to do his dirty work? That man doesn’t know how to perform the simplest actions without his minions.”
“He’d be very grateful if you’d attend his presentation,” I said. “He’s proud of the work he does, and I think it’s interesting.”
“Oh, I’ll go and see him, although I think it might rattle the poor man.” She giggled. “It’s funny when a great pharaoh stammers too much to complete a sentence. If nothing else, I’ll be there to correct any misperceptions he gives the audience. As a pharaoh, Ramen never knew how real Egyptians lived. He had his brain removed with a silver spoon up his nose.”
She drew a deep breath and heaved a long, dusty sigh. “Oh, it’ll be good to see him again.” She took the invitation and tucked it into her bodice, where I knew for certain that it would be safe.
It was a night for celebration on many levels, and Robin, Sheyenne, McGoo, and I got together for a drink and a laugh. Yes, we had promised to see Tiffany’s routine at the comedy club, but this was no mere duty dance. I was actually pleased to be at the Laughing Skull.
Tiffany made sure we had seats at one of the front tables near the stage. While there was no ticket charge for the open-mic night, the Laughing Skull did institute a two-drink minimum for all clientele, natural or unnatural. Since Sheyenne could nurse a drink but not actually enjoy it, McGoo and I manfully helped to meet her beverage obligations as well as our own.
Bill was already seated at the table, the big clay guy facing the still-empty stage with a broad grin on his face. He had been moistened and smoothed over for the evening, and he looked freshly molded. He did not wear his security watchman uniform; rather, he had donned a bright Hawaiian shirt.
“Are you done with your job at the storage complex?” I asked.
“No, got the night off. I wouldn’t miss this!”
The emcee welcomed us all; it was the same wizard who had acted as auctioneer for the Timeworn Treasures liquidation sale. The cocktail waitress brought our drinks, and we all sat back, ready to laugh as Tiffany stepped onto the stage. She was a solid woman, dressed in a too-tight pantsuit, possibly for humorous effect, or possibly because that was what she had in her closet. Tiffany wore very little makeup, didn’t smile, and seemed all business—the last sort of person you would expect behind a microphone in a comedy club. We gave her a round of supportive applause.
On a stool near the microphone stand, she had a plastic bottle of water and a curved cocktail glass filled with what looked like a Bloody Mary but wasn’t. Tiffany began rattling off her jokes and, oddly enough, she was hilarious.
“So, I just came back from dinner. Went to an all-you-can-eat restaurant.” She smiled enough to show her fangs. “I had two waiters and a busboy.”
McGoo laughed out loud, deep rumbling chuckles from his belly. “I’ll have to remember that one. That sounds like a joke I would tell.”
“I went into a bar with two of my vampire friends,” Tiffany continued. “The bartender asked what we wanted to drink. My friends both ordered glasses of blood, but I just ordered a shot of plasma. So the bartender said, Let me get this straight . . . that’s two bloods and a blood lite?”
She was on a roll, and the crowd was already loosened up. “Somebody asked me, How do you fit forty vampires into a Volkswagen Beetle?” Tiffany looked around the audience, saw us, and continued, “Easy, I said. Gather forty vampires out in the parking lot, wait until the sun comes up, and then put them all in the ashtray.”
Tiffany finished her set with most of the audience in stitches—or in unraveled stitches. Bill shot to his feet, slamming his clay hands together with loud thunderclaps. She bowed to another round of applause.
Although McGoo had laughed throughout, now he looked perplexed. “I don’t get it, Shamble. What am I doing wrong? When I tell the same kind of jokes, you never laugh. Well, sometimes, but only because we made a deal. What’s the difference?”
“You know how it is, McGoo,” I said. “She’s a vampire. She’s allowed to tell jokes like that.”
I finally made an appointment to see the Wannovich sisters and their vampire ghostwriter at the Transfusion coffee shop to tell them everything they needed to know. I was no stranger to interviews: