Today, I interview Faolan O’Connor.
CM: Welcome to Sexy Cedric, Faolan. I do hope you’ll share a few spicy tidbits, my darling. It’s always a pleasure to interview one of
the blood.
FO: Sure, whatever you say, creampuff. Mind if I smoke? (lights
up a cigarette)
CM: Of course I don't mind, if you share. I'm simply dying for a fag myself. To start us off,
why don’t you share some of your history? You must have a lot of interesting
stories to tell. How did you end up a vampire?
FO: Yeah, I got a lot a’ history. Let’s see, uh, I got Created
by this piece a’ shit name of Darcy Killian. He was the guy runnin’ things at
the time, so I talked him into makin’ me a vamp. It was either that or get
killed, really, but I ain’t gonna try and say that I didn’t go into this whole
business with my eyes open. Soon as I found out vamps were real and had the run
of the fuckin’ place, that was it—I wanted in. The particulars ain’t so
glamorous. He drank me and gave me a bunch of his blood and then I spent a week
pukin’ and shittin’ my guts out and tryin’ not to scream from the fever and
pain. We ain’t no fancy-pants magical bullshit vampires like you see in the
movies, ya see. Our whole body gets transformed at the root and it ain’t no
fuckin’ picnic, lemme tell ya!
CM: Do you keep company with others or are you more of a lone
wolf?
FO: That’s funny you ask that; d’ya know my name means “wolf”?
They used to call me that sometimes, back in the old days: “Wolf” O’Connor.
But, yeah, I got loads of other vamps around me. We have to, since we got a
whole city to run. I got a whole big organization under me—bigger than most,
since New York
can support so many vamps. I get along pretty well with most of ‘em, I guess,
though there’s plenty of ‘em that’d gladly rip my head off to take my place.
CM: Well, my adept name, Shardul, means tiger. So don't think this pretty lad here is a pushover. Can you share a little about your vampire culture?
FO: Well, it ain’t really all that different from the rackets,
‘cept maybe a little more organized. But they don’t call it The Order for
nuttin’, ya dig? It’s all about control and keeping us hidden. We’re like the
ultimate secret society or, uh, whadda ya call it, Illumination? Illuminati,
that’s it! Sounds Italian, don’t ya think? Anyway, we got ranks and traditions
and rules out the ass…old world fuckin’ vamps sitting at the top while the rest
of us do all the real work, just like any other business. That’s really what
it’s about is money and power, which are usually the same thing, but not
always.
CM: I know what you mean. What would you say is your driving force?
FO: Me? Ambition. But not necessarily in a bad way, you
understand? I wanna try and do right by the regular Joes of New York. I feel
like, with all the power that we vampires got, that there’s no reason we can’t
do a little to make things better for average folks, you know? So long as it
don’t hurt us, what’s wrong with giving something back?
CM: I’m a rebel myself.
What sets you apart from the run of the mill vamp?
FO: I dunno. I suppose I’m a rebel too, in my way. I always been
part of some kind of organization, though, so I’m comfortable there. I know the
system ain’t never been perfect, but I like to think that I can change that
with enough time. There’s lots that’s different about me than the guys around
me, but we got a lot in common, too, so … I dunno. I guess I figure my
intentions are better than most, at least among the vamps I know.
CM: Any lovers? Don’t
spare any juicy details.
FO: Don’t get any funny ideas, there, Percy. Just ‘cause a guy
dresses sharp don’t mean he’s into that fairy shit … Anyways, sure. There’s
been some dames in my life, but I ain’t the kind to kiss and tell, ya know?
CM: I never bite unless invited, darling. And I've had more than a few "dames" in my life as well. I'm what you might call an equal opportunity sort of bloke. When will your story be released?
FO: No fuckin’ clue. I been talking to this author guy and
telling him about my life and he says the first book should be coming out soon,
but it’s getting spiffed up. That one’s about my early days in The Order, I
think, back with Killian and the World’s Fair.
CM: Well, Faolon, you have quite a story to tell. Thanks for being my guest today! I had a brilliant time getting to know you.
Anything else you’d like to share?
Excerpt:
He pulled back the hammer on his
revolver as they entered the back room.
Ugly green walls, dingy carpets, chipped booths, and scratched tables:
this little shit-hole in the wall was the best Dutch could do for a temporary
headquarters? Schultz was a cheapskate to the bitter fucking end.
Faolan slides into his killing
groove and time seems to slow.
His crystal blue eyes scan the
room, empty except for the three men at the far corner table. Before they so much as blink, Bug’s
shotgun speaks, blowing a hole in the side of fat old Abadabba Berman and
setting Faolan’s sensitive ears to ringing.
Plug
the accountant first. Nice
thinking, shithead!
Lulu Rosencrantz—a gorilla wearing a
tin Deputy Sheriff badge that allows him to carry—draws his heater as he rises. Faolan fires.
To his grooving eyes, it’s as if
Lulu’s shirt blossoms with a carnation made of blood. He fires again as Abadabba settles onto the table-top,
moaning.
Another carnation forms on Lulu’s
chest.
Bug pumps his shotgun, ejecting the
empty shell.
Faolan shifts his barrel an inch
and takes aim at—
Tall, skinny, and bald: Abe Landau,
another hitter. Where’s Schultz? Where
the fuck’s the Dutchman?
Faolan fires anyway, punching a
shot through the upper shoulder of Landau’s business arm as the hitter reaches
for his piece.
Ignoring the cramp building in his
shooting arm, Faolan fires again. He
watches the bullet pass through Landau’s arm and hit Lulu in the right wrist as
the gorilla clears his Colt from his shoulder rig.
Ignoring his shattered wrist, Lulu
tips the table forward for some cover—spilling poor Abadabba onto the floor—as
he and Landau both take aim.
Bug’s shotgun roars a second time,
buckshot splashing across the tabletop, Lulu’s chest, and Abadabba’s back.
Forcing himself to remain steady
despite the shiver traveling up from his toes, Faolan fires again.
This shot hits Lulu’s right elbow,
ruining the arm but doing nothing to prevent the lefty from shooting back at
them.
The first shot goes wild as Bug
ejects his spent round and Faolan lines up his last shot between Lulu’s eyes.
Landau’s first shot is better,
catching Faolan in the shoulder—
There’s no pain, but the bullet’s
impact throws his aim and wastes his last round. Beside him, Bug turns tail and runs. Faolan drops the empty revolver and reaches in his pocket
for—
The Colt…Laying right near the bathroom!
Dutch is known to carry a Colt like
this one stuffed into his waistband. If
he were on his way out and needed to use the john, he might set the gun down
first.
Yanking out the .45, Faolan ducks
back into the corridor as bullets smash into the paneling around him. As he gets to the bar side, he sees Bug
behind the bar trying to open the register.
Schmuck.
Even though the entire exchange of
gunfire only took half a minute at most, Schultz must be on the alert. Readying the Colt, Faolan pushes open
the men’s room door.
His quarry, one Arthur Flegenheimer,
who is better known as Dutch Schultz, does indeed wear his white fedora and
gray topcoat as if preparing to go out.
A stall door is still swinging closed and he’s in the act of rushing
toward the door when Faolan enters. He
skids to an awkward stop, looking a bit unsteady on his feet.
They lock eyes for just a second.
Stocky and below average height, Dutch
has the looks of a bank clerk and the social grace of a racetrack bookie. He’s worth millions but wears two
dollar shirts and off-the-rack suits. Tonight,
he reeks of beer and his fly is still open.
Dutch Schultz is a man who will never have class.
A loud ding! announces Bug’s success in opening the register.
Dutch turns away.
Faolan’s finger tightens on the
trigger.
A bullet slams into the door just
behind his head—his shot goes low, ripping into Dutch’s abdomen rather than his
heart.
Clenching his teeth against the
pain, Faolan sees Landau and Lulu stagger into view like a pair of monsters
from a nightmare.
Bug scurries around the bar,
stuffing a handful of cash into his coat pocket, and runs flat out for the door. Faolan turns back to Dutch. One shot just isn’t enough.
Another bullet strikes the floor by
his right foot just as he fires—
The shot goes wide, hitting the
tiles of the back wall as Dutch stumbles back into the urinal and drops to the
floor. Goddamn Colts!
Landau and Lulu stumble into the
corridor, raising their guns.
Fuck! Faolan runs for the door. Bug, however, makes the mistake of
glancing back as he reaches the end of the bar and puts a foot wrong—
The stocky gunman flies forward,
ass over tea-kettle, and kisses linoleum near the phone booth in the corner. His shotgun skids to the front door.
Up ahead, the cigarette machine
takes a few rounds, but Faolan waits until he makes it to the front door to
risk a glance.
The wound on Landau’s shoulder is worse
than Faolan thought: the bullet severed an artery and jets of blood pulse out
in a heartbeat rhythm while the thin man continues to stagger toward him. The sight is morbidly engrossing.
Behind Landau limps the bloody
monstrosity that is Lulu Rosencrantz, also fighting to lift his gun and fire.
Grabbing the shotgun, Faolan gets
the door open and rushes out. He
dives into the cover of the idling Packard and throws the shotgun down behind
the passenger seat.
“Step on it, they’re coming!”
Weiss hits the gas and the Packard
speeds off. Faolan looks out the
back window and sees Landau stumble out onto the sidewalk after them, still
firing. One step: blood still
squirting from his neck. Two
steps…Landau collapses into a set of trash cans against the wall of the Chophouse.
The groove ends.
Faolan’s senses snapped back to
normal. His heartbeat began to
slow.
“Shit!” Weiss cried. “We left
Workman!”
Faolan saw The Bug run into the
street at that very moment, chasing their dust.
Still wasn’t too late to stop and pick him up.
“Nah,” Faolan told Weiss, reaching
into his jacket for his Camels. “He went out through the kitchen.”
Let the little fucker walk home.
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