NO DOGS NO IRISH - CHAPTER 1

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Submitted Date 02/01/2020
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Where do I start? The books all say start in the middle of the action. So here we go: a chase scene. Myself and Dorian are running through the back streets of London. Behind us in hot pursuit is a group of cross swinging, slap-headed white boys who want to kill us. As if that wasn't bad enough they're still blasting that Jones prick's speech on the loud speakers and screens on every corner.

"They wish to take our jobs! And corrupt our Women!"

Change the record lads, please. Why are they chasing us? Rather than insult your intelligence dear reader or sneak it in later I'll just put the proverbial cards on the table.

We're Vampires. Take a second and let that sink in.

You're back? Good. We're between 100-600 years old each, from Ireland. And since these White Power prats got in power they've been doing their best to get rid of us. Oh, and the Jamaicans, who also happen to be Werewolves. Title seems pretty clever now, eh?

So back to the situation at hand I think. Dorian and myself have been chased down an alley, backed into a corner by a gang of skinheads. Ever see those nature shows about lions and gazelles? Guess which one I felt like. I engaged them in smart arse back and forth for a bit to buy us time but I got the impression I was stalling the inevitable.

"Listen lads, I don't mean to be rude but I think I'm in the wrong place. I'm not into this back alley man on man action. And given that you caught my brother in bed with one of your wives I think that should tell you he's not into it either. I'm not knocking it, if it makes you happy god bless ye. "

They didn't like that. When your belief system is so heavily based on lies it usually coincides with a pretty fragile ego.

"You think you're funny bruv? You're outnumbered and you've got jokes. Are you mental?"

They moved in closer, and I was certain I was done for. You living, non vampiric types would probably pray at this stage. A voice from the other side of the alley spoke in the dark, and I must admit it was pretty cool.

"That's the thing about these Irish bruv, they all mental."

The skinhead didn't look back right away.

"This is none of your business, fuck off."

It wasn't until he lit the cigar that I saw it was one of the Jamaicans. I wasn't so concerned with who it was, it could have been Whitney Houston for all I cared. The Jamaican lit his cigar a certain way that it made his eyes glow like the hound of the fuckin Baskervilles. The white boys backed off, we tried our best to contain our sense of relief. I was trying to figure out a cool, tough guy way of saying thank you but the Jamaican cut me off.

"I think you and the boy best be getting home."

The only thing to do was to nod. We were on our way back when Dorian finally spoke.

"Who was that?"

"The fuck should I know. He was probably named Wayne or Steve or something."

"No not him, the Jamaican fella."

"Pretty sure that was Jez."

"Seemed like kind of a prick."

"You've been listening to the others. Beware the creeping hand of racism. They just saved our arses, show a bit of gratitude."

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