Poutine and B-negative

Everybody has had a bad day, often multiple bad days.  Some people have had miserable days.  But Julien could always take solace in his belief that he had already had the worst possible day.  Nothing he would face in the future would be as bad as that balmy Parisian evening where his head was chopped off.

Consistent awfulness is a recurring theme in most bad-day stories.  Bad days are bad throughout; they begin as soon as your eyes flutter open and you realize your house is on fire.  Julien’s bad day wasn’t like that at all.  Granted, it didn’t start out perfectly—his “companion” from the previous night had left without so much as a note of goodbye, he felt a little shaky and light-headed, and she’d left a mark on his neck that he couldn’t seem to remove—but he still got dressed and broke his fast with some bread without much issue.  Despite his dizziness, he’d been able to set up on a street-corner and get to work shining shoes without anybody giving him problems.  Business went well, so much so that he decided to treat himself to lunch, a meal he often skipped.  The tangy flavor of the salad’s vinaigrette dressing still on his lips, he continued shining shoes, discussing the news of the day with his customers as he diligently polished their leather to perfection.  As dinnertime approached, Julien was in a very good mood.

That is, until his next client turned out to be a former co-worker.

Before everything came crashing down, there was a brief moment between Julien and his client.  The short, middle-aged shoeshine had the same look of dawning recognition and sheer terror on his face as the gawky, gangly stable-boy standing before him.  Both had been smart or lucky enough to flee the Duke’s estate before the mobs took everybody with a full stomach for a ride on the tumbrels.  But this time, the stableboy was luckier.  He spoke first.

“Traitor!” he shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Julien.  “Traitor! This man was a confidant of Duke Lafayette! He’s been helping nobility flee the country!”

“I was just his shoeshine,” Julien shouted, but it was too late.  The bustling on the streets had briefly paused, as people silently weighed Julien’s life against what might happen to them if they defended him.  It soon became clear what everyone’s choice was.

“I saw him on the day Louis XVI was killed,” someone shouted, “he tried to free him! Almost got shot, the bastard!”

“He killed my brother! My brother saw him with a noblewoman in hiding, and he killed him!”

“He’s a British agent! He’s going to bring the aristocracy back!”

New charges were brought against Julien every second, and while he remained the central figure in this newly discovered conspiracy, it wasn’t long until the mob started dragging other people along with him as they marched him to the guillotine.  By the time his head was locked in place, six other men—his “collaborators”—were waiting for their turn to die.

Julien still felt woozy.  Seconds before his head was to be lopped off, this was all he could focus on.  He was dizzy and week, his eyes cast downward at the stained, damp wood-grain below him.  Unconsciously, he strained his neck, and licked the blood-soaked wood.  And then his head came off.

In that moment, before Julien understood the significance of licking the wood, of his persistent love-mark, he was sure he was going to die, to lose everything.  That was what made those moments so terrifying.  Now, he no longer had that fear.  He hadn’t had it for over two hundred years.  It was how, when Doctor Hudson asked him to lay down as they cut him up and put him in a bucket, whereupon he would be scorched with fire for twenty minutes, he asked only if he could take his clothes off first so they wouldn’t be ruined. 

Surrounded by half a dozen severed heads in a damp wooden bucket, Julien’s head was not in the best place to have an existential crisis.  He was still alive.  He was just a head, and he was still alive, and he was teething.  He tentatively probed his new canines with his tongue.  They were sharp.  Suddenly, everything shook; somebody was moving the bucket around, and Julien was jostled fangs-first into something wet and warm.  The world around him roared into silence, and his vision went red.  The next thing he knew, he was lying in the street next to the bucket of heads and a corpse, covered in blood.  He only found out what he was a hundred years later, when he found a novel by Bram Stoker in his meal’s pocket

“How the times have changed,” Julien said to himself, enjoying the faint tingle of fire on one of his chunks.  He heard a sigh, and suddenly the tingle faded. 

“You’re completely fine, aren’t you?” Doctor Hudson said, making notes on her clipboard as nervous-looking interns dumped the bucket of Julien onto the floor in front of her.  “I heard you talk, which by the way, you shouldn’t be able to do.  You don’t have vocal chords or a mouth right now.”

“We vampires are mysterious,” Julien said “Can I change back now?”

“Go ahead.”  The chunky, red pulp that was Julien started to quiver.  Smaller pieces started to disappear with tiny poofs, leaving little wisps of green fog that drifted around the rest of the wiggling gore.  Suddenly, there was a rush of air, and the giblets were gone.  Slowly, the mass of pale-green, pea soup fog rose, forming itself into a humanoid shape, before finally fading.  Julien looked much the same as he had on the day of his execution, if a bit paler.  “I think that’ll be it for today.  The B-positive—“

“B-negative,” Julien said firmly.

“Right, right, the B-negative will be at your house by tomorrow.  The fridge is over there, feel free to take a little bit for the road.”

Julien nodded as he slipped back into his jeans and faded blue T-shirt.  “Thank you very much,” he said.  “Toronto is cold this time of year, and I can’t stand most foods unless there’s blood in them.  I’ll eat this with some poutine and think of you.”

Doctor Hudson sighed, briefly adjusting her glasses.  “There’s really no need for that,” she said gently.  “When the video of that…guy in Rio went viral, most of the vampires formed resistance cells or went into hiding.  The fact that you’re actually cooperating with our research for amnesty…we appreciate it.  A lot.”

Julien turned around, delicately holding a chilled baggie of creamy B-negative blood.  “You really shouldn’t,” he said quietly.  “I’ve done plenty to earn amnesty for.”  The man carrying the basket of heads was the first Julien had killed, but it certainly wasn’t the last.  “If you really feel that grateful towards me, we should have some poutine brought here next time.  You, me, the interns, we’ll have a feast.”

To his surprise, Doctor Hudson nodded.  “It’s the least we can do,” she said.  “Besides, you’ll need some motivation to come in.  Next week you’re beginning trials for a vampire sunscreen prototype.”