Page 28 of Running from Drac

“I hate musicals and operas. There’s no way in hell I’d ever be called Phantom.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “You hate everything, Rich, even Christmas.”

Rich runs a hand through his long hair and shrugs. “It’s too fucking cheerful. All the lights, and the god-awful music, and don’t even get me started on that fat jolly asshole in the red suit. You know, even as a kid, he always skimped out on my presents.”

Wesley rolls his eyes. “That’s because you were poor and your parents were the ones responsible for that shit, Rich.”

“Yeah, asshole, I’m aware. Still doesn’t change the fact that I hate Christmas and everything that comes with it.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then you should definitely be Krampus, not Jaws. An ugly motherfucker who hates the holidays. It fits you to a T.”

Rich glances over at me, and I shrug. “He’s got a point. And we just watched that movie; Krampus was one bad ass dude.”

“I agree with the boys, Rich. Krampus would definitely be the perfect road name for a guy like you.”

He takes another swig of his beer and shrugs. “Could be worse, I guess. But if I take on the name Krampus, then Eddie better have some cool fucking name too.”

Every head swivels my way. Pippa’s the first to say something. “What’s your favorite horror villain, Eddie?”

“I don’t really have one.”

“That’s bullshit. We’ve watched so many movies that you have to have a favorite. Is there any movie or character that means something to you?”

My inebriated mind, cluttered and a bit fuzzy, focuses on the only character that’s ever meant anything to me—to her. And he’s definitely not a villain.

Wesley grins. “See, I knew there was someone. Who is it? Michael Myers? Leatherface? Hannibal Lecter? It’s gotta be someone really cool.”

“The Count.”

“Ooh, Count Dracula… I like it. It’s fitting too. You’re one pale motherfucker.”

I didn’t have the heart to correct him. The Count I was referring to was purple, had a counting fetish, and all puppet. It definitely wouldn’t be a great road name for a hypothetical horror themed motorcycle club.

“Though, we’d have to shorten that shit. Maybe call you Drac or something, cause Count Dracula is far too long, and if we just call you The Count, people would think you live with a big yellow bird and little red furry monster.”

“We can go with Drac,” I mumble. “It works.”

“That settles it then. If we ever start a motorcycle club, we’ll call it the Elm Street Riders MC. We already got some kick ass road names picked out, so all we’ll need is some bikes.”

“Yeah, good look with that,” Rich grumps. “We’re all broke.”

My eyes migrate to the broken floorboard in the floor. Nobody but me knows how much cash I actually have stashed inthere. I could easily buy myself a bike right now if I wanted to, but that would be foolish when I’m so close to buying Old Man Peterson’s place. Granted, it’s all the way in Fernley, but it will be worth the relocation with how much damn property he has.

“Fuck, I didn’t realize it was this late. I really should get going,” Wesley says, shooting to his feet. He stumbles a bit and sits back down. “On second thought, I think I’m gonna call an Uber, you coming too, Rich?”

“Why don’t you guys just crash here tonight? I got plenty of room, and there are two beds in the guest room. Pippa, you can stay as well, if you want?”

Her face lights up the second I address her. “Oh, yeah I’m so drunk right now, I couldn’t possibly drive.”

“How?” Wesley questions. “You’ve been nursing the same beer all night.”

She feigns innocence. “Call me a lightweight?”

“Whatever, I’m tired. So, I’m gonna crash. Rich, you coming too?”

Rich nods, and both of them abandon me in the living room, leaving me with Pippa. There’s an odd silence that fills the room before she hands me another beer.

“Thirsty?”