May 26th, 2004


Two-Fisted Man

Thirty six days to prepare for seventeen nights.

There was, of course, the research, the historical accuracy, studying the construction of the face, practice in recreation and imitation, but all of this was old work.

The implants were new.

I’ve had my skin dyed, I’ve worn hair, chest and shoulder extensions and attached working genitals that respond to my own, but I have never been involved in a process this deep, and this consuming.

I have changed height, age and gender, but never species. If you are going to consider vampires anything, you must consider them to be a different species, with a different body temperature, strength, smell, food and method of reproduction than our own.

Dollar made the implants. Genius. Two-fisted genuis.

My skeleton has a reinforced steel construction that can be actived twice for five minutes each before disintigrating. I have a device that masks my smell and a dampening field around my heart. The small nickle sized implant that spread like black web under my skin and made me sick for two days is keeping my skin at a cool temperature. There are narcotics, powerful ones, sucreted in my capped teeth. Buried in my stomach there is a device which breaks blood into sugars and is slowly releasing the nutrients I need that I can’t get from a liquid diet.

“How are you doing?” He asks, hands placed grandly on his hips.

“Damn if I don’t feel like a burger. This all liquid diet-“

“Sucks? Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“Puns kill the innocent.” I say, deapan. “What’s in the narcotic anyway?”

“Heroine. Sort of. A derivitive of heroine. Heroine like. It’s not really heroine at all.”

“So what is it?”



I really want a burger right now. Something solid and firm, something I can chew on.

Or pasta, a hundred noodles baked in their own sauce.

Bread, warm or cold, wheat, rye and potato, sliced or torn off the loaf.

This all liquid diet really isn’t working for me, and it’s a pain in my ass to chase my food.

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