Hitler’s Been Reborn

The only thing running through my head before I start demanding answers from the emaciated vampire behind the front desk is this: I'm, without a doubt, a first-class idiot. Me—the great up-and-coming vampire—ignored my gut. And that, my friends, can cost you eternity. If something rattles in your chest and tells you don't go in there, then don't. If something tells you don't hang out with those scumbags, then don't. Because they'll drag you into trouble. And not shared trouble—no, no. You'll be the only one in the mess. They'll come out squeaky clean while you're left playing the fool, the functional moron, the scapegoat. And obviously, if something tells you that investing ten grand in a plan that promises a hundred grand in two weeks sounds shadier than a politician without a tie, then don't invest. Don't be a dumbass. Don't do what I just did: ignore the ever-wise voice of the gut. And above all, if you don't have what it takes to claw your way out of a mess, then don't even think about getting into one. Big messes are for people like Zico. Not for bleeding hearts with shaky hands.

Alright. I'm ready to tear into the receptionist and get every bit of information I need out of him: Why the hell is it daytime now, in the blink of an eye? Where the fuck are we? What kind of deranged game is this that Liora and I are trapped in? So I go for it. I'm ready to break every single bone in that husk of a man who looks like he'd vanish if he turned sideways. But to my surprise, Liora beats me to it and lunges at him. And fuck, just so you get a clearer picture—the receptionist looks like someone with full-blown AIDS, about to croak. Like it happened in the eighties. Yeah, I know—technically, that hasn't happened yet. But it will. And the sick will look like this when the end draws near: skin like paper, bones sticking out, hollow eyes. No antiretrovirals, no hope. People dropping like flies after their lymph nodes ballooned and burst—just 'cause they couldn't be bothered to use a damn condom. And don't come at me with sentimental bullshit. Most of them didn't go down because of bad luck—they went down because they were horny lunatics who couldn't take a three-second pause to put on a prophylactic. Fucking irresponsible maniacs. The blood running through their veins wouldn't even feed the filthiest sewer rat of a vampire. Then the miracle came—antiretrovirals. Don't ask me what those pills do. Maybe they clean the blood. Maybe they make it drinkable. But I don't care. I've got a refined nose—exquisite, almost artistic—and I will never—hear me well—never sink my fangs into sick blood. That said, let's be clear: I've got nothing against homosexual promiscuity. Let sailors keep being sailors and love each other at sea or wherever the hell they want. Doesn't bother me. I'm not human. I'm not bound by the pathetic little prejudices mortals drag around. What you do with your blood is your business. Just don't expect me to drink it.

So yeah—the vampire Liora's tearing into, the one getting his ass kicked by my little girl, looks like a Freddy Mercury about to head straight to Hell to sing Don't Stop Me Now. And why do I say Hell with such confidence? Because that's exactly where Freddy went. Agnes told me after one of our delicious dinners. We had just killed a couple of gays. Closet cases. Married. Wives, kids, the whole picture-perfect setup. You know the type—straight out of a 1950s real estate ad: Live here, where heterosexuality is never questioned. Giant billboard: dad, mom, son, daughter, and of course, a collie. Because nothing screams God-blessed family like a living replica of Lassie by the mailbox. And there they were—the fags—right in the mood before sex. Totally in love, talking, laughing, playing some music on the TV. I don't know if the playlist was officially gay, but it sure felt that way. I mean, no way in hell you'd hear that mix in an old-school pool hall. Madonna. Belinda Carlisle. Gloria Gaynor. Village People. Kylie Minogue. Cher. Britney Spears. Whitney Houston. And, of course, Queen. And yeah, Agnes and I drank that cute couple dry—Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain. And right after, while their necks were still bubbling with blood, the TV in front of us started playing Living on My Own.

Agnes told me:

"Freddy's soul is in Hell."

"No shit, really?" I said, wiping the blood off my chin. I was still a rookie vampire, and my draining technique was far from perfect—blood kept spilling down the sides of my mouth.

"Yes, of course. Why would I lie?"

"What about Jim Morrison?"

"Also in the pit."

"Janis Joplin?"

"Her too."

"River Phoenix?"

"Same deal. And that's enough, my love. Every artist who died before turning fifty—be it from illness, accident, suicide, or some drug-fueled stupidity—is in Hell."

"And Hitler?"

"What the hell does Hitler have to do with this party?"

"Nothing. I just want to know where he is."

"Hitler's been reborn."

"And why the fuck isn't he in Hell?"

"Because it wasn't his turn. Like I told you—no one goes to Hell because of how they lived. They go because it's their time. There are no fixed rules here."

"But you just said that every artist who dies before fifty ends up in Hell."

"Yeah, but it's not a rule. It's a coincidence that keeps repeating."

"That sounds exactly like a rule."

"It's not. And now that you mention it—Hitler will be stirring shit up again soon. And this time, he's not a man. He's a woman. Ironic, huh? I guess it's the universe trying to balance things out. Women are way behind when it comes to trying to destroy the world."

"And how the hell do you know what's going to happen in the future?"

"Goddamn it, there you go again, asking too many questions. That's enough. Let's go."

Memories. Memories of a time when I was still a baby vampire. And now, thinking I've outgrown all that, thinking I might finally reach greatness—I walk straight into this shithole of a hotel like a fucking beginner. Let's see. Yeah. Let's see what this is all about.

I walk over to Liora and the vampire-receptionist. I separate them. Liora's done a number on the poor bastard. Christ, the guy looks worse than Rocky in the fifteenth round against Apollo. I feel proud of my little protégé. I stroke her head. She snorts, still hungry to keep tearing him to pieces.

I grab the vampire by the lapels, lift him off the floor—where he was lying like a sheet of decomposing flesh—and sit him down, propping his back against the wall.

He says:

"I'm used to this kind of beating, sir. New guests always get violent when I tell them night won't fall again. No need to apologize."

"Apologize? What the fuck are you talking about? I'm gonna kill you. You're going to tell me what the hell is going on, and then, once everything's clear, I'm going to make you explode, you piece of shit."

"That won't do any good, sir. I'd explode, and a second later, I'd be right back in front of you. Besides, it's not my fault you're here."

"Who the hell are you?"

"Nikandros, sir. At your service."

"Nikandros? What kind of name is that?"

"The name my mother gave me at birth, sir. Nikandros was a fairly common name in my homeland, back in the day..."

"Why the fuck are you saying it's my fault I'm here? And what the hell is 'here'?"

"This is another dimension, sir. A dimension where it's always daytime. Well, to put it simply: this hotel moves. It appears in the path of those who ask to be here. And when the new guest walks in, the hotel returns to this dimension."

"I didn't ask to be here."

"Forgive me for contradicting you, sir, but yes, you did."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You want to be a powerful vampire, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course. I have ambition. That's a good thing. It builds character. And personality."

"I won't argue with that. But there's something else: to reach what one desires, one must overcome many obstacles. There are battles that must be won. And sometimes, those battles aren't against an enemy, but against oneself."

"Speak clearly, you skinny bastard."

"You want to be a great vampire, and that's why you're here. You must overcome the trial of the Gloaming Inn."

"What trial?" Liora asks.

"Mr. Fabrizio must find a way out of here. He must discover the power that will set him free."

"How do you know my name?" I ask Nikandros.

"Because you made a reservation."

"I made a reservation in some fucking hotel listed in the vampire guide?"

"No, sir. The Gloaming Inn is not in the guide."

"What do you mean it's not?"

I let go of the vampire's lapels and pull the damn guide out of the inside pocket of my jacket. I flip to the page where the Gloaming Inn should be—and sure enough, it's not there. Luzerne is listed, yes. But this place, where I'm now trapped with Liora, doesn't show up anywhere. According to the guide, the vampire-friendly hotel in Luzerne is called The Velvet Vein. Fucking hell.

I look back at Nikandros.

"What's the game?"

"There's blood in the kitchen—enough for three days. I'd recommend figuring out how to get out of here before that runs out. Because if you don't manage to escape while there's still blood, you won't make it out at all. And then you and that fierce little pugilist by your side will die of starvation. Sounds awful, I know. But that's how this works. Look, most vampires who end up in the Gloaming Inn can't handle starving. They beg to die before that happens. In the end, they ask me to let them out. So they can die under the sun."

"And what do you feed on?"

"I don't feed, Mr. Fabrizio. I'm a condemned thing. A damned creature. This is my punishment for trying to break one of the sacred laws of vampirism."

I walk over to Liora and wrap my arms around her. I say:

"Don't worry, little mouse. I promise we're getting out of this. And you know my promises are stronger than oak."

I kiss her on the forehead and turn to look at Nikandros again. He's standing now. No longer looked like he'd been run over by a truck. But of course, that doesn't improve his appearance. He looks just as miserable as when Liora and I first walked into this place that—let's face it—has a terrifyingly high chance of becoming our grave.