Thirsty Work

Dan becomes a blood-sucking creature of the night. Contains graphic gore.


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Length: words

Notes: Written for the Boosh Vampire Fic Challenge in May 2006.

Thirsty Work by The Lizard

Dan Ashcroft’s eyes sprung wide open as a flash of lightning illuminated the dimly-lit empty café, followed by a thunderclap that violently shook the windows. He lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, his neck and shoulders feeling stiff and bruised, his forehead pounding. Dan’s throat was bone dry and yet he was salivating: a sure sign he was about to be sick. Springing up from the floor, he stumbled about in the half-light behind the food counter, searching frantically for a receptacle for his vomit. Unable to quickly find a chunder bin, he spewed a watery jet of bile and coffee on to the floor, a little of it splashing on to his Converse boots. He felt guilty about the mess, so he felt around under the counter for a large cloth or tea towel. Finding a towel, he threw it on top, covering his crime and then stepped back from it. Why the hell did he feel so thirsty? He took a can of Coke from a small stack next to the coffee machine and cracked it open, taking several gulps and then emitted a burp of……..proportions that echoed about the vacant room. He was suddenly aware of a sharp pain in the side of his neck. Putting his left hand up to meet the spot, he winced as he discovered an open wound there. He looked at his palm and saw blood. Maybe he had gashed his neck when he passed out on to the floor of the café? But the question was – how the fuck did he end up there in the first place? He had absolutely no recollection of passing out or in fact of anything at all since he left the ‘Sugar Ape’ office to grab a cigarette and coffee.

Feeling dizzy and shaking, Dan headed for the door, grabbing another can of soft drink on the way. The door was unlocked and rattled gently as he opened it, a short gust of chilly wind forcing its way in. Why wasn’t the door locked? Dan thought about this no longer than two seconds, braced himself against the cold and headed out into the night.

The rain fell heavily as Dan staggered unsteadily along Bottle Row. Shapes, colours and sounds formed a kaleidoscope of confusion that frightened him. Pulling his jacket tighter, he felt disorientated and wanted to cry out for help, but the fire in his throat formed a stranglehold so that he could only force out splutters and whimpers. He took another gulp from the soft drink, draining it this time, crushing the can and throwing it in anger at the ground when it failed to quench his thirst. Dan’s shaking became incontrollable. He steadied himself in the doorway of ‘MadFashionBitch’, a place he particularly loathed, and waited until the bout of shakes passed. Water. He needed water. Falling to his knees, he desperately scooped murky residue from the kerbside into his mouth, the bitter taste a mixture of oil and dirt, coating his tongue, making him choke, blackening his teeth. His jeans quickly absorbed the greasy drizzle from the pavement. A young couple wandered by, muttering something in Dan’s direction and laughed, hurrying past this mad, puddle-drinking tramp. Dan glared after them, rasping, “Fuck off, Idiots!” He feebly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His skin slid across something sharp and alien. What the hell is that? A stone? Dan spat on the ground and studied the flob for a second – nothing. Inserting a filthy digit into his mouth, he felt around his teeth. His finger came into contact with two large pointed incisors.

Dan broke into a sweat and panicked. His brain reeled with alarm. With all the concentration he could muster, he scrabbled to his feet and headed in the direction of a safe place: the House of Jones.

“Fuck this.” Dan ran his hands through his thick mop of dark hair, exhaling loudly. He had been working late at the Sugar Ape office, desperately trying to write positively about an exhibition of 69 Geri Halliwell magazine covers. He had typed “stay at home and smear your own faeces on the wall” twenty times. The exhibition had been complete and utter bum-wash and Dan would rather cut off his own left bollock with a rusty bread knife than give it a favourable review, but he had to swallow his precious principles this time. Money was “an issue” right now and he desperately needed to buy time to continue writing his novel. He stared at the screen, highlighted the text and hit delete. Trying to gild a turd was very thirsty work. It was time for a large coffee and a cigarette.

It was getting very late and threatening rain as Dan entered the café. The café was open from 7 a.m. until 11 p.m., catering for commuters passing through to Bishopsgate, as well as the Idiots who peddled their vacuous shit-storms around the Shoreditch and Hoxton area. Dan ordered his coffee and glanced at his watch: it was almost 10.30 p.m. The café owner and his daughter conversed in their native language: it was much more beautiful to listen to than the Idiotic bibble that assaulted his ears on a daily basis. As he waited for his coffee and took a drag from his cigarette, he wondered how the owner put up with all the verbal bollocks thrown at him by the Idiots who would skid in on their toy scooters and demand a “zappa-cino” and then make lewd remarks to his daughter about her “milky foam” as she gazed at them in innocent ignorance. He admired their tenacity and their work ethic.

Dan casually gazed around the café interior. His coffee appeared to be taking a bit longer than usual, and the owner and his daughter had disappeared, the only sound now was Shalamar’s ‘A Night To Remember’ blasting out of the grubby radio that was perched on top of the coffee machine. The strip lights in the café seemed much brighter than Dan remembered, and he had never noticed that the large front window of the café had a tinted surface. He rubbed his eyes and yawned. A sudden noise behind him caused him to spin round. Suddenly he was plunged into darkness as the lights of the café went off. A scorching blade of pain suddenly cut into his neck and then rose up the back of his head. He fell to the floor, attempting to steady himself on all fours, his brain spinning. Dan’s eyes became heavy and his vision blurred. A dark shape stood above him, a shadowy figure. It floated to the door of the café and locked it. He peered up, blinked and tried to focus. He could just make out the daughter’s face, grinning as she walked towards him…….then nothing.

“What’s that noise?” Jones was composing his latest aural assault. He listened again to the dance track through the huge headphones that made him look like a bug-eared Martian on a trip to Top Shop. He replayed the loop, running it back and forth at very loud volume. He didn’t recall adding the sound effect of a banging door, but that was cool: he’d morph the sound and bring the bass line up, it would work. In the three seconds of silence it took for Jones to pause the track, shuffle it back and press play, he heard the noise again and this time it wasn’t in sync. It seemed to be coming from downstairs, from the front door of the squat. Jones took off the headphones, lifted the home-made remixing equipment off his shoulders, placing it down on the bed, then walked over to the window. He opened it and peered out into the wind, raindrops blown against his face making his hair stick to his cheek. Below, in the pitch black, he could just about make out the dark shape of a tall man in a black suit, standing outside the front door. He recognised Dan, his housemate and occasional Fuck Buddy. “Where’s your key?” Jones yelled down. The stupid twat had obviously got trashed and lost it again. Dan stared up at him, unable to focus but dimly aware of Jones up there, somewhere. The thirst rose up in him again and his skull-ripping headache was getting worse. He slumped against the door, sliding down to the ground, feeling utterly despondent and considering the possibility of performing cranial surgery on himself right there and then.

Jones slammed the window shut in irritation. Muttering “For fuck’s sake…” he descended the stairs and opened the front door. Dan fell backwards across the doorstep into the hallway, gasping and moaning, his face twisted in pain. Pale orange light from the street outside filled the hallway. Jones wasn’t sure what Dan had been up to but it had drained all colour out of him. “Jesus Christ, Dan….” The storm lashed against the front of the house. Jones needed to close the door, and although he was considerably smaller in build than Dan, he knew that the only way he could do this was to drag Dan further into the hallway. He knelt behind him, hooked his arms under Dan’s shoulders, and used all his strength to haul Dan into the house. Once Dan’s feet were clear of the doorway, Jones shut the door. The hallway was now pitch black. As far as Jones was concerned, Dan could stay right there for the night. “Sleep well, mate” Jones whispered and laughed to himself.

Carefully, Jones stepped over Dan and headed for the stairs, using the wall as his guide. Suddenly he felt Dan reach up, clasping on to his left leg, pulling him down towards him, then another hand grab tightly to his left arm. “Come on, Dan, stop pissing about…” Jones tried to pull himself free from Dan’s grasp. Dan muttered something and pulled him down harder. Was this one of Dan’s sex games? He was used to Dan getting rough with him before they fucked, and this might be a new twist on Dan’s version of foreplay. Jones decided to go with it and see what happened. It had been a little while since he and Dan had been hunched over the back of the sofa, and Jones was up for a bit of filthy bullock-squeezing.

Jones fell on to all fours, like an obedient dog, and waited for Dan’s next move. The hall carpet felt sticky under his palms, a combination of dirt and dampness. It excited him to give Dan control. From behind, Dan reached between Jones legs and ran his hand around his crotch. Jones groaned in response, squatting on his knees and unfastening his trousers. “Do you want to yank my chain, big man?” he whispered to Dan, who was still lying prone and grinning wolfishly. Jones stood and eased his trousers off, kicking them into the shadows. Naked from the waist down, he squatted over Dan’s face, spreading his legs apart, revealing his guiche. Dan lifted his head and buried his face between Jones balls and anus, gently tugging at a short chain attached to the piercing with his teeth. Jones writhed in pleasure as Dan jerked the chain ever so slightly harder. Jones could feel his cock becoming harder and took it in his hand, lubricating the shaft with his own saliva. “Do you want to fuck me, Dan? Please fuck me….” Dan hummed as he continued to tug the chain, the vibrations travelling up the metal links and sending waves of ecstasy along the younger man’s back, Jones jerking his hips back and forth, his cock erect and throbbing.

Dan suddenly knew what would cure his headache from hell. He could feel his own loins stirring now, straining against the material of his trousers. He reached inside his flies and pulled his cock free, allowing it to rise. Releasing the chain from his teeth, he guided Jones with his hands until he could see Jones cock. Gently he took Jones in his mouth, running his tongue around the tip and along the shaft. He could smell the blood coursing along the erect member. It made him dizzy, he could not stop himself…..

Dan’s teeth sank into Jones cock, the sharp fangs tearing through the veins and ligaments. A strong hot jet of blood and cum hit the back of his throat, making him almost faint. Jones screamed in a mixture of extreme pleasure and pain beyond endurance. He thought the top of his skull would fly off. He bucked and writhed as Dan gripped his buttocks and sucked hard, gorging on the delicious liquids now flowing into him. As Jones’ thrusting slowed and his body grew limp, Dan’s cock shuddered its load.

This is it, this will quench the thirst.