Vampire Dreamspell

Enjoy this Anthology excerpt from one of the stories—“A Slice of Undeath” by John Richters
Undeath just ain’t what it used to be.
At least not for us working stiffs, pardon the pun. Take tonight, for instance. I run a small dental supply business over on Fourth and Main. Not a fancy undeath, but I’m satisfied. After all, dental hygiene is important. Especially to a vampire. I sell the usual stuff, high-power brushes, heavy-duty fangfloss, that sort of thing.
One night I get a visit from the mob. A tough-looking character barges in and puts up my “Closed” sign. He scowls around the store and tells me it’s dangerous.
“Dangerous?” I ask.
“Yeah. Lotsa accidents around here.” He knocks my display of fluoridated fangpaste onto the floor. “See?” He leans over the counter toward me. Instant garlic headache. “You could maybe fall on a stake tomorrow. Which shouldn’t happen to a nice guy like you. Just fifty bucks a month buys our vampire protection service and your troubles are over.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long. It ain’t your strong suit. This place falls apart next week.”
I leave right after he does. On the way home some taxi driver rear-ends my hearse. I fix him, though; I take more than just insurance information. At least I’m no longer hungry.
I need to unwind so I head to Wingo’s Blooditessen for a daycap. From the talk around the bar, I realize the mob has threatened most of the neighborhood merchants. I offer: “What about that professor friend of yours, Nate? He’s great at solving all kinds of problems. He fixed that glitch on my prototype electric fangbrush.”
“The Doc? Maybe. For one of the living, he’s OK. Goofy, though. He’s often up nights—I’ll see him before I hit the soil.”
The next evening I stop in at Wingo’s for a pick-me-up. I barely have time to say my hellos when Nate charges in, all smiling and excited. I notice he could use some fang whitener. He plops down a copy of the evening paper. “Fifteen Deaths in Gang War,” screams the front-page headline. The article goes on to report that a bloody confrontation took place that morning at the home of one Rocco Bologna, prominent local “businessman.”
“He’s the regional Godfather!” blurts out the owner of Sally’s Capes.
The story notes that the attackers gained entry by ripping up a pair of steel security gates and flattening the mansion’s foot-thick front door. According to the cops, the perpetrators “inflicted severe bodily injury” on the occupants.
“Wow,” I say, looking at the accompanying photos, “that’s old garlic breath himself. Not much of him left, though.”
Just then Nate pulls a rumpled envelope from his pocket and hands it to me. “You read it. After all, it was your idea.”
I rip it open, extract a note and begin to decipher the scrawled contents. “Must leave town posthaste, but your problems with the mob should be over. The device I built on your behalf somewhat exceeded its design specifications. And you might say it has a mind of its own. All the best, Victor Frankenstein.”