Willard
IN BALTIMORE one block east of the Jones Falls Expressway is a small brick building rented to a Willard Scott Jenkins. Willard and his three wives live in the apartments on the second floor. The first floor is occupied by the Griffin Plasma Donation Centre. Willard is a twenty first century urban vampire and the Griffin Plasma Donation Center is the best idea he’s had in five hundred years.
Willard is sitting on the rooftop deck with his favorite wife Sabrina. It’s a warm evening, Willard is content. His skid row blood bank is doing just fine. Some of his more frequent regulars are showing signs of anemia but overall business is good. Sabrina is looking cool and lovely in a white flowing gown trimmed in black lace. They’re sharing a bag of fresh plasma.
“Nice bouquet,” say Willard.
Sabrina sniffs her glass, “It’s a Jack Oliver, recent vintage, came in yesterday I believe. You know, that panhandler over on Gay street.”
Willard makes a face and looks in his glass.
“This stuff has a bit of a bite. Ahh Jack, you’ve been eating that Dollar Store canned chili again.”
Willard looks to the sky and observes the twinkling motion of a satellite skipping a hundred miles above the clouds in a low earth orbit.
“I wonder if there are more of us… out there,” he says.
Sabrina stubs her Newport 100 into a rat skull ashtray, “In a universe of infinite size and possibilities, why not? We’re not that special, just another branch on the tree.”