"The feeling of a bullet entering your brain is like none other. There is no way to explain it, especially if the bullet enters the base of your skull. That's my problem. I was dead before I had a chance to truly experience the moment, and there was no way to get that moment back. Not that I wished that moment back, nor any moment that occurred after that. Ever.
"I don't recall much that lead up to it, and even less that occured afterwards. All I can recall is the morose haze that my life has been since. Or unlife. Afterlife? Is this what it all sums up to? No...that couldn't be. Could it?"
"Perhaps, my son. Are you telling me that I'm hearing the confession of a dead man?"
"No, Padre...I don't know what I am. Thirsty, perhaps. Do you know Mickey Vesca? The mafia don? I mean...you know of him, correct? I wouldn't want to imply that you knew him personally, I was just...wondering."
"I read the papers...yes...the name sounds familiar. Arrested for cocaine, correct?"
"Yes, Padre. Cocaine smuggling, racketeering, murder, arson...you name it, he's got his dirty fingers rubbed into it. Did you hear what happened with the arrest? Or are you just a headline browser, Padre?"
"I'm afraid my duties around the church have kept me from avidly following the story."
"Does that mean you haven't heard about the Church Stalker yet? You know, the guy going around killing clergymen?"
"No, I'm afraid nothing has been brought to my attention as of yet concerning this. Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, Padre. They've found four bodies so far...all of them inside confessionals with all their blood all sucked out. Does that make you nervous? Afraid? Think you'll be next?"
"No, as when my time comes to join the Father in the Kingdom of Heaven I shall walk with unfaltering steps. But that's beside the point. You were talking about Mickey Vesca."
"Yes...I guess I was. Well, Padre...let me tell you. I was there. You see, I turned him in. I was his lieutenant. What he didn't waste his time with...well, that was my responsibility. Goes to show what a degree in business management will get you. Anyway, I was sick of it all. I went to the Feds...told them how to get him, where he went, what times he was where...you know. All the typical informant crap.
"So there they go...all dressed up in their urban commando gear. You know how ridiculous they look wearing black and grey camouflage in the middle of the city? Why not wear suits or baggy pants? They'd blend in better. I digress. They raid his mansion, grab him in the middle of the night. Four agents killed, all of the bodyguards, but they have their bust. While they're busy clapping each other on the back, he's making his phone call. He walks an hour later. Guess it's kinda hard to keep a guy locked up when the Attorney General is on the take.
"Needless to say, Padre, the man is pissed...and the one person untouched by the fiasco is me. Guess it wasn't too hard to figure out who turned him in. Well, Vesca shows up at my place, kicks open the window, and crawls in."
"The window, my son?"
"Yep. Bastard somehow managed to get to the penthouse suite through the window without anyone noticing...no ropes, no scaffolds...it was as if the bastard flew. Well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyhow, there he is. I, of course, grab the pistol from the nightstand and empty the magazine into his chest. While he's down on the ground I'm reloading, walking to the bastard's body. Believe me, I was surprised when he grabs my ankle and yanks it out from beneath me."
"I thought you didn't recall much of the incident? Are you making all of this up?"
"What? Are you kidding? No...I guess it's like psychotherapy...the more you talk about it and think about it the more that comes back to you. So there I am, on the ground, the world spinning. He picks up the gun and rolls me onto my chest. I know it's all over when I hear the bang. The room's going dark and all I can smell is blood. I tried licking my lips and blood is all I can taste. No feeling from my lips or tongue...it's like my nerves are dead. But then I'm thinking to myself 'How the hell am I tasting if my nerves are dead? For that matter, how is any of this possible if I'm dead?' Of course, my brain has shut off. A large caliber bullet in the brain stem tends to do that."
"My son, are you almost finished? I only have so much time for each of the flock..."
"Yeah yeah yeah...relax a litte. No one's going to die if they don't get their most recent sin off their chest. Where was I? Oh yes...so, I'm tasting blood. It's sweet and enticing...kind of like that first time you taste the lips of that gorgeous blonde across the aisle in homeroom. I found myself guzzling it. And my brain is screaming now. My eyes shoot open and there's Mickey Vesca, shoving his wrist into my mouth and I'm sucking his blood. The creep turned me into a freaking vampire!"
"My son, did you say that you were a vampire?"
"Yes, Padre. That's exactly what I said. A vampire. Of all the crummy no good things one can become with their lives...I had to become some sort of B horror movie killer."
"But there are no such things as vampires. Every reported case of vampirism has been documented as a case of mental illness or a blood borne disease requiring the intake of excessive amounts of iron. I'm afraid there is not much I can do for you, except to refer you to a colleague of mine who specializes in mental illness."
"Dammit, Padre! I'm not sick in the head! Do you want to feel my nonexistant pulse?!"
"My son..."
"I'm not your freaking son! I'm the black sheep of the flock, Padre! I need you to dunk me in holy water and shove a cross down my throat...or whatever it is that you priests do to the undead. I can't live like this!"
"Relax, relax. We can work with you here. How do you know that you're a vampire? Have you drank anyone's blood? Have you turned into a bat? Do you sleep in a coffin?"
"Well...not exactly. I mean, I don't need a coffin...any old dark place will do. Preferably dry. I've been sleeping in my bathtub with the door locked for the past week. And as far as turning into a bat, I couldn't say. I haven't really had the urge to try. It would probably beat the mileage I'm getting from my car."
"My son, I hardly feel that this is a laughing matter."
"I told you already. I'm not your son."
"What would you prefer that I call you?"
"LeChance. Jack LeChance."
"Charming Jack LeChance? The hitman?"
"None other."
"I see. Well, is there anything else that I can help you with before I issue penance?"
"Sure thing, Padre. Is it wrong to kill? I mean...to kill someone?"
"That all depends. Under what pretense are you killing them? Do you mean with regards to your former occupation? Or are you referring to war?"
"Former occupation? Well...I wouldn't exactly call it former. I mean, I'm still a ruthless cold-blooded killer...but it would seem to me that my pay is life. Correction. Unlife."
"So are your intentions to kill me?"
"Perhaps, Padre. Perhaps. I mean...for all you know, I could be the Church Stalker."
"This is true. Just tell me one thing before you kill me. Do you enjoy being an unclean servant of the Beast?"
"I haven't much thought about it, to be honest. Superhuman strength and all that jazz is nice, but something about drinking the blood of other people repulses me. Maybe that's why I'm looking to confess. That's how it works, right? I confess, say a few prayers, and then I'm absolved of all wrongs. I mean, how bad can drinking blood be when we get right down to it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Well, Padre, I grew up Catholic. Every Sunday it was the same thing. Come to church and praise this and bless that, choke down a piece of bread and drink a little wine. But the key point is that the wine is representing the blood of Christ. That makes all Catholics vampires, in a sense. Or am I just confused?"
"I see. No, no. Not confused. I suppose you're right, from a certain point of view."
"Look, Padre. Thanks for your time. I have it all straight in my head now. I'll catch you later...and you can keep the prayers. I need to go knock back a pint or two."
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