The Unlife of Owen Monteleone part 1

She came to see the show every week since I could remember. She'd lock eyes with me from across the room when I was playing trumpet in "The Mint Julep," and it'd be like I was just playing for her. Man, she sure was pretty. I'd always try to catch her after the set, but she'd be gone by then. There was always a $100 bill in the tip jar that I never saw anyone put there. My mystery woman? Maybe.

After awhile I stopped trying to talk to her. Call me a romantic, but the mystery seemed more fun than any fling could be. I'd just nod to her when she walked in and the band and I would start into our instrumental version of Billy Holiday's Gloomy Sunday. I used to joke that it was "our song," to the other two guys in the trio. It was a song about a dying lover (I would later find out how appropriate that was). Billy, the drummer, would laugh; "She's pale enough," he'd say.

One sizzling July night I didn't see her. I remember feeling a little off that night, like something was missing. She came in at near the end of the set looking pale as a marble statue, but with fresh bruises covering half of her face. She looked nervous and couldn't seem to stay still, her eyes darting around the room. As always, she disappeared before the last song was finished. I was worried about her. Silly, I guess, feeling that way over someone I'd never even talked to. A stranger. I shook it off and went to the bar for a drink.

After a few cocktails and some serious flirting with a young lady who may or may not have been a transvestite, I headed for the men's room in the empty courtyard. As I was making my way through the door I noticed a couple making out by the gaslight. It was the mystery girl and my drummer! I felt a wave of jealousy come over me, but I stayed where I was, watching. I couldn't decide whether to go home with my tail between my legs or march over and knock Billy's teeth loose. Then something seemed wrong, even more wrong than an ugly son of a bitch like Billy with his arms around a girl like that. His eyes were staring into nothing and his skin seemed waxy and corpse-like. Was that blood running down his shirt?

As if by reflex I pulled my little snub-nosed 38 from my waist band (New Orleans is a rough town after all, you can never be too careful) and ran towards them. She moved away from Billy and he dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, staring lifelessly through glassy eyes. He had these weird pucture wounds on his throat. I looked at her, she was covered in his blood. She looked like some kind of crazed animal.

"I can explain," she said and cautiously took a step toward me.

"Stay right there," I snarled, cocking the pistol. I was shaking like a leaf. What the hell was she?

She looked hurt, almost embarrased; which seemed like a hell of a response to being caught in the middle of murdering someone.
She looked around furtively.

"Please!" She cried and lurched towards me. Everything happened so fast I barely remember unloading the 38 into her chest. Point blank. It didn't even slow her down! Her fist sped toward me and then lights went out...

I would say there's a good memoir here, though my publisher would surely disagree.

Damn, we have so many creative people on here, nice job man. Owen's "Scène D'Embrasser."

They should make t-shirts: "I got my blood drained through my neck and then turned into an undead monster and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

Oh, and take 3 XP for your vignette.