Vampire Preys for Death
Immortality comes back to bite a despondent blood drinker
By our woman who is no stranger to a midnight snack, Jennifer Gardner
|138-year-old David Hollowell once savoured the idea of living forever but now he prays for death—or possibly undeath|
|Born in the French Quarter of New Orleans in 1867,
Hollowell grew up in America’s flourishing southern city known for
its music, food, extravagant night life and inadequate levees. Hollowell
drew his last mortal breath at the tender age of 33 in the city’s
most famous cemetery, the Saint Louis, when he was bitten by the vampire
bug—in his case, a very attractive
hooker— who sank her fangs into his neck while he was indulging
his passion for brass rubbing.
For over a century he never regretted his choice to exchange mortality
for an eternity of pallid skin and blood breath, but recently his situation
has turned grave. This year, he granted utterpants
an interview to die for.
Once his daytime sleeping arrangements were made, Hollowell had to adjust to his new plasma diet. “The first taste is always the best,” he explained as he casually flipped his cape off his left shoulder. “It was love at first bite. When I lost my vampire virginity, I drank way too much. I was intoxicated with the thrill of it. The blood just rolled down my throat like the Nectar of the Gods. I felt like a baby at a titty bar. I just couldn’t stop. The next night I woke up with such a hangover I didn’t crawl out of my coffin for a week. My undead friends still tease me about it, even though the story is so last century.”
Life for the undead Hollowell soon improved as he grew accustomed to
the nocturnal routine of vampirism. He recalls that as the years flew
by, New Orleans grew into a bustling city of culture, tourism, music,
sex—and blood. “The city was literally bubbling with
life,” he reminisced as the hint of a small tear ran down his
pallid cheek. “Especially during Mardi Gras. I can’t tell
you how many breasts I saw on any given night. I gave the ladies more
than cheap plastic beads for a flash of flesh,” he added with
a wry smile. “It was a splendid time, if you could stand the crowds
and open-air urination—” he paused to sniff the air suspiciously.
“Have you been eating garlic sausage?" he asked.
“Yes...well, I was the top recruiter for my coven three years
in a row you know.” He looked down at his Dolce and Gabbana black
velvet cape. “I won this in 1992, because I recruited 348 new
vampires that year. Oh sure,” he added with a dismissive shrug,
“Anne Rice and her alcoholic ramblings helped. But I did all the
"So what changed you?" I asked.
“By the government, you mean?” I asked.
It was then that I noticed the sharp, wooden stake lying on the windowsill. It was suddenly clear to me why Hollowell had granted this interview. Still weeping, he was oblivious to the stake I held high over his trembling body. But as I attempted to drive it into his chest, the Sangria made it's presence felt, my legs turned to jelly and I missed his heart completely, succeeding only in leaving a nasty-looking splinter in the vampire‘s left shoulder.
“Oh, thanks for trying,” he said as he gingerly picked
the wooden shards out of his pale skin. “You’re far too
drunk to drive home."
Story © 2005 Jennifer Gardner. Design and construction © 2005 utterpants.co.uk / 281005