Tomlin, a young man finds himself thrust into a meeting of monsters and mortals after a rather embarassing accident, which left him not only a ghoul to a rather capricious Vampire who so lovingly calls himself "Count Sandpaper" but horrendously inde...
Have you ever dreamed a dream so real, when you wake its as if you've lost an entire day? Maybe you're one of those people who dream they've gone to work and been to school or some such and rush to put on your clothes, snatching up all your gear to rush out the door, only to realize it's a weekend and you've no obligations to be anywhere at all. Not even sound asleep in your bed, no whims or worries only the anxiety pumped propellant of a dream now dreamt and gone. How fleeting a feeling, yet it gets you flying out of bed, speed running your morning routines only to stop abruptly, left aloft on that high, floating with no parachute other than your mind trying to piece together how you managed to brush your teeth, get your clothes on, lock your door, get all the way into your car, and still not realize you had nowhere to be. Kind of like me, no place to really be, waking from what must've certainly been a dream. Because who in their right mind would dunk their hand in a vat of scalding meat juice, fish around for the Hotdogs they were justified in having to eat, and proceed to ram those very same Hotdogs into someone else's mouth rather than their own.
Certainly not a sane person, certainly not someone who spent hundreds of hours practicing these sorts of altercations out in their head, dismantling any possibility it would come to blows, and certainly not someone who swore they'd never throw the first punch. It'd simply be too unbelievable, such a reserved well spoken lad would never do such a thing like reach for the mustard bottle and try and drown the man in his own condiments, no that'd be far too vicious for someone raised in a proper home. He certainly wouldn't be ham-fisted and screaming, "Here they are! Here they are!" with that fist full of "missing" hotdogs. And he certainly wouldn't be so wrapped up in all of that dream to notice the lemon yellow Prius seemingly appearing from thin air to send him careening into the air. Propelled above all the passing heads and wide eyes gaping at his impromptu flight through NYC.
He certainly wouldn't think to himself at such a moment how those paved streets, with their gawking bystanders, busy bodies and flashing lights could ever look so beautiful. All those glistening clear and amber shards from a busted headlight cascading along with him, like a Jackson Pollock painting with a pension for meaty treats, and them in the middle of its chaotic center. You know the thing about getting hit by a car is It's not all that different from being on a roller coaster or missing that one step when you're going down the stairs, the way the stomach leaps right along with you. Of course in those situations you're not in horrendous pain, or too terribly confused, maybe you really don't like roller coasters but that's besides the point I'm trying to make, which is it does hurt, as much as you think it does.
I had finally understood the ridiculous fighters I had watched in all those shows as a kid, how they'd be fighting one of their arch-villain's for that arc of the show, take a tremendous blow from them and know exactly what bones in their body had just broke. It used to astound me, I wasn't even aware of some of the things they'd say got broken until that lemon gave me an accelerated course in anatomy. That tiny little rib at the very base of the cage, that's called your twelfth rib, that and every single other one on my left side snapped like wishbones. That little thing that holds your clavicle and your first ribs together, that's the manubrium, really what most people just call the sternum, and that caved in just like my dreams of getting that stupid hotdog in my stomach. Let alone the job, oh that silly little interview, certainly nowhere near the top of mind then and there, nope, just a hole in my stomach, three more fractures in my left femur, and - is that my eye? Is my fucking eyeball on this guys windshield? Shit which one is it? My left side wont be my good side now that's for sure. How am I still even in the air at this point.
I know I keep asking a lot of questions, maybe it's because I'm making sense of it all as I go and those little reflections really help put this mirrors image back together. Whatever cosmic entity decided to shatter our concept of it so long ago really mucked it all up, but I'll keep asking anyways, ever gotten a paper cut? Maybe you've skidded your knee on some carpet or the like, hell maybe you've broken some bones and this is all kiddie stuff to you, but for me, hitting that pavement while conscious took the top spot for the worst thing to ever happen in my life. As if an army of tiny little sprites with torches dragged their lit sticks across my face, I felt my cheek slide away giving it's greatest mud slide impersonation to date. My shoulder caught the weight of the momentum next, taking me up and over myself like a cartoon character who'd slipped over a banana. Four or five of the lovely suckers holding up my spine decided they wouldn't put up with this shit any longer and popped out. I'm pretty sure I saw some of my teeth flying along with the shattered remains of my phone, and when I finally stopped tumbling along and skidded to a fleshy grinding stop I saw the most poorly dressed man I've ever seen step from that lemon and smile.
That bastard smiled.
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