Death is Only a Theoretical Concept by S. K. Een

something went wrong.
    Greg’s eyebrows
reach his hairline, but he too doesn’t speak.
    “ Because of that, and because you did your best to carry out
the dare—we saw you give it everything you’ve got, man. Fuck, did
we see! So, we’re going to give you the chance to attempt another
one. This time, we’re going to make sure that it’s safe, that there
is absolutely no risk to you at all, because we’re just so cut up
with guilt over this.” Jack draws in a deep breath; beside him,
Phil just nods, his tanned face so innocent Steve knows there’s got
to be a punch coming. “So. The community sewing group’s running
classes again this summer down at the library. We’re going to dare
you to sign up for the embroidery class.”
    “ Embroidery,” Steve says slowly. “That’s it?” No fucking
punch?
    “ Mostly.” Jack shrugs. Phil, though, breaks into a broad,
shit-eating smile. “All you have to do is complete the six-week
embroidery course. By that time, you’ll get old Sian MacGillycuddy
to help you embroider a tapestry thing—you know, those embroidered
things you hang on the wall?—of the Lord’s Prayer. Then you enter
your marvellous embroidered creation in the handcraft division at
the Ag Show. Along with all the wonderful, old scone-baking ladies
of the CWA, of course.” He grins far too broadly—and his dare is
already bad enough as it is. “After the Ag Show, and the whole
municipality has admired your oh-so-devout creation, you win. See?
Perfectly easy and perfectly safe. All you have to do is avoid
pricking your finger with a needle around the vampires. There’s no
way you could fail to pull off this one!”
    Learning
embroidery is one thing, although certainly not on Steve’s list of
needed skills. He can already sew buttons onto his blazers and hem
his own jeans, thank you very much. Learning to embroider the
Lord’s Prayer—which will make his atheist parents become quite
concerned about his mental state—is another thing. Displaying that
embroidered religious monstrosity before everyone at the Port
Carmila Agricultural Show?
    No one will ever
let him forget it. No one . Every year it will come up, just
as every year the town talks about Aggie Skipton’s hideous
hand-sculpted clay pigs from 1976. They’re town legend, those pigs,
and Steve can see whatever woeful attempt he makes at embroidery
going the same way. That’s if he survives a couple of hours a week
with the gossiping old ladies who flock to the community sewing
group. He can see it now: the incessant questions about his
allergies, his sexuality, his career path, his life as a university
student in the city, and whether or not he thinks their
great-grandchildren are cute in hand-knitted beanies. Complete with
wallet-sized photos, probably.
    Yes, he’s
generalising, but he thought makes his legs shake.
Great-grandchildren. Wallet-sized photos—or, fuck, what if a few of
them have smartphones? Smartphones and Facebook and
great-grandchildren.
    He’d rather do
another round in the ED.
    Greg starts
snickering so hard he all but lies across the fence for
balance.
    Jack and Phil
just grin at him, both of them looking so innocent Steve feels like
contemplating murder. Does he really need to attempt this one? The
eight AM Saturday morning call-in show might cover allergies or new
innovations in immunotherapy. Who knows what kind of awesome
talkback radio he might be missing out on? Isn’t a journalist
supposed to keep up with the media, anyway?
    “ I
think,” Steve says with as much gravitas as he can muster, “that
I’d rather kiss a vampire.” He pauses just as he hears the sound of
flesh smacking against wood. “Um, Greg? You can stop banging your
head against the fence right about now.”
    Greg snorts. “If
I catch you lip-locking with that greyskin, I’ll leave you for the
zombies to devour. Can’t you find some breather pretty-boy to
fuck?”
    “ I’ll use a dental dam first. Last thing I want is you