Indoor flowers australia
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Indoor flowers australia
“Do you know what’s going on in this country?” asked a tall middle-aged man in a long camel coat. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried.
We had just left a busy nightspot in the suburbs. I was working late, not drinking, just trying to keep awake. There was too much noise, too much wine, too much stress and too many voices in my head.
“No, mate, I don’t,” I replied.
“Well, we’re being robbed blind,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder at the pedestrians meandering along the main street.
They’d left it too late. The club had closed well over an hour ago. Some just wanted a drink, others a slow night in a safe venue. A few were leaving town. Most of the revellers looked drunk and worn out.
“How much of this?” I asked.
“About the half,” he said.
And he was right. It was well into the early hours of the morning and there was still a big contingent of punters about.
“Can you even hear the music?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I can,” he said. “I love music.”
“So why don’t you dance?” I asked.
“I don’t dance,” he said. “I’m a vampire.”
By the end of our conversation the man looked very tired and the fumes from the club’s exhaust were creeping into his large frame. I introduced myself. It was only when we were saying goodbye that I realised he was slightly drunk.
“How’d you get in?” I asked.
“Haven’t you heard? I’m a vampire,” he said.
“Well, maybe it’s best you leave. The police will be coming. They’ll think you were the cause.”
“Are you serious?” he asked.
I wasn’t, but I agreed.
“They’ll think we made them think it was vampires. I don’t think they’ll have any idea we’re not.”
“You’re not afraid, are you?”
“I’m not a complete vampire, just a half-blood.”
“I don’t think you’re half,” he said. “A man walks into a club late at night. Should he be worried about a vampire, even one in the half?”
He just smiled and I went home. I didn’t know how to help him, but I was keen to know what he meant. Why would he claim to be a vampire if he knew he was just a half-blood?
A few nights later I was in a new bar near my office. It was supposed to be a casual night. Some people enjoyed it. I don’t, but I’d stopped avoiding them and figured I could go to my own place now that I knew most of them. There were fewer than a dozen people, but it was late and the bar’s staff was slow. I was quite sure this would be my last trip and I didn’t want to be disappointed.
“Get out of my city!”
I should’ve known better than to ignore the blowhard who shouted at me. The place was already almost empty. His ugly friends were scattered around, making jokes and complaining about their terrible luck. This had happened before. It wasn’t the first time someone had told him to move, or moved him. Sometimes the blowhard had tried to fight back. He’d learned nothing. I always let him get into his stride, out of the way. He didn’t like the attention, but he’d become quite good at getting some for a fee.
I watched him from the far corner, watching his eyes. My most recent victim, too drunk to feel safe, was already on the floor.
“Oh, that guy just got a bollocking,” said the blowhard, watching the news with his friends. “They’ve gone to the cops. Now we’re going to get the attention of the filth.”
They all nodded.
“Mate,” said the blowhard, looking up at me. “That is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Did you see the look on that joker’s face?”
I said nothing and went home.
I woke up with a start, a cold sweat covering my body. Someone was watching me. What was I afraid of? I felt my heart rate increase and reached for my service pistol. Only, I realised I had no memory of anything that had happened the night before.
My staff was a small revolver, a single shot. I was careful not to scare my enemies, but that didn’t work well for the drunkards who wanted a free drink at my club. I pulled the hammer back and held the weapon low, under my thigh. I remembered what had happened. I moved quickly into the bathroom, picked up my medical bag and the spare clip from my jacket. Back in the bar, I checked the pistol for damage.
“What the hell?” I heard a voice. It was a man, perhaps in his thirties. He was on his way out of the club.
“How the hell did you know?” I asked. “I don’t even remember it.”