eventually, after sniffing my clothes, lets me go. He sternlyadvises me to do something and leaves.Shit. See? Authority. Balls to authority.I lay on the sidewalk for a while, thinking aboutwhat’s just happened. Trying to convince people through publiclecture just gets me slammed down by ‘the man’. Maybe they’llarrest me for trying to bite someone next time. For anyone else thatwould be understandable, but me? No. My bites are love bites, andthey serve a greater purpose than filling my belly.
Though the size of that cop’s neck does set mymouth watering. He must exercise. A lot of flesh on a dude like that.Mmm.Dusk gives way to full-blown night as I lay in themiddle of the sidewalk. I’m vaguely aware of people walking by me,stepping over me, even checking my pockets. More would-be thieves. Idon’t understand what any of them are saying, and they all move byso quickly that I’m scarcely sure which is which. Why does theworld have to operate in constant fast-forward? After an hour of thinking and appreciating theconcrete, I conclude that the average modern conversation is like twopeople passing each other in cars, in a tunnel with poor harmonics,trying to exchange words. It doesn’t work as it should. There’stoo much speed in humanity, and I... I need to slow it down.How? By using the only method I have. And,paradoxically, that method is fast. I need to use my teeth toenlighten the world. Hypocritical, I know, but it’s for the best.It’s close to midnight by the time I get home.The stinging in my arm is long gone, and with a few fumbling motionsI relocate my shoulder. It’s nice to have a philosophy thateradicates pain; I just wish it would help me dress.I’ve been shambling around the city in shortsand a t-shirt, my standard lazy-day outfit. Tonight, however, I needto begin spreading the word in nicer clothes. I need to findsomewhere that will allow me to bite people without getting introuble, and that means crowds.Changing is difficult. My motor functions aren’twhat they once were, and I fall over several times just trying to puton pants. A bead of blood runs down my head after I smack it againstmy bedpost, so I snag my fedora.I check myself in the mirror. I’m a gangly manin sweatpants, a suit jacket and a passé hat. I look retarded. Thenight is dark, however, and I should pass for a well-dressed patron.I grab my wallet, check that it contains my ID and a wad of money,and stroll out the door, trying not to scrape my feet on the concretetoo often. I’m headed to a dance club. They don’t like uselessfeet at dance clubs.
The Night Rose is a dive, but a dive with the bestintentions. The owner, a foolish overweight man who usually wears atuxedo, bought an old warehouse intending to turn it into the finestnightclub anywhere in the city. Overflowing bubbly and rich whitefolks dancing to classical music, you know the type. Walk in andyou’ll probably see Humphrey Bogart at the bar.Unfortunately, the poor bastard failed to takeinto account the location of his nightclub. No upscale folks come tothis part of town. The Night Rose has turned into a gathering spotfor the young and dirty, the only way it could be profitable. Youwon’t see the owner too often; I assume he spends his timeelsewhere, probably in someone else’s bar, trying to forget that heowns and operates a dive. I come here almost every week, so the bouncer atthe door knows me – though usually I don’t look like this. Hemumbles something at me, and I try my best to mumble back. He checksmy breath; I refrain from biting him. He apparently decides that I’mnot drunk or stoned, though he does wave my mouth away with agrimace. Ten dollars later I’m weaving through the club, bouncingoff frenetic dancers who think I’m just part of the universal moshpit.I don’t know why I came here in the past. Theplace served no purpose before tonight. It’s not natural. There’splenty to appreciate, I suppose... if you’re into loose hips andlovely lips... but I’m not. Not anymore. Everyone’s too busybopping around to appreciate their surroundings. I wish I’d spentmore time at the cottage instead, all quiet beaches and lovelyvistas.Given the flashing black lights and the sheernumber of dancers in The Night Rose, it’s easy to nip person afterperson. Some of the more deluded teens even seem to enjoy my bites,though I always manage to stumble away before they lock eyes on me. Icome to love my work so much that I sway with the music, my feetregaining some of their former strength as I dip in at each new neck.
Eventually, predictably, somebody takes exceptionto my attack and spots me before I can weave away. Maybe I bit tooeagerly – with everyone else I was dainty, superficial. I don’tneed to be too zealous to spread my philosophy. But my mouth iswatering, there’s blood on my chin and I want more. So I’m tossedout of the club, and the bouncer gives my gut a few kicks. Mentalnote: You have to ask nicely at The Night Rose.But that’s okay. I’ll be back tomorrow whenthere’s a new bouncer. I have a plain face, one that should let meslip by undetected with a fake moustache or wig, and there are othernightclubs. It’s my hope that, in a few weeks – hopefully a fewweeks, though I’m not sure how long it will take for my message tosink in – people won’t need nightclubs anymore. They canappreciate more natural settings instead.I wonder if this is how Hitler got started. Like Isaid, I don’t know my history.Chapter 3It doesn’t take weeks for the good word tospread. Two days later, as I’m sitting in the park and mulling overthe beauty of a crumpled chocolate bar wrapper, I hear a voice Iunderstand.It’s been days since I could actually understandsomeone. The cars in the tunnel of human communication have beenzipping by me far too quickly for comprehension. But today, today, Ihear someone crying out in panic.“Why won’t anyone listen to me? Hello? Hello?Please, pay attention! I don’t get it!”My head wobbles to life, away from the wrapper,and I look up. There’s a girl across the park, a too-thin teen withblack makeup and blanched skin. She’s definitely a Goth, thoughright now she’s dressed in a white tank top and jogging pants.She’s not even wearing shoes. I guess I can’t comment on that,though, since my own toes have been bared to the sun for hours.
The other patrons of the park, few in number, arebacking away from the girl. They look frightened and confused. Giventhe ruckus the girl is making, I can’t blame anyone. They probablyhear her grunting and growling. That’s all that comes out of my ownmouth whenever I try to talk. Or that’s all they hear, anyway,because they’re moving too fast to understand my slow, melodicphilosophy.I rise from the bench, my knees popping. I’m notsure why; it’s definitely not from my weight. My old potbelly israpidly fading, probably because I haven’t eaten since I got sick.Well, okay, there’s a little collection of bitten skin at thebottom of my stomach, but that doesn’t count. Nothing’s goingthrough my system, so can you really say that I’m eating?“Hey!” I call, waving awkwardly to the girl.“Over here! I get you!”The girl pauses, her face horrified. I must notpaint a pretty picture. I’ve seen myself in a mirror. My skin ispallid, my left eyelid is usually closed and my teeth are turningbrown. Her panic over her own predicament is enough to bring her tome, however.“You... you understand me?”I nod as I notice the bandage on her neck.Apparently one of my converts has come home to roost. Take that,street corner preachers, you have it all wrong. Biting is the way togo. “Yep. Don’t worry, I know what you’re going through. Nobodyelse can understand what you’re saying, right?”She nods. There are tears in her eyes. Poor child.I suspect the first step to getting rid of sadness is extreme fear,however.I put a hand on her shoulder and bring her headclose. “Don’t worry. It’s a good thing! You’re being sloweddown! Soon, everyone will be like this.”