Fic: What Happens Next (R)
Title: What Happens Next
Word Count: 1,000 (10x100)
Rating: R (language and insinuations of violence)
Summary: Like it says on the tin. Snapshots of what happens to Peter Vincent after the credits roll.
The first few days, he thinks he’s going to be okay. Better than okay. Shitting fantastic.
Because he survived. He descended into the lair of the beast and came out alive. He felt the sunlight start to sizzle on his skin, was prepared to lie there and burn away and die rather than become a vampire... and when the vampirism was sucked out of him it felt almost like an orgasm: more powerful, more painful, but when the rush of release was over he knew he’d never ever felt more alive.
He is Peter Vincent and he is fucking invincible.
---
It’s a better high than anything, being alive. He walks into a club and orders champagne for everyone. Never done that before. Expensive as fuck, but it’s worth it this one time. With two mil coming in every year, his bank account can take the hit.
The show is canceled for a week, and for most of that time it doesn’t occur to him to think of why. He doesn’t go to Ginger’s memorial service. All the way in Arizona, with her family. That, and he literally forgets.
Twenty-plus years of practice, after all. He’s gotten very good at denial.
---
His manager calls to discuss Ginger’s replacement. That’s when he loses it.
“She’s not a week in the fucking ground.” He paces the penthouse, cigarette dangling from his shaking hand, his voice more choked than he’d like to admit. “I’m not gonna see somebody else up there. I won’t.”
The voice on the other end is sympathetic, calm, insistent. As always. “Peter, you can grieve. I can get you time for that. But only so much. Remember, you’ve got a contract.”
“Man, fuck the fucking contract.” The thump the phone makes when it hits the couch is not satisfying enough.
---
The night that follows is among the worst of Peter’s life. At least he could brag about some of the things that happened in Jerry’s basement. At least something good came of it. But there’s nothing good about tonight and nothing about it he’d want to admit to anyone.
It starts with the pacing. Continues with a cigarette, a glass of Midori, another glass, the bottle. It ends with him curled up on the bed hugging a soaked pillow and repeating “I love you, baby” over and over.
There’s only one other time in his life he cried this hard.
---
His manager convinces him to keep the show going, at least for a while. October is coming up. Halloween season. Big time for spook fans.
It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The ‘vampires’ in the show are cheap, shmaltzy, just plain fake: they don’t feed his nightmares. Ginger’s replacement is just another girl. He doesn’t try to sleep with her. Avoids her as much as possible. Keeps it professional when they interact.
Months roll on and Peter hardly notices, but the more time goes on the more he realizes how stupid the whole thing is.
---
He does have nightmares. Just as disturbing as the ones he had as a boy, although now his subconscious has a whole new set of images to play with. The dark basement, the walls of dirt, a drop of blood, fingers breaking through soil, Jerry’s arrogant laughing voice.
“You have your mother’s eyes.”
A couple of times he wakes up thinking he can still taste the blood on his lips, terrified he’s going to turn. He throws aside the bedsheets, rushes to the full-length mirror and turns on the light, watches until he’s satisfied that he isn’t going to disappear.
---
He wants to go back to his roots. Street magic. Simple illusions. No more of this flash-paper, flying rig, smoke-and-mirrors Vegas bullshit.
It’s been a while. He has to re-learn the basics. Has to start practicing with cards again, polishing his sleight of hand, coming up with patter, sewing gimmicks into his clothes. It’s frustrating as fuck and makes him feel like an amateur every time he screws up - more than once he considers dropping the project altogether. But he keeps coming back to it. It makes him feel like he’s doing at least one thing that has meaning.
---
He pays the kid a visit in July, just before his contract’s up. Nearly forgot to. Nearly missed him. Charley’s in college now, visiting home for the summer, will be heading back out in August.
The mom brings him a beer. She’s nice. A legitimate Cool Mom. The kid’s lucky.
Charley and Amy are still together, sort of. At least they’re not seeing anyone else, even though they’re at different schools. He doesn’t have a major yet, he says, but he’s narrowing it down.
“Too bad you can’t do a degree in vampire slaying,” Peter says.
Charley laughs awkwardly. “Yeah.”
---
The show’s last few months are a whirlwind of publicity, the producers’ attempt to squeeze every last drop of money out of it that they can. Then it’s done. The billboards get taken down, the radio and television spots grind to a halt, the sets are carted away. The stage gets a half-baked diva songstress to prance around on it for the foreseeable future. Things change fast in Vegas: a week later you wouldn’t know Peter Vincent had been there at all.
Peter sits in his penthouse, practicing cards until he’s too drunk to keep from dropping them. Good riddance.
---
Peter relocates to Los Angeles and gets to the street magic. He tries a reality show, a depiction of his life and work. It gets a shitty time slot on a third-rate channel. After two struggling seasons, it’s canceled.
But then the e-mails and letters start coming in. Apparently word from the show got around. People saw that he really took the vampire shit seriously. Some of them say they’re in trouble. They want his help. His advice.
Peter stays awake at night wondering whether to answer them. Wondering what he fuck he’ll be getting himself into, if he does.
Word Count: 1,000 (10x100)
Rating: R (language and insinuations of violence)
Summary: Like it says on the tin. Snapshots of what happens to Peter Vincent after the credits roll.
The first few days, he thinks he’s going to be okay. Better than okay. Shitting fantastic.
Because he survived. He descended into the lair of the beast and came out alive. He felt the sunlight start to sizzle on his skin, was prepared to lie there and burn away and die rather than become a vampire... and when the vampirism was sucked out of him it felt almost like an orgasm: more powerful, more painful, but when the rush of release was over he knew he’d never ever felt more alive.
He is Peter Vincent and he is fucking invincible.
---
It’s a better high than anything, being alive. He walks into a club and orders champagne for everyone. Never done that before. Expensive as fuck, but it’s worth it this one time. With two mil coming in every year, his bank account can take the hit.
The show is canceled for a week, and for most of that time it doesn’t occur to him to think of why. He doesn’t go to Ginger’s memorial service. All the way in Arizona, with her family. That, and he literally forgets.
Twenty-plus years of practice, after all. He’s gotten very good at denial.
---
His manager calls to discuss Ginger’s replacement. That’s when he loses it.
“She’s not a week in the fucking ground.” He paces the penthouse, cigarette dangling from his shaking hand, his voice more choked than he’d like to admit. “I’m not gonna see somebody else up there. I won’t.”
The voice on the other end is sympathetic, calm, insistent. As always. “Peter, you can grieve. I can get you time for that. But only so much. Remember, you’ve got a contract.”
“Man, fuck the fucking contract.” The thump the phone makes when it hits the couch is not satisfying enough.
---
The night that follows is among the worst of Peter’s life. At least he could brag about some of the things that happened in Jerry’s basement. At least something good came of it. But there’s nothing good about tonight and nothing about it he’d want to admit to anyone.
It starts with the pacing. Continues with a cigarette, a glass of Midori, another glass, the bottle. It ends with him curled up on the bed hugging a soaked pillow and repeating “I love you, baby” over and over.
There’s only one other time in his life he cried this hard.
---
His manager convinces him to keep the show going, at least for a while. October is coming up. Halloween season. Big time for spook fans.
It doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The ‘vampires’ in the show are cheap, shmaltzy, just plain fake: they don’t feed his nightmares. Ginger’s replacement is just another girl. He doesn’t try to sleep with her. Avoids her as much as possible. Keeps it professional when they interact.
Months roll on and Peter hardly notices, but the more time goes on the more he realizes how stupid the whole thing is.
---
He does have nightmares. Just as disturbing as the ones he had as a boy, although now his subconscious has a whole new set of images to play with. The dark basement, the walls of dirt, a drop of blood, fingers breaking through soil, Jerry’s arrogant laughing voice.
“You have your mother’s eyes.”
A couple of times he wakes up thinking he can still taste the blood on his lips, terrified he’s going to turn. He throws aside the bedsheets, rushes to the full-length mirror and turns on the light, watches until he’s satisfied that he isn’t going to disappear.
---
He wants to go back to his roots. Street magic. Simple illusions. No more of this flash-paper, flying rig, smoke-and-mirrors Vegas bullshit.
It’s been a while. He has to re-learn the basics. Has to start practicing with cards again, polishing his sleight of hand, coming up with patter, sewing gimmicks into his clothes. It’s frustrating as fuck and makes him feel like an amateur every time he screws up - more than once he considers dropping the project altogether. But he keeps coming back to it. It makes him feel like he’s doing at least one thing that has meaning.
---
He pays the kid a visit in July, just before his contract’s up. Nearly forgot to. Nearly missed him. Charley’s in college now, visiting home for the summer, will be heading back out in August.
The mom brings him a beer. She’s nice. A legitimate Cool Mom. The kid’s lucky.
Charley and Amy are still together, sort of. At least they’re not seeing anyone else, even though they’re at different schools. He doesn’t have a major yet, he says, but he’s narrowing it down.
“Too bad you can’t do a degree in vampire slaying,” Peter says.
Charley laughs awkwardly. “Yeah.”
---
The show’s last few months are a whirlwind of publicity, the producers’ attempt to squeeze every last drop of money out of it that they can. Then it’s done. The billboards get taken down, the radio and television spots grind to a halt, the sets are carted away. The stage gets a half-baked diva songstress to prance around on it for the foreseeable future. Things change fast in Vegas: a week later you wouldn’t know Peter Vincent had been there at all.
Peter sits in his penthouse, practicing cards until he’s too drunk to keep from dropping them. Good riddance.
---
Peter relocates to Los Angeles and gets to the street magic. He tries a reality show, a depiction of his life and work. It gets a shitty time slot on a third-rate channel. After two struggling seasons, it’s canceled.
But then the e-mails and letters start coming in. Apparently word from the show got around. People saw that he really took the vampire shit seriously. Some of them say they’re in trouble. They want his help. His advice.
Peter stays awake at night wondering whether to answer them. Wondering what he fuck he’ll be getting himself into, if he does.