When I was a boy, oh those are days long past—but when I was a boy the streets smelled of sewage and the people smelled of poverty.

Which, incidentally, looking back, also smelled of sewerage.

Still, it has a wistfulness, I suppose it's own charm. Life was fairly easy, even to the poor because you knew what to expect.

You had a role. You were born in it. And you would die in it. Frightening in prospect, when pondered on sincerely, but at the very least, the predicability held comfort.

Not much has changed in 200 years. It's not the 1600's anymore, fashions have changed, countries names and boundaries have changed.

And yet, knowing what to expect has not. Not as much as they claim. If you are born noble, you are likely to die that way.

If you are born working class, you are likely to share that fate to the grave.

All this to say, with the rise of capitalism has come a chilling introduction of surprise. One may be born poor and perhaps die a rich man.

I'll believe it when I see it, but at the least, it's an intriguing prospect. Something from nothing is so rare a find, after all.

I stare up at the sky. It's often found in stories I like to read that creatures like me cannot stand the sun.

I find it beautiful. I don't whither or die in it, but my stomach does tie itself in knots under increased exposure.

An unpleasant sensation. I'm indulging in the book my cupcake has given me. It's not as sad as I'd suspected.

My own tale, I imagine would kill her, if this silences her for a week. Still, with nothing to do, I continue.

The story lulls, near the middle, trying to find its place. I put it down, lifting my eyes to the window.

The city has been and will most likely always be a filthy place. Rats run along the drain lines, carriages in the road. People walk, seemingly oblivious to the condition of their lives.

My fangs ache. But I enjoy most, drinking of pretty people, and none of these humans suit my taste. Of course, there is her.

I could visit the shop, but twice in one day is overboard. I could leave, go to another country, find another muse.

I don't. I've grown bored. It's tiresome, and I feel myself rotting away. Something must change. I open the window, the chatter of the people on streets filling my room.

I inhale. And it feels as if something will.

• • •

Late at night, is when people of all sorts of injurious nature come out.

So, naturally, it's where I belong. I stand in front of my brothel. I frequent it at times.

Some of my kind pray on women of night finding them easy targets. I grow bored of easy targets.

The fun of the hunt is no fun if the population is already vulnerable. Still, they are almost always interesting humans.

And...when you want professional work, you go to a professional.

"Alastair!"

I turn around finding the Madam of the institution. She's a fine woman. Not upstanding in any way, which is why I find her so amusing.

"Meriah," I grin. She makes a pretense of hugging me, patting me down.

"Have you come for business or something more sinister," she pulls back, flipping a coin she's lifted off me with a grin.

"I'm always up for something sinister," I say, snatching the coin out of the air. "But alas, I fear my purpose is a bit more tame."

"Just came to get fucking huh? How disappointing," she rolls her eyes good naturedly.

Meriah finds sexual desires disgusting, which, is understandable given her line of work. I, too would feel disgusted at bread, if I baked bread all day long.

I follow her as she walks pasts the lounge. It's filled with women and men, conversing in hushed tones. Conversation is foreplay, and these women excel in their art.

"You've done every girl I got. Every guy too,"

"Yes I know I'm promiscuous."

"Promiscuous?" She chuckles deeply turning around taking a drag of her cigarette stick. "Darling, promiscuous is having a few fucks a week. You're a regular harlot. I should employ you."

I briefly consider it.

"I will forgive you outright calling me whore, and instead counter your insult with kindness."

"Tuh," she waved her hand. "Out with it."

I lick my lips. "Do you happen to have...a special human for me."

She pauses. "It's not easy to come by people with such an...affliction."

I lick my lips. "I know, Meriah, and I appreciate your assistance in this delicate matter."

She narrows her eyes. Meriah as a beauty mark on her chin, and above her mouth. They're unsettlingly parallel.

I'd asked once if she drew them on. She banned me for a week.

I never asked again.

"I think I have a boy. He's a shy one, you can't be a brute."

I grin, leaning in. "Dearest Meriah. When am I ever so crude?"

She scoffs waving me off, blowing smoke in my face. "That pretty face does nothing for me. I like my men like I like my coffee; black, strong, and without STD's."

"I don't have—"

"Here," she shoves a key in my hand. "Come back at 7. If you frighten that child I'll have your head."

I frown. "Yes...thank you Meriah."

I tuck the key away, turning around.

"Why do you need people with that affliction, Alastair?" She whispers from behind me.

I lick my lips before tossing her a smile over my shoulder.

"Let's keep some mystery in our relationship, Meriah. You've already seen me without pants. I fear I'll have no way to seduce you should I need to."