Donovan drifted across the Scarlet Thirst.  Its red velvet interior put him in mind of hell on a Saturday night.  The bar was a black marble island on blood-red shag.  He strolled toward it through a field of gyrating dancers.  He never touched those obstructing his way.  One glimpse of his ice-cold eyes and rigid face, and they moved.

     A goth-metal ballad filled the air. A local band performed on a modest stage, behind a protective cage.  The drummer's reverberating backbeat gave the music an extra-spatial timbre. A starved-looking stray of a girl with black hair and lipstick, wearing silver studded leather, shared the lyrics of her pain:

            Painted lips

            softly sigh and

            greet the night's

            infusion--

            Dying flesh,

            so passionate,

            trade lust for love's

            confusion--

     "The band's almost good," Donovan commented. "Who are they?"

     "The Damned--at least, that’s what they call themselves.”  The bartender donned a protective glove.  "You want the usual?" 

     Donovan nodded curtly.

     The bartender produced a silver flask and poured a stream of clear liquid into a crimson shotglass.  "I don't see how you can stand that stuff.  Hey, how about a nice warm mug of O-neg."

     "No, thanks.  The flask…it's from the usual source?"

     "Yeah, St. Michael's 'round the corner.  Pure tap water, blessed and sanctified by a priest.  Enjoy your holy water, if you can."

     A sharp bark of laughter escaped Donovan.  "I'd be damned if I couldn't," he said, gathering in the drink.  He threw it back with a "Hail-Mary-Full-Of-Grace" as the bartender stared.  Donovan slammed the glass back down, his free hand formed a fist as his eyes closed.  A look of raw agony passed over his face.  He trembled, and would have sweat blood if he had any while a new verse of song sank into his soul. 

            Come closer, lover,

            where we can see--

            you're looking

            rather tasty--

            Why don't you scream

            with us a while--

            The feeding frenzy's

            back in style--

     Another."  Donovan threw a crumpled bill on the bar.  

     The bartender shrugged.  "You are a glutton for punishment."  He poured the drink, handling it gingerly, as if it were toxic waste.  "Why not just accept your fate.  You were attacked by a vampire and drained of blood.  You're as un-dead as anyone else in here--except maybe the band.  Life may have been sweet, but in the end, the scarlet thirst always wins."

     "The glass, you still got it?"

     "We’re going to go through that again as well?"  He sighed and reached beneath the bar, drawing out a bar towel.  It held something flat, rectangular.  Donovan took the towel, and unwrapped a mirror.

     "Don't wave that thing around," the bartender said.  "You'll upset the customers."

     Donovan bent over the glass.  He saw a suggestion of a face, a pale ghost-image overlaying the ceiling.  It was dim, but present.  Still, as he watched, it faded away.  Carefully, he rewrapped the mirror and gave it back.

     "So, how many days has it been since you've tasted blood?" the bartender asked.  "We've sorta got a pool going."

    "I never have and I never will.  It's not being bitten that makes a vampire; it's the sacrilege of blood.  I may be un-dead, but I am not damned.  I still have my faith."

     "Think you're better than us, do you?"  

     Donovan turned to face the questioner.  He saw Vito, the club's bouncer.  Their stares meshed, and Donovan measured the moment by the slow tired beat of his heart.  He kept it running by sheer force of will, refusing to let it atrophy.  "I know I'm better than you.  I restrain myself, and don’t hurt the innocent.  No one else in here can say that."

     "Your faith weakens you," Vito grinned, bearing fangs, gathering himself.  "Blood is strength.  Without it, you're only a mewling kitten.  You know what I do to kittens?"  

     Donovan pulled a tanto, a gently curved wooden knife, from within his longcoat. He held it casually at his side.  "You know what I did to your momma?" he asked in return.

    "C'mon guys, take it out side, huh?" the bartender said.

     Vito lunged in.  Donovan took a step and quarter-turned his body, letting Vito have the line of his approach.  Donovan shoved from the unexpected angle.  Off-balance, Vito fell.  Donovan's hand was a blur of pure speed as he threw the knife.  It buried itself in Vito's heart and he burst into dusty fragments.  

     Donovan returned to the bar.  "Looks like you need a new bouncer," he said.  

    "I thought he had you for sure," the bartender said.  "What was that technique you used?" 

    "Tai Chi," he answered.  The goodbook tells us, 'strength is perfected through weakness'.  Kung-Fu agrees."

    "So what were you, before passing over?  A preacher?"

    "Sergeant, Marine recon unit.  Somehow, I'm going back to that life."

    The bartender nodded sagely.  "Ya know, I believe you will."