Vlad the Impaler

A group of after-partiers trickle in as the heat from the housewarming cools to an icy mist.

“What are you smoking?”

“Pipe.”

“Let me try.”

She grabs the polished piece of briar wood, holds it to her lips, and inhales the flame into the pipe. The chamber, layered with Natural American Spirit tobacco, glows. As smoke crawls out of nostrils she says, “needs more kick.”

The sliding glass door opens and a towering person steps out on the balcony. His collared black shirt, contouring a bulging belly, is tucked into his blue jeans. He flicks his cigarette over the balcony’s edge, “Let’s go out for a drink.”

She takes a second puff from the pipe, this time inhaling with conviction. While facing me, she turns her eyes to the gray-haired stranger, “He’s ‘Vlad the Impaler.’ They call him that because he impales all the girls.”

“I’ll impale a lot more than that,” his Romanian accent slicks its way through the corner of his mouth.

We shut the lights, lock the door, and scuttle down the stairwell to reach the taxi. Inside the cab, Vlad directs the driver, “Blind Horseman Bar. Make it quick, if you know what’s good for you.”

The driver presses on the gas, “I’ve lived here for twenty-two years, I know where I’m going.”

“Good. Get us lost and I’ll fuck you up,” Vlad says.

We arrive at the Blind Horseman. The establishment, located in a basement, has dungeon-like lighting where patrons converse within its shadowy pockets. A bouncer, waving his arms in the air, says “This side of the bar is closed.”

Vlad pays no attention, “Stay here.” As others close their tabs and take their drinks away, I find that we’re among select company at the dark side of the bar. There’s an ongoing conversation between Vlad and the smoking girl.

“Tell me. What’s the big deal?” She says.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I can handle it,” she looks earnest.

“You want to know? No, you don’t want to fuckin’ know.” Vlad takes frequent sips from his drink, hand trembling. His eyes are blank and his voice cracks, “I’ve seen fucked up shit.”

“Tell me,” she says.

He’s glassy-eyed and his psyche appears on the verge of detonation. I want to interject. Partly to save Vlad from certain meltdown and partly to save myself from witnessing it. But as tears roll down his cheeks, my desire to know what the fuck he did overwhelms me. I turn my eyes to the ground and tune my ears to his voice.

“What would you do if a someone you loved was smuggled by human traffickers?”

She’s silent.

“The sweetest girl from my hometown. They ruined her. They fucked her to hell.” His pupils dilate, “those fucking bastards!”

“I’m sorry–”

“So I did what I had to. I went to Italy and shot the motherfuckers… One by one,” His eyes set on a ghost in the darkest corner of the bar, “I killed them all.”

I tug her elbow to escape. She motions her head in agreement. I look to offer Vlad the same opportunity, but it’s too late. He’s been abandoned long ago.