Tulsa, Oklahoma. April, 2010.



This morning saw me really not wanting to roll out of bed til nearly Eleven.

"That's not morning, Kel, that's nearly Noon!" Is what my dad, David would always say.

He was born on a ranch down toward Lubbock, litterally, outside under the only shade tree for miles that wasn't knee high. The old Native American, trying to be P.C. cause we call him Injun, that was with my grandma said that he was special, and the mark showed it. Personally I think "The Mark," is plain old bullshit. Some crazy clustering of freckles or something, but there is on his upper right arm, some kind of marking, that looks like a Native American mark of the Hunter.

Apparently you could really see it when he was younger and hell, they'd come from Anadarko, Santa Fe, and even as far away as Tuscon to look on his marking. Elders of the tribes, gawkers, even some circus fellah wanted to buy him from my grandparents. Grandpa always said that his wife, he called her that when he was upset with her, made a mistake by not selling the boy to the circus man.

Anyway, as dad grew up he started getting really good with weapons and stuff. Bows and arrows, knives, guns, sticks, pipes, rocks, you name it. He could call a mark, and he'd hit it every time. I think he just spent years practicing to be one of those side show trick shot guys, but I do know whatever it is has saved his ass on more than one occasion.

He opened a gun shop in Fort Worth, which was far enough from his parents to get some privacy, but not far enough he couldn't go back if they needed him. That's where he met my mother, and what he saw in her I'll never know. If I was him, I woulda shot her and let the coyotes drag the carcass away, but that's another tale for another time.

The gun shop did pretty well when the city folk would come through, on their way to King Ranch to go play big game hunter or cowboy, but there was a lot of down time, so he and my uncle started talking about crazy things they'd heard of, and the money they'd make if they could find these things. They had the weapons, and really no one would ask questions if a place that sold guns happened to order in the biggest and baddest guns for home protection, or hunting excursions, so why not make the money, if they could find something.

"What're they called again?" Dave asked as they walked through the labyrinth of tunnels that was the sewer system of the greater Dallas Metroplex.

"Sewer skitterers." Buddy whispered. "Keep your voice down, you're gonna spook them!" he hissed as he held his hand up.

Now skitterers are like your basic rat, only bigger, hairless, and a whole shit pot meaner. They are undead. Stop laughing, I'm serious. They are Zombie rats, only they aren't mindless, and they hunt in packs.

Well as luck would have it, on their first hunt, they found a small pack of ten. They made a plan, that they would step around the corner, open fire with their H&K MP5 and splatter them, but leave enough to show the boys at A&M. Apparently the Skits had plans for them too, as they met at the corner at the same time. Teeth were gnashing into their snake wader boots, My dad shot Bud in the foot, and Uncle Bud popped the top on some WD-40, and a zippo to get some light, and instead made a fireball that blew the lids off of the manhole covers for six blocks.Apparently there was more methane gas in the air than they had originally thought.

Only thing that saved them both from being as bald as Bud, was dad had stumbled on one of the Skits and fell into the rancid water. Every time dad tells that story, even now, he tears up with laughter, sayin' how Uncle Buddy looked like he was in a constant state of surprise until his eyebrows and hair grew back.

That's how they learned to hunt Skits, you need fire. Bullets really don't do anything than make them madder.

I stopped in Tulsa, not that it was that far of a drive, but honestly after going a few rounds with a vampire, I didn't feel like driving straight through. I was filling the truck with gas, and chewing on a Twizzler, kinda lost in my own thoughts, when two guys approached me for change.

"You got any change?" The smell of booze was enough to make my eyes blur.

"I only carry plastic," I said around the candy. "Now beat it."

"Girl drives a truck like this, and ain't carrying money?" The guy to the left said, and it was then that I rememebered why I hated using the pay at the pump stations after closing time.

"That's why. The truck takes all my money." I was slowly moving a hand to my back, when I saw the knife flash in front of my face.

"I got something for you, bitch!" Boozer said as he started undoing his fly, and showing me what he wasn't blessed with.

"Aww, it's cute. Like a dick, only smaller." I knew when I said it, that I was gonna get hit, but that knife had to go. Sure enough, he was stunned then embarassed in front of his partner, so he brought up his fist which I blocked with my left hand, deflecting that force into his friend's face.

"Oh shit, Charlie!" He said as his friend grabbed his nose, forgetting about the knife and letting it clatter to the ground. "She made me hit you!" Charlie was blinking back tears, and bleeding freely.

"Get her, Wayne!" At least I knew their names now, and I brought my elbow up into Wayne's chin, cutting off whatever name he was about to call me again, and heard him yowl in pain as he bit a piece of his tongue off.

Charlie wiped his eyes and lunged forward trying to catch me, but I balled my fist up and punched him as hard as I could in the throat, and I don't care how big you are, but if someone punches you in the throat, unless you are wired on drugs, you are going to stop, thanks to the panic of wondering when your next breath will be.

I was stupid, and let my guard down, and paid for it with the sting of a knife across the back of my leg. I turned toward Wayne who was wielding an X-acto blade, shoved into a block of wood.

"Been in prison, Wayne?" I asked as I moved for better leverage, watching him with the blade in one hand and holding up his pants with the other.

"Yeah, so?"

"You were someone's bitch then" Cause only the bitches use blades like that." I said with a sneer, taunting him to make the move.

Wayne's face went red with rage, and he lunged at me, which was what I'd hoped for. I caught him by the jacket and used his own momentum to throw him into the heavy duty drillstem front bumper on my truck, and crumble there at the edge of the shadows that crept from underneath.

"Kel?" Dad said into the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm heading to a twenty-four hour emergency clinic, why?"

"You hurt?"

"Getting a tetanus shot, not really hurt no," more a wounded pride than anything.

"What happened?" I could hear the concern in his voice, but he knew I could handle myself too.

"There are two men at the Gas-N-Go, ziptied to a pole with notes explaining they are bad men," I said. "They jumped the wrong girl, on the wrong night."

"I'll call the sheriff to check into them," he said, sounding relieved. "You sure that you are okay?" he asked again.

"I'm tired, dad. Fighting vamps, idiots and other things, I just want to relax a couple days." I was trying not to sound like a whiner.

"I'll have a bag of chocolate waiting on you." he chuckled then.

"Go to hell, Dad." I hung up the phone as I pulled into the clinic's parking lot.

I knew I didn't need stitches, but a good cleaning, and shots were in order. Better safe than sorry.