Game of Death Read Free

says. It’s not surprising. One of the things that she likes about the job is that it lets her conform to a
vampire’s schedule. It’s the way she’s been since she was fourteen and dropped out of school. She didn’t need school anymore; she’d figured out how to hack the
Charlestown municipal computer system and graduated with a B+ average without ever attending class. She could have made herself an A+ student, but she didn’t want to set off red flags, and
she never had any inclination toward higher education anyway, so why bother?
    ‘Diner?’
    ‘Diner,’ she agrees.
    ‘I’ll get my coat.’
    The Diner is our weigh-station; a stopover between work and the real world. When you spend your professional life hip-deep in the fantasies and fictions of other people’s
minds, it’s helpful to have a buffer before jumping back into the physical realm. It gives you a chance to reframe things; pause and acknowledge the differences between what’s real and
what’s not.
    The place has a Sixties feel about it, but that’s mainly because it’s really old. They weren’t trying for a ‘feel’ when they originally decorated; the stuff was
contemporary back then. The throwback decor reinforces the sense that the place straddles the line between reality and dream. If James Dean and Marilyn Monroe were sitting in the booth behind us,
it would complete the scene.
    Yvette is sitting across from me behind two huge plates. One has a stack of pancakes so tall it looks like a television-commercial prop, with bacon, eggs and toast on the side. The other has a
burger with onions, pickles and jalapeños and a bucketful of fries. It’s hard to believe that all that food could possibly fit into her thin frame. Then again, my guess is that this is
the first time in a couple of days she’s bothered to eat anything of substance. That’s the way she operates. Binge and starve. Not just with food: work, men, booze, et cetera. I have to
hand it to her, when she turns her attention to something, she gives it all she’s got.
    She’s leaning over her food, attacking it. In defense against the late June heatwave, she’s wearing a pink tank-top with the words ‘Man’s Best Friends’ plastered
across the front. It’s a loose top, and it hangs down as she leans over, exposing her cleavage and the black bra she’s wearing. My eyes are drawn with unintentional lechery. I
don’t realize I’m staring, mainly because I’m not seeing Yvette at all; I’m back in the white room.
    ‘See anything you like?’ she asks without looking up.
    ‘What?’ My tone is defensive.
    She looks at me. ‘What’s the big deal, Slick? You’ve seen ’em before.’
    I laugh. ‘When we were fourteen.’
    ‘I was an early bloomer; they haven’t gotten any bigger.’ She leans and glances over at me. ‘I hope, for your sake, the same isn’t true on your side of the
table.’
    ‘Nice.’
    ‘Just sayin’.’
    ‘You get anything interesting tonight?’
    She shakes her head. ‘It was God-awful. I spent about an hour with this middle-aged woman who’s managed to find an old high-school boyfriend. They meet in the same shared LifeScene
over and over and over. They stand there in this Eighties disco – not a very nice one, either – and trade stories about their kids and tell each other how unhappy they are in their
marriages. They won’t touch each other, though. Not even In-World. I’m like:
Jesus Christ, get it over with!’
    ‘Maybe they don’t want to.’
    ‘Oh, they want to. Her heartrate peaks at around one-fifty, and I can see the look he’s got in his eyes. For whatever reason, though, they can’t seem to get past it all.
Don’t they realize it’s not real? I mean, it’s not actually cheating.’
    ‘Isn’t it?’
    ‘Don’t get all philosophical on me – it’s a fantasy.’ She pauses long enough to fit half her burger in her mouth. ‘It’s harmless,’ she muffles
through the food.
    I take a sip of my