Read Online Bite Me by Christopher Moore - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Christopher Moore
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mind-numbingly bored.
So when the Emperor of San Francisco came screaming out of the parking lot and slammed, face-first, into the big Plexiglas front window, rattling the Tic Tacs on every register, each of them dropped what he was working on and headed to the front of the store, hoping in their hearts that something outstanding was coming down.
The seven, the Animals, stood on one side of the big window, while the Emperor pounded on the other, the royal hounds leaping and barking at his side.
“Maybe we should let him in,” said Clint, curly-haired, born-again, ex–heroin addict who worked cereal, coffee, and juices. “He seems troubled.”
“ Sí, ” said Gustavo, the porter, leaning on his mop. “Troubled.”
“Seems fucking freaked,” said Drew, the Ichabod-Crane-gaunt master of the frozen food aisle and chief medical officer. “Totally fucking freaked.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Lash, the lean black guy who had become their leader when Tommy was turned into a vampire, largely because he almost had an MBA, but also because he was a black guy and inherently cooler than everyone else.
“Murder, destruction, ravenous creatures of the night, a storm of them,” shouted the Emperor. “Hurry, please.”
“He always says that,” said Barry, the balding fireplug of a scuba diver who also stocked soap and dog food.
“Well, every time he says it, it’s kind of true,” said Jeff, the tall blond ex–power forward with the blown-out knee (baking supplies and international foods). “I say let him in.”
“Look, the retriever is all bandaged up. Poor guy,” said Troy Lee, their resident martial arts expert who worked the glass aisle. “Let them in.”
“You just want to roll the little one up in a burrito,” said Lash.
“Yeah, that’s right, Lash. Because I’m Chinese, I have a deep-seated need to nosh house pets. Now why don’t you let him in before my inner Chinaman forces me to kung-fu your bitch ass.”
Because he understood that he was the leader only so long as he told everyone to do what they wanted to do anyway, and because he had had his bitch ass kung-fued in the past and hadn’t cared for it, Lash unlocked the door and let the Emperor in.
The old man fell into the store when Lash opened the door. Bummer and Lazarus stopped barking and bolted by them, and on toward the back of the store.
Jeff and Drew got the Emperor seated on one of the registers and Troy Lee handed him a bottle of water. “Chill, Your Majesty, we’ve done this before.”
“Not like this. Not like this,” said the Emperor. “It’s a storm of evil. Lock the door.”
Lash rolled his eyes. They really had done this before, and the door being locked or unlocked wasn’t going to make much difference if a vampire was following the old man.
“We got your back, Highness,” Lash said.
“Lock the door,” the Emperor moaned, pointing through the window. A fog bank was moving across the parking lot, with rather more intent than one usually expects from a fog bank. A high, yowling screech seemed to come out of the fog in a stream, as if it had been sampled, amplified, and duplicated a thousand times.
The Animals moved to the glass.
“Lock the door, Lash,” Clint said. Clint never gave orders.
The edge of the fog bank was boiling with shapes, claws, ears, eyes, teeth, tails—cats formed of fog, rolling in a wave over one another, some materializing partially, only to evaporate and roll back into the cloud, their red eyes moving through the cloud like embers out of a firestorm.
“Whoa,” said Drew.
“Whoa,” repeated the others.
“Okay, that is different,” said Troy Lee.
“My friends all over the City are missing,” the Emperor said. “Street people. They’re gone. Just their clothes and gray dust,” the Emperor said. “The cats are killing everything in their way.”
“That is fucked up,” said Jeff.
“Deeply, deeply fucked up,” said Barry, dragging one of the heavy wooden order
So when the Emperor of San Francisco came screaming out of the parking lot and slammed, face-first, into the big Plexiglas front window, rattling the Tic Tacs on every register, each of them dropped what he was working on and headed to the front of the store, hoping in their hearts that something outstanding was coming down.
The seven, the Animals, stood on one side of the big window, while the Emperor pounded on the other, the royal hounds leaping and barking at his side.
“Maybe we should let him in,” said Clint, curly-haired, born-again, ex–heroin addict who worked cereal, coffee, and juices. “He seems troubled.”
“ Sí, ” said Gustavo, the porter, leaning on his mop. “Troubled.”
“Seems fucking freaked,” said Drew, the Ichabod-Crane-gaunt master of the frozen food aisle and chief medical officer. “Totally fucking freaked.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Lash, the lean black guy who had become their leader when Tommy was turned into a vampire, largely because he almost had an MBA, but also because he was a black guy and inherently cooler than everyone else.
“Murder, destruction, ravenous creatures of the night, a storm of them,” shouted the Emperor. “Hurry, please.”
“He always says that,” said Barry, the balding fireplug of a scuba diver who also stocked soap and dog food.
“Well, every time he says it, it’s kind of true,” said Jeff, the tall blond ex–power forward with the blown-out knee (baking supplies and international foods). “I say let him in.”
“Look, the retriever is all bandaged up. Poor guy,” said Troy Lee, their resident martial arts expert who worked the glass aisle. “Let them in.”
“You just want to roll the little one up in a burrito,” said Lash.
“Yeah, that’s right, Lash. Because I’m Chinese, I have a deep-seated need to nosh house pets. Now why don’t you let him in before my inner Chinaman forces me to kung-fu your bitch ass.”
Because he understood that he was the leader only so long as he told everyone to do what they wanted to do anyway, and because he had had his bitch ass kung-fued in the past and hadn’t cared for it, Lash unlocked the door and let the Emperor in.
The old man fell into the store when Lash opened the door. Bummer and Lazarus stopped barking and bolted by them, and on toward the back of the store.
Jeff and Drew got the Emperor seated on one of the registers and Troy Lee handed him a bottle of water. “Chill, Your Majesty, we’ve done this before.”
“Not like this. Not like this,” said the Emperor. “It’s a storm of evil. Lock the door.”
Lash rolled his eyes. They really had done this before, and the door being locked or unlocked wasn’t going to make much difference if a vampire was following the old man.
“We got your back, Highness,” Lash said.
“Lock the door,” the Emperor moaned, pointing through the window. A fog bank was moving across the parking lot, with rather more intent than one usually expects from a fog bank. A high, yowling screech seemed to come out of the fog in a stream, as if it had been sampled, amplified, and duplicated a thousand times.
The Animals moved to the glass.
“Lock the door, Lash,” Clint said. Clint never gave orders.
The edge of the fog bank was boiling with shapes, claws, ears, eyes, teeth, tails—cats formed of fog, rolling in a wave over one another, some materializing partially, only to evaporate and roll back into the cloud, their red eyes moving through the cloud like embers out of a firestorm.
“Whoa,” said Drew.
“Whoa,” repeated the others.
“Okay, that is different,” said Troy Lee.
“My friends all over the City are missing,” the Emperor said. “Street people. They’re gone. Just their clothes and gray dust,” the Emperor said. “The cats are killing everything in their way.”
“That is fucked up,” said Jeff.
“Deeply, deeply fucked up,” said Barry, dragging one of the heavy wooden order
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