Annie of the Undead by Varian Wolf

there?” I asked,
looking at the dashboard clock.
    “There are people moving about on the first
floor,” he answered.
    “Is that a vampire thing? Knowing that?”
    He nodded.
    “Looks like there’s only one way in. Could be
reasonably defensible.”
    “It is not a poor choice for the purpose, but
the residents are a greater boon than their domicile.”
    “How so?”
    “They will protect us against minimal hazards,
suspicious activity and so forth.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “It is wise to befriend the locals proximate to
one’s place of rest, for if one does, they will often afford one
favor beyond courtesy.”
    “Kinda like you did with me.”
    “Erudite, no?”
    “How you gonna slither into their trust?”
    “The opportunity will present itself.”
    We headed for the steps. The humid air swam
around us like a hot, thick soup. Some unidentified sweet scent
filled my newly cleared sinuses. I didn’t know it was the smell of
the South.
    Miguel raised his hand to knock.
    “Peaceful little street,” I yawned, looking
about.
    At that moment, Miguel turned to face that
peaceful street in a state of alertness that I only noticed because
I was getting used to him. The peace and quiet of the night were
shattered by the sudden emergence of a very large, very rotund, and
very naked man from the house across the street from the Banana
Grove, nearest our car.
    The man catapulted down the stairs, leaving the
front door reeling behind him, and skidded lightly off of the front
bumper of the SLR into the center of the street where he launched
into a series of inebriated pirouettes. His head was covered by
curly black hair, as was much of the rest of his ample flesh, but
not enough to completely conceal his madly flapping penis, which
cavorted inharmoniously with his every move.
    When Big Baryshnikov had finally twirled himself
out of his equilibrium and onto his rump on the pavement, he
reached his hands to the sky and screamed to the heavens.
    “STELLA!!!”
    A dog immediately started to bark somewhere down
the street.
    “STELLA!!!”
    On the second story balcony of another house, a
window opened and a woman in her nightshift poked her head out,
screaming obscenities at the marauding sasquatch.
    “STELLA!!!”
    The lady threw a pot, which crashed onto the
roof of a car parked directly beneath her, spilling earthenware
shards and Boston fern in all directions.
    “STELLASTELLASTELLA!!!”
    Three more lovelorn cries and lights were coming
on all up and down the street. Big Buck Baryshnikov proceeded as
though no one, especially not his enigmatic Stella, heard his
cries, even though the neighbors were all having conniptions and
every canine in Marigny was trying to revive the Baha Men’s one
rowdy hit.
    Then, Miguel turned again to the Grove’s door,
just before it burst open.
    Out from the brightly lit corridor shot a young
man, hard of body and fair of countenance. He made no notice of
Miguel and me as he barreled past us. Perhaps his name was
Stella.
    The twentyish young man wore no clothing except
a brilliant floral man-skirt and a pair of yellow flip-flops –one
of which he promptly lost on the stair, to leave the other snapping
loudly with each rapid stride. A plastic barber’s frock hung from
his neck across his otherwise bare chest, and he wielded in his
hand, quite menacingly, a pair of steel barber’s sheers. In his
wake, the skirted man left a cloud of freshly clipped sandy-brown
hair and the unmistakable toxic cinnamon odor of Goldschlager.
    Bounding Bigfoot must have been especially
attuned to the sound of a lone, angry flip-flop, for he turned with
a start and, upon seeing the approaching Demon Barber of Royal
Street, struggled to his feet and ran full tilt down the road,
manhood waving in the breeze.
    People up and down the street started to cheer
and clap for the man who sent their histrionic antagonist
a-runnin’.
    Two more men came to the doorway, a tall, heavy
brother in a blue bathrobe with