Pensive

Flint Drabble

Despite breaking into a clumsy trot, pinwheeling his arms in an attempt not to succumb to his boot toe catching on a rise in the sidewalk pavement, Flint felt himself topple in slow motion, sprawling across The Osmond Family’s star on Hollywood Boulevard.

 

“So much for Vampiric grace,” Flint grumbled, pulling himself from the ground as tourists studiously ignored the spectacle before them.  Why were there so many tourists out at 2 in the morning? Flint wondered.  Raising his voice to where he could be heard, Flint groused, “Hey, shows over, eh?  Pictures’ll cost you extra!”

 

The tourists widened their berth around the irked Vampire, as he brushed the grime from an outfit that already looked grimy and unkempt.  The clothes weren’t dirty, they were just old, well-worn, and much too large for Flint’s slight frame.  It was his wardrobe that was responsible for his fall, because the size discrepancies weren’t reserved to just Flint’s threads, but also his shoes.  Flint’s proper shoe size was between a 9 and 10, depending on the make of the shoe.  The boots on his feet were size 13, and the sole of the left boot was loose and floppy.  Flint called it his rubber flapjack.

Satisfied with sorting himself after the tumble, Flint reached into one of his overcoat pockets and pulled out a wretched-looking cigarette, along with an even worse-looking book of matches.  Without moving from the middle of the sidewalk, Flint struck a match, and cupped it to the cigarette, taking a long drag, then exhaling slowly toward the night sky.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Flint caught the disapproving glare of bearded young man approaching him, probably on his way to the subway station nearby, given his non-tourist appearance.  He was in just the perfect mood to not let the silent judgement go without comment.

 

“Calm down, it’s not like I’m a corporation belching filth into the air around the clock.  I think you’ll survive having to pass me on your way to whatever hipster convention is eagerly awaiting your arrival.  They surely can’t get started with their hardcore smugness without your retro arse in attendance!”

 

The man stopped in his tracks, his scowl deepening.  But when Flint flashed his fangs in a predatory smile, the scowl turned to dismay, and the young man hastened away, no longer concerned with the peril to his lungs.  Funny how people forgot minor dangers to their person, when they realised their throat could well be on the cutting board.  Flint chuckled, his mood buoyed by the brief encounter. He began to walk again, puffing away and humming to himself.  

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