The Stakeout - Revamped

He was hungry. Starving, really. He hadn't eaten in an entire week. It'd taken him two days of investigation to discover the one behind the disappearances, three days of straight travel to get to the dingy studio with its blacked-out windows, and he'd been sitting in the small office, waiting, for two days; but Bean never ate til a job was finished.

Call it motivation.

The scrape of his permanent scruff scratched against the back of the velvet seat he reclined against was plenty comfortable as his head lolled, but he had no need to sleep. Not when twenty-seven were gone, according the Lenticular over his left eye – a gift from The Techies in recognition for his services to The Living. It kept him informed of various cases – missing persons, usually, and off Bean would go. He'd always had a strong moral code – he thought. Not sure anymore, really.

Fingering the weapon in the pocket of his frayed coat, he wished the punk he'd tracked to this studio would arrive. He was so hungry the ache of it hollowed his throat with a groan.  

Sometime after nightfall, the door creaked open and the mohawk-haired vamp in a dirt-crusted jacket entered the office, ruddy and bloated from whomever his dinner had been. "Hey, man! You can't be in here!"

"Bean Artier, PI,” Bean rasped. “Lotta girls been missing after answering your flyers. Pretty ones."

"I run a modeling agency, man. Maybe they all got discovered. So happy they ran off without calling mommy and daddy." Punk  gave him a pointy smile. The Lenticular was scrolling Punk's details – only 4 months turned. Fresh, full of blood; no wonder he was so cocky, eager to fight.

They always fought.

"We both know that's not true" Bean scoffed as the fight began. Punk started by ripping Bean's arm off (why did they always go for the arm?) as he lurched out of the chair. They were never long fights - for all that Bean didn't move very fast most of the time, when he was hungry he could be swift and deadly.

Using the energy he'd stored, Bean cracked the vamp across the head, his one remaining limb grasping his weapon's trigger. The stake ripped a hole in his no-longer-newish coat pocket, and the blood sprayed across the office. Drip, drip, drip down the pinewood desk.

It was always the same – a quick and messy confrontation with a self-important vamp who slaughtered The Living for fun and food. He couldn't bring back the girls, no, but Bean enacted his own justice.

Picking up his arm and slotting it back into place, he ignored the squelch of his own graying flesh. The Lenticular registered Punk's permanent death and reset itself. Bean pulled out a fork. Finally; finally he could feast.

Later, Bean shuffled down the street to the next case, well-fed. Vamp brains always were the most flavorful.

And he was always hungry.