Kellen
The morning was spent on his usual routine, hair. There…it finally looks perfect. He got the desired look, the one of a douche-bag, the kind that drives the young (and sometimes not so young) women crazy.
Kellen climbed into his beater RV, not a Corvette or a Mustang. Sure, he could have just as easily chosen a dump truck but this sick son of a bitch, ever a slave to self-amusement, had to get an RV right out of a third-rate camping advertisement.
He put in a cassette of Rudy Vallee music (jerk) and headed down the road, feeling good, feeling full of himself; (and why not?) he was a stone-cold pimp wannabe on his way to raise some hell.
There, there, my, my…what have we here? He pulled the RV into a parking lot, lowered the driver’s window, and took a quick look at her (possible victim?…maybe). No, intended victim. After a second or two, he knew all he needed to know. He closed the window, shut his eyes, and sent himself into a psychic trance. It was Remote Viewing time. There she is in front of the mirror earlier today…yes, yes. Finish your breakfast, think about what you are going to do at work today. Perfect, deliciously perfect.
Kellen, a dry land Aquaman, was able to call on the birds and the turtles and such to do his bidding. Such is the luck of the draw.
Bright sun, so bright. That is good, lots of glare, lots and lots of glare. She won’t have very good vision in this sun. Sure, her hat will help her a little, but it won’t be enough, not nearly.
He knew where she was going; that wasn’t an issue. The problem was trying to convince a pretty little bird to off himself just so Kellen could get his jollies. As he got older and his reputation grew, he found it harder to get the avians to do his bidding. They always did what he wanted in the end, but it took more and more of his energy to control their little minds.
Keep going…yes, open the door. Now little bird, now. The window shook as an object dive-bombed the bookstore in a disgusting act of coercion.
Startled, yes, she is shaken. “Oh my, poor little bird. Oh no, you’re badly hurt. No, you’re….”
Kellen smiled to himself as he watched her get a dustpan. That will inspire her. Instead of just drinking whiskey tonight, she will drink whiskey and write.
And write she did. It took her months to get the cadence and the word order just right, but she eventually nailed her poem about a dead little bird. Would she thank Kellen if she knew what he did? No, I think she is a lot like me; if she knew what happened, her hatred of Reverse Vampires would be as deep-seated as mine. I don’t like those idiots one little bit.
