Quote:
The man sat in a dark corner of the bar that evening, his hood drawn up over his head. His pale features and long dark hair were hidden, as was the fear plain on his features. His name was Fiers Goldberg, born to Kyle Goldberg—a Jewish architect—and Antanasia Berufsnamen – a Transylvanian mail-order bride (who happened to be a vampire). Incidentally, his parents were also divorced. By way of a strange rule of genetics, Fiers was himself, a vampire. He was also hemophobic, that is, afraid of blood. Especially afraid of drinking it.

Fiers was of the opinion, that consuming blood would put him at risk for AIDS. As such, he had decided to refrain from drinking blood. But it was that time again when he became famished. He needed to eat something or else he would starve to death.

Resolving to visit the blood bank in the morning, Fiers treated himself to an additional 39 glasses of vodka that night, clearly enjoying the benefits of an undead liver. As he was quite inebriated, he was caught unaware when he awoke in his sparsely decorated Oak coffin the next evening, his gaunt faced stained in blood. He threw open the lid of his coffin and ran for his black suit, also covered in blood. Fearing the worst, he explored the halls of his lavish apartment and found a suit not so stained. Throwing off his feetie pajamas decorated with adorable pictures of bats, he put on the suit, adjusted his tie and with a puff of smoke, turned into a small bat.

The ER had always been an interesting experience for Fiers. The halls were kept clean—when compared to a dumpster at the very least. The doctor who was there that night was one Fiers was familiar with. He was a rather bulbous man, who would probably never stop rolling if he was pushed, and in addition would always tack worrying phrases like “um…” or “I think” in the middle and end of his sentences. Furthermore, though Fiers could never hope to prove it, he had a sneaking suspicion that the Doctor’s diploma was written in crayon on the back of a menu, having once caught a glimpse of words that seemed to say “slam dunk breakfast”.

“Well,” the Doctor told him as he shifted. “You have HIV.” He either did not notice, or did not care that his patient was pale, gaunt, and could shift from human to bat at will (or that he had dried blood on his chin for that matter).

As Fiers walked through the city that evening, the world seemed like a different place to him. The sights and sounds of the bustling urban life no longer appealed to him. The restaurants and bars lost their sweet smells of gourmet food, fine liquor and the former mixed with vomit in all possible combinations. The clubs lost their sense of fun, social interaction and appeal. Wallowing in his own self-pity, a tear falling down his cheek, Fiers could think of only one place to end it all. The place where all vampires chose to end their unlives. At the finest Pizza joint in town.

Garlic Jims.

He passed by a large hole on the stairs up and entered the well-kept establishment. As he sat down in the clean and spotless booth and ordered a pizza smothered in garlic, he reflected on the dignity in such a decision. Death by cuisine it was called, and it was the noblest form of suicide a vampire could take. Conversely, death in battle was one of the most disgraceful, next to staking or sunlight – which simply proved the incompetence of the Vampire to avoid the frailties of the form.

It was then he realized that, despite his fatal illness, he should make the most of his unlife. He triumphantly swaggered out of Garlic Jims, but stepped in the hole and lost his footing. He felling onto a conveniently placed wooden stake that had been dropped there months previous and was subsequently forgotten about. The stake pierced him through the chest, plunging out the other side with a piece of a lung that had not, nor had ever been required to function at any point during his existence. Fiers laid there for a time, before he realized that the stake had, however slightly, missed his heart. Regaining his smile, he lost it once more when he looked at the horizon… and saw the sunrise.

The owner of the Garlic Jims walked out with a receipt. “You owe me $15.35” he said through his angry and unshaven face.

Meanwhile, the Doctor sat down on a long neglected sofa, whose combined bacteria had formed a utopian society of their own and mused to himself, “Should I have mentioned that HIV doesn’t really do anything to undead creatures?” He paused for a moment then shrugged it off, “Nah. He probably figured it anyway…”