Little Fighter (The Lost Boys)

Chapter Nine: Brain Damage

Author's Note: This is a warning for illegal substance usage. Lincoln is always on a permanent high of some sort. If I didn't know better I'd say that Lincoln could have given the rock stars of the Eighties a run for their money. Sure explains a lot.

Tick...tick...tick...tick...tick...tick...

Dong!

Lincoln cracked open an eye as the echoing brass chime from an ornate grandfather clock jolted him back into the present.

Dong!

"Ah Christ."

Lincoln stretched lazily and shook his head. It took him a few tries before he managed to hoist himself into a sitting position. He groped around for his leather jacket that was folded across the back of the plush leather four-seater he was sprawled on.

"What time s'it?" He muttered as he dug through the various pockets of the jacket before he came up with a half-empty bottle of extra strength eye drops. Tilting his head back Lincoln quickly squeezed a few drops into each eye and closed them tightly for a minute.

Dong!

The sun was almost up. He could feel the pull deep in his bones. Now would be the time for bloodsuckers to hole up deep in the shadows in order to sleep off a night of bloodletting and mayhem. As wonderful as that would have been Lincoln was not meant to enjoy in the dreamless sleep-state of the grateful undead.

Whereas Max chose to put his personal safety in the jaws of a half-crazed wonder mutt to watch over him while he slept the Baron used Lincoln's biological glitch to make sure that any would-be assailants never got past the front door.

Dong!

Lincoln was an insomniac.

It was his "Achilles Heel". Every vampire had one and his was a downright pain in the ass.

Sleep for him meant half-an-hour to an hour a day if he was lucky. His inability to go cold during the daylight hours explained the bloodshot eyes, hair-trigger temper, and the insanity. Twenty-one years of being unable to fully recharge the old battery had driven him around the bend and into the stratosphere. 

"I fuckin' hate not bein' able to sleeeeeeeeeergh."

He stretched once more, reaching up toward the ceiling until he felt his shoulders pop.

Dong!

When the old clock continued to tick away steadily he calculated that it was five o'clock in the morning. The sun rose at five fifteen in the sunshine state and Lincoln had his marching orders. The Boss wanted the kid awake right before dawn and now was the time.

Lincoln sighed, scratched his chin, and promptly slapped himself across the face as hard as he could in order to jumpstart his brain. It seemed to do the trick.

"Right."

Lincoln shoved himself off the couch and padded out of the well-furnished living room and meandered into the kitchen for a quick fix. Not bothering to watch where he was going Lincoln rubbed his hands over his face and opened the fridge. It was one of those large modernized double-door numbers that he kept well-stocked with the essentials.

Blood, beer, and premium Russian vodka.

Lincoln grabbed a large glass bottle that was half-filled with blood and kicked the fridge door closed. He unscrewed the cap and tossed it onto the polished marble countertop before he opened the liquor cabinet below and withdrew a bottle of aged scotch whiskey. Despite his sluggish movements Lincoln did not spill a drop of liquor as he emptied the contents of the amber bottle into the half-litre of AB positive. The bottle was chucked into a garbage can that was hidden under the sink because his Boss would have his hide if he didn't clean up after himself.