"Where did you get that really cool coat--it's velvet, right? Those boots must be expensive, I saw some like it in a video—you know, the one where they’re in the Garden of Eden, you’ve seen it, right? And the singer—you know, Scrimm—he’s like, the Devil, you know, and he’s got these big shiny black wings and leather pants and lotsa chains and stuff—Do you know Scrimm? You look like you do. How did you get your skin so white? I got this white stuff at Wal Mart--you know, in a tube, like lipstick? I think it was called concealer or something. Yeah, well, I used the whole thing and it still didn't come out right, all greasy and shit; and it got all runny and icky after dancing. Do you go to clubs? I'll bet you know where there's a lot of really cool clubs."

…to her boyfriend, Scab…(Why would anyone choose that name?)

"You gotta meet my boyfriend, Scab. Boy, you sure could show him a few things; maybe dye his hair or pierce his nose or something? Are you sure you're not in a band? Scab has a band, sort of...well, he wants to start a band, as soon as he gets enough money for a guitar. But he's got the name for the band--Full Moon Death, isn't it cool? And he's got all these really intense lyrics--better than the Cure, more deep, really dark, and...and...intense. Sorta like Bauhaus meets T Rex, you know? He just needs to do the music, but, you know, he needs the guitar."

…to the embarrassing intimate details of all her other friends and some sort of game they played.

"Hey! Do you play 'Blood Song'? You look like you do. You look like you're already at the 7th level. I'm only at the 5th. See? Now I'm immune to crosses." She waved a junky upside down cross at him, with a bullet glued where Christ should have been; the symbol of her attainment threaded on to a thick chain and proudly worn about her neck. Rudy wanted to tell her that bullets were for werewolves, not vampires, this much he did know. "What name do you use? I'm Rosa Delirious; I picked it 'cause my power is making people sorta insane; you know, see things. So, when I bite them they don't know it, they think they're on acid or something. And Rosa 'cause I like roses; I sleep with one on my chest, like Lily Munster? Well, she had a lily and I have a rose, so I guess it's not exactly the same. A red one, with a really long stem. It's not real, but it looks like it! I brought it with me; my clothes are in the back. I got this really sexy dress from this mail order catalog--Desolate Angels, hear of it? It was pretty expensive, I worked all summer at Jazzy Burger to get it…Anyway, it's long, and has really big sleeves made out of this sheer stuff, and it's all open down the front....well, sort of to here." She indicated her waist. "And this head thing made out of metal; chain...chain--what do you call it? Oh yeah, chain mail. Why don't you come with me? You can meet everyone. I mean, you really didn't tell me where you were going. And you're dressed perfectly! Yeah! I know everyone would love to see you!"

Rudy had never heard of such nonsense. He guessed they all sat around in fanciful costumes pretending to be vampires and making up stories about themselves. Seemed like a waste of time. He definitely did not want to meet any more of her kind. He would ask her to let him off. He would even resort to bribery, offer her one of the many pins on his coat. Perhaps even his favorite, a glass eye with a red gem, like a blood teardrop, dangling from the corner; he would gladly sacrifice it in exchange for his freedom.

Forcing himself to turn and look at her, Rudy waited for an opportunity to make his desires known. But Carole was content with the one sided patter, obviously convinced she held him enthralled, not giving him the slightest edge into the conversation; though he was able to study his tormentor a bit closer. He had only caught the barest glimpse of her when he first climbed into the car, then did his best not to look in the ensuing hour they were together. A baby face caked with poorly applied make-up, (she was definitely underage) over bleached, over permed hair with a slight greenish tint--which could be a trick of the car's interior illumination, or intentional, or bad dye--half in tight spirals, the other half falling in dry, lifeless strings. She wore a short skirt made out of some shiny material, and a brief tank top. A crude bat was tattooed on her thigh; it was bluish and muddy, like a fresh bruise, so it could be just a fading ink drawing. While repulsed by her post adolescent breasts--he could tell through her thin shirt they were still mostly nipple, little meat--Rudy was fascinated by the emblem on her top. Another cross, this one with bones attached, and the words 'Christian Death’ done in an interesting script. (Whatever that meant, but the sentiment was pretty.)

Noticing Rudy's stare and thinking his intensity focused on her braless breasts, Carole stuck out her chest all the more. He returned her sly look with a startled one of his own, then returned his attention to the long stretch of highway and the incredibly dull scenery racing by. Now he really was uncomfortable; it hadn't occurred to him, until now, that she was actually interested in him in that manner. Carole--Rosa Delirious, whoever or whatever she wished to be--was as a child to him, a child of the REAL WORLD; despite all her aspirations, she was a REAL PERSON regardless of all her actions to the contrary.

Was this what Cat encountered? Everyday when she put on her false face and lifeless clothing to mingle amongst the masses? Rudy wondered what could possibly be out there that held such an attraction. And why? Why would she choose to leave their simple existence for the complicated terror of urban hysteria? They were comfortable; money, though not plentiful, was available when needed. If she wanted more, he could have started working nights at The Skin Canvas again. He would sacrifice his most productive hours at his drawing board if necessary; he could easily work on his art during the day and tattoo at night, he rather enjoyed etching his designs into flesh. But she never asked, she never said, she just decided to become an office slave, informing him after the fact. Her side of the closet, once overflowing with black and midnight blue satin skirts and velvet pants, tight black sweaters, and needle thin stiletto heels, open toed to show her black lacquered toe nails, now housed simple—‘tasteful’ she called them—suits of peach, gray, and powder blue with softly draping blouses of cream and white, and matching pumps with absurdly low, squat heels.

Rudy would have preferred she go back on the stroll in the Tenderloin district to this...this betrayal; not only betrayal of the basic tenets of their life together, but her derision of what she now--suddenly after all these years--considered his faults and he still thought of as assets. She had called him naive, out of touch; vile words he had never heard pass the lips he kissed. She had dared him, challenged him, confidence flashing in spiteful eyes that he could not possibly survive OUT THERE, in the REAL WORLD as she clearly had. At that, there was no more to say, Rudy packed a duffel and walked out. Leaving San Francisco on the first bus available, not caring where the destination, through Nevada to the Utah border where he continued on foot, and had been walking ever since. An erratic course with no conscious thought or purpose through Wyoming, a bit of South Dakota to Nebraska, then around and down Iowa, Missouri, and Arkansas to Oklahoma where, for the first time, he accepted a ride.

He wanted to go home. But the taste of Cat's anger and his own heated response was still too fresh; like vomit in the back of his throat.

It was hot in the car. The handle to the window was broken; no respite from the close interior, the fan circulating the stale air did little to cool. A few moments debating whether to ask Carole to lower her window; he decided not. Instead, Rudy carefully removed his coat, keeping his movements slow and simple so as to draw as little attention as possible to his presence. Not much chance in that, he was a particularly tasty specimen caught under a microscope, nothing slipped past her uncompromising scrutiny.

"Hey cool! I have that shirt too! You like the Sex Pistols? Sid Vicious rocks!"

He looked down at the cadaverous face with the droopy eye imprinted on his T-shirt. He knew that this was someone named Sid Vicious, and that he was dead, that is what the guy who traded him this shirt for the red silk he originally wore had told him. That was why he wanted it: His name was Vicious, he was dead, and Rudy liked his face, who he was and whatever he had done never factored into his desire to wear a dead man’s face.

He shifted uneasily. Leaning forward as if to casually tighten one of the many buckles layered down the sides of his boots, while really checking to see if his bag was still safe and within easy reach. He then straightened up, right hand resting loosely on the door handle. His initial impulse was soon quelled when he glanced out the side window and saw how quickly this rattling hunk of metal he was trapped in traveled over the cracked concrete. The speedometer was hovering between 70 & 75. He could almost feel the impact, the loose gravel by the roadside scraping off his face. Or, worse yet, what if he should fall underneath the devouring wheels? Avoiding her overtures was not worth losing skin and broken bones. And she would probably come back for him! Take him home and try to nurse him back to health! He would be her prisoner; hers and those gruesome friends she keeps talking about. She would give his clothes to her boyfriend, someone named Scab would be wearing his clothes; and he would be forced to play that 'Blood Song' game over and over and over................

Alternate plan: Ask her to stop the car. A simple request. One he was more than sure she would not do. Even if she did, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, the flat land offered no shelter, only fallow farmland and a spare scattering of scrub brush punctuated by the occasional heat blasted tree. Another disturbing scenario--him running through the stubbled fields, turquoise Buick in hot pursuit, the driver, in her mail order vamp outfit, firing words at him like a rapid-fire machine gun.