Yesterday, I received a phone call from an old friend of mine. This friend is a graduate student at another institution; he is a mild-mannered individual who is driven to succeed in every aspect of his life. At any rate, this phone call did not come as a surprise; however, the subject matter, on the other hand, was something that no one could have expected.

So, my friend, “Ken Shamrock,” called with a story to tell. This story, he claimed, was one that I would “thoroughly enjoy,” as well as something that even someone of his imagination could not make up. As a good friend does, I obliged to hear this momentous story — my anticipation rising with each passing second.

Without hesitation, Ken delved into his recollection of Monday evening. He told me about how him and a couple of friends from their grad program go out for a drink or two after class on Monday nights. This past Monday, however, was a little different. Ken mentioned a 30-year-old friend of his in the program, Jim, who enjoys the prospect of hooking up with a younger woman. As the 1-2 drinks snowballed into 4-5, Jim asked Ken if he would play “wingman” for him, as he approached two females on the opposite end of the bar. Ken agreed, and the two strategically made their way over to the ladies.

As Jim made conversation with his prey, Ken studied her friend. The girl was a nice looking 21-year old. Her features were decent, and they were complimented nicely with her choice of clothing: jeans, uggs, and a conservative-looking sweater. Nothing too fancy, really. As conversation grew deeper with Jim and his companion, Ken kept to his word — conversing with her friend, displaying an apparent genuine interest in this girl.

Now, by this time, 4-5 drinks have turned into drunk. Copiously drinking, Ken and this girl polished off a bottle of vodka and, conveniently, made their way back to her vacant apartment. As Ken recollects, she was undressing far too quickly to comprehend, and her mission was deliberate. Ken turned around and expeditiously followed suit. As he turned back around, Ken was greeted by an unfamiliar being. No, this was still the same girl he left the bar with, but, suddenly, the conservative-looking girl was replaced with what stood before him: a girl with 20 tattoos and 10 piercings. Ken was dumbfounded. “Have I been duped,” he thought.

Regardless of the apparent change in demeanor, Ken proceeded with the unspoken plans. Things were heating up — and fast, too. Both laying naked, she begins to nibble on Ken’s shoulder. Nibbling turned into biting. Pain ensued. Turning to his right to gander at his shoulder, Ken noticed pieces of his flesh removed; Ken noticed blood trickling down his shoulder. The bites were coupled with the lacerations on his back from her nails.

Ken was not part of a sexual endeavor, he was the prey of a tattooed vampire.

“My friends call me ‘The Vampire,’” she said to Ken. “If you can’t handle this, just wait until I get my whips and chains out for the next time you come over.”

The two continued in their quest for mutual satisfaction. Ken endured the pain delivered by this girl for a good chunk of the evening. Finally, though, Ken decided that he had enough of this torment. It was his turn to retaliate. So, then, Ken pulled her hair and gave her a nice choking. Surely, she would understand the message. These acts of retribution, however, went astray. With each pull or choke, this female became more and more intensely physical — she thrived off of the torment; she enjoyed the inflicted pain.

…

Ken woke up and left the premises of his Monday night commitment. “Taking one for the team” now has a new meaning for Ken. He lived the fantasy of some, the nightmare of others.

“See you Monday night, Ken,” she said as Ken departed. Will he return to the bar next Monday with a new gameplan? Gauze? Brass knuckles? Who knows.

This is for certain, though: Ken tangoed with the tattooed vampire for one evening, and lived to speak of his venture. As for her next victim, we might not be able to offer such luck.