Title: How to Be Pamtastic (An Entry for The Snarky Sidekick Contest)
Characters: Pam, Eric, Sookie and Bill
Word Count: 2888
Pen Name: Cageyspice
Disclaimer: Sadly, not my characters. I suspect Pam won't be owned, not even by Eric, but Charlaine Harris and Alan Ball would have that honor before any of the rest of us. Good luck to them!
Summary: While Pam works the door at Fangtasia, she evaluates the vermin in search of the perfect dinner for her master.
What would it be tonight? The black leather bustier with a rubber pencil skirt? Unfortunately so. I sighed and chose some cheap gothic-looking jewelry that could have come from the wardrobe department of a Bela Lugosi movie. I could just drain the early movie directors for developing this tawdry goth look. I hated this shit. It was uncomfortable and the human females smelled like canned tuna when they wore it. Disgusting. In fact, I found it so distasteful, that I had two separate walk-in closets built in my home so that my wardrobes didn't need to mingle. I couldn't have my cashmere getting snagged by a spiked stud.
It was the fact that I needed two wardrobes at all that really pissed me off. I had had to suffer through years of corsets, and now that there were so many fine fabrics and comfortable clothes available to women they were obsessed with wrapping their bulgy sweating forms in converted petroleum products. It was perplexing to say the least.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror and quirked my lip. I mused over this modern age that could fabricate clothing from petroleum. And as petroleum came from rotted plant matter, what I was really wearing was decomposed salad. Luckily for the salad, I made it look spectacular.
The bustier propped up my round, all natural breasts admirably, creating a very alluring swell. "Thank you, Master, for turning me before the bloom was off the rose. They will be forever perfect," I crooned, letting my appreciation seep into our bond. Even if I hated the material, I preferred today's bustiers to the ones I wore as a human. Those didn't support – they thrust. The longer I lived, the more I realized that every age had its peculiarities. In my day we played such a game of conceal and reveal. Here are my tits hurtling at your face, but oh no, don't look at my ankles. God forbid.
I admired my ankles. They were just the right combination of smooth skin, femininely angled bone, and gentle curves. It was my one concession to edgy modern fashion that I enjoyed the scandalous pleasure of setting them off with fabulous shoes. That was the only part I really enjoyed about this ridiculous costume party we hosted every night at the club. Why couldn't Eric have opened a fine dining establishment? Or a swanky smoking room? Or a goddamn hair salon? I sighed. I was so tired of hating it, but I would do anything for him. I would even dress in rotten salad.
I decided to improve my mood by looking at my shoes. "Monsieur Louboutin, je vous adore, vous êtes un artiste," I whispered to my reflection. The man knew how to make shoes. The Hyper Privé style boasted five inch heels, gorgeous calf skin on the inside, black patent on the outside, and of course the red soles that appealed to the blood lust in me... I could practically fucking lick them. It was like wearing sex on my feet. And my ankles looked very come-hither with my feet at this pitch. Satisfied with my uniform, I twisted my hair up to show off my delicious neck. I was ready to enthrall the vermin.
I was scheduled to work the door tonight until I could choose a suitable blood bag for Eric's dinner. He was so bored by his food now that he just wanted to get it over with. To that end, he'd become annoyingly picky so the predictability of his meals would keep his irritation to a minimum. At least it was working for one of us. They all had to be the same – dark haired, or redheaded with submissive tendencies so he could eat them, fuck them, and get on with his night. It pained me. He needed something more. My Eric had always enjoyed his undead life. His spark had dimmed somewhat over the last century.
I yanked open the creaky metal employee entrance door, stepped into the dimly lit corridor, and was assaulted by the smell of hops coming from the storeroom. I considered breaking a bottle of TruBlood in there to overpower it, but old TruBlood smelled like a corpse, and while I was accustomed that that smell, the patrons would become concerned and we had a business to run.
I dropped my handbag in Eric's office and checked my lipstick in the ladies room. Having no reason to delay any longer, I approached the door to the club. The thudding of the bass reverberated through my bones and the noise hit me like a gust of air as soon as I flung open the door. I fixed my eyes on my master sprawled out on his throne. He looked god-like as always, but was dressed a little more than usual in a button up shirt and jacket, all black of course, as was expected of us. I strutted towards him, planting my feet one in front of the other with a little extra attitude.
"Oh Pam," he sighed in exasperation. "You and your ankles. Ankles were really only a brief fad. Your breasts are superior. Breasts are always in fashion."
I snarled at him.
"You are gorgeous Pamela. They are gorgeous. You know it. Go, let in the breathers, make some thick-ankled women jealous," he deadpanned.
I sashayed over to the front door, licking my lips at the new human who worked the gift kiosk. She was perky and tourist friendly. They came here to be scared, but it wouldn't do to have them too nervous to spend money on the merchandize. I let my eyes trail down her slowly until they reached her hands which were hastily folding a thong. She was trembling slightly, in a way that made her scent so much more delectable. I leaned in slightly and inhaled deeply before letting my fangs run out. "That would look very sexy on you," I purred, trailing my long French-manicured nail up the back of her hand to her forearm. "If you want, I can try it on you later … check the fit."
She was wet. My meal and my dessert secured for the night, I slunk away to the front door, but not before I cast a quick glance over my shoulder and bestowed a saucy wink upon her. Spots of red blush bloomed on her neck. She wouldn't have as much blood to blush with by morning, but she would be too satisfied to care.
I assumed my very best bored pose, which was not hard, and pushed the door open. The crowd hummed with a nervous energy as they took in the scary vampire in front of them. I wished I could yawn. "Secure that," I commanded to a very eager-looking young man. He scurried to prop the door open with the rubber wedge, and then looked at me expectantly.
"ID," I demanded.
"I, uh, didn't bring it. I'm twenty-two," he lied. Beads of sweat were emerging from his pores, stinking up my air.
"Go home," I ordered.
"But," he tried to protest.
I kept my expression completely neutral, looked in his eyes, and cocked my head slightly. He ran. No glamor required. In fact, now that vampires were out in the open, we hardly ever had to use it anymore. It was no fun at all.
A group of giggling girls was next. I had admitted them last weekend, so I could skip the formality of carding them tonight. When they saw that I had their attention, it was as if a switch had been turned off and they did their best vampire impersonations. If vampires drank Ambien instead of blood, it would have been perfect. I decided to gift them with a tutorial. "We're not sleepy, we're bored. We're bored because we would rather be ripping your throats out than serving you beverages that bloat your bellies with gas and fill our air with your stench."
The five pathetic specimens, each more pleathered than the next, just stood there stunned, their black nails and black lipstick looking garish under the fluorescent lights. I sighed and waved them in with a shudder. My color looked better, and I was dead.
Next, a seedy, creepy, unwashed man of advanced decline made the mistake of calling me 'baby' and trying to lay hands on me. His jaw would heal. Maybe. The nurses would wash him. I had done the city a service.
This was so tedious. The line-up this evening was a collection of Shreveport's finest, in other words, cheap, low, and nasty. I didn't hesitate to send many of them away. We had a reputation to uphold, and I simply wouldn't tolerate inflicting myself with such vulgar scenery.
A quite attractive man of middling height waltzed up as if he were god's gift to the female race. Having fucked every available human girl alive I'm sure he thought he'd move on to the undead. He stepped up close, looked me up and down and gave me an appreciative nod of his head. "Beautiful," he dared.
I didn't react.
"You'd be even more beautiful screaming my name," he tried.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I don't fuck human men. ID."
He handed me his ID and said, "C'mon sweetheart. I'm human. And you were human once. We're really all the same. Let me help you remember what it was like to be a hot blooded woman."
"Believe me, you bucket of primordial slime, your genetic makeup has more in common with my dress than it does with my ancestry. Ooze on in. Wipe up after yourself before you leave."
His confidence took a nosedive that was a long overdue. It would take another one when he saw Eric. On Monday he would look for a plastic surgeon, and perhaps a new car, a red one.
I turned back to the line-up to the most unexpected sight. The Queen's creepy, obsequious fanboy, Bill Compton walked up to me with his arm around a glowing blonde. His hand was placed suggestively low on her hip, projecting a claim on her that had not been staked. Her scent was pure. He had not sullied her yet.
Bill introduced me to her with his best southern gentleman act, and without an ounce of hesitation she extended her hand to make my acquaintance. How quaint. She found my request for ID amusing in an exuberant way. Her smile actually felt … infectious to me – most curious.
I breathed in and sampled the air that was perfumed by her presence. It was delicious, like honey, and something more, something unique and indefinable.
I looked at her ID and did the math. "Twenty-five, huh? How sweet it is," I drawled. Sweet in more ways than one. I had thrown her perhaps slightly off her beat, but I could tell she was otherwise completely unfazed. She was wide-open, just taking it all in as if her innocence were so complete that the fact that she was in a dangerous place had not even occurred to her. No. Even an innocent would feel some fear of the unknown. Amazing. Alluring. She would be the perfect dinner for my master. It was time for him to try a new dish.
I appeared next to Eric. "Master, are you familiar with the proverb 'revenge is a dish best served cold'?"
"Yes, Pamela," he said with caution.
"Well, Sookie Stackhouse is a dish best served hot and writhing underneath you."
"Show me my dinner," he said, bored as always.
"She is there," I said, "sitting with Bill InCOMPetent." That secret nickname from the Queen's court never got old. He was the most unsuccessful procurer the Queen had ever had, and yet she seemed oblivious. Maybe he filled in when there were no female breathers available. I'm sure it wouldn't be hard to tuck what little he had between his legs.
Eric snorted slightly at the old joke. "I have already feasted my eyes on her. She is … radiant, but I do not take Incompetent's leavings."
"She is pure as the driven snow. He doesn't know what he has. Or he does, but she will not allow him access to the south passage. She seems to have a feisty streak." I stroked my fangs with my tongue. "I bet she's a biter. The good girls always are."
"You have piqued my curiosity. Bring her to me Pam," he ordered.
"I've played waitress long enough for one night. Order your own dinner," I sassed. I knew exactly what and how much I could get away with. Besides, I wanted to see if she would actually come when he summoned her. If she put up a fight, the night might get interesting. I needed interesting.
Eric crooked his finger at her and Bill, and I saw Bill mouth 'Uh oh' at Sookie. Hmm.
"'Uh oh'? Vampires aren't supposed to say 'uh oh'," she said, loud enough for us to hear.
Mmm. I saw a little frisson of fear shoot through her. That would make her so much more delicious. I wondered if Eric would let me join in. It had been a long time since we had enjoyed a meal together.
Bill led her up to the dais and I got a good look at her. When she walked her hips swayed in a way that belied her innocence. Her dress was virginal white with splashes of red flowers that looked like blood seeping through the fabric. The style of the dress was prim, but it thrust her breasts up. Such a study in contradictions this one. She is practically begging to be deflowered. I smiled at my own pun.
Eric turned his head to look at me, sensing my arousal and amusement. He did not understand the amusement, but his arousal was returned tenfold. I had to shake it off of me to keep my control. It wouldn't do to take the first bite of my master's dinner.
Of all the ways she could have reacted to being in the presence of a thousand year old Viking vampire, she simply said "It's nice to meet you," with no more deference than if she were meeting a new cashier at the Piggly Wiggly.
"Well, aren't you sweet," said my master.
"Not really," she replied.
I felt the surprise zing through Eric's system and into our bond. I braced myself for Eric's subsequent reaction but he actually chuckled a little, almost a laugh. I had not heard Eric make that sound since 1920 when the great depression had filled the streets with food for us like manna from heaven. The irony had been too much.
"If you have anything to ask, you should ask it of me," he insisted. This was most unusual. Eric would never have even considered answering the questions of a breather. This human was as rare as his reaction to her.
It was after he answered her questions, when he wouldn't let her leave, that I knew he was hooked.
"So…Bill. Are you quite attached to your friend?" he asked, and I could feel that he meant that in earnest.
"She is mine," Bill snapped.
"Yes, I am his," she said, but her scent and her body language were telling a different story. If she were his, she would be leaning towards him; she would be making more eye contact with him. She was no more his than I was.
"Well, what a pity – for me," Eric said, our bond filling first with regret, and then with the determination, anticipation, and excitement of a challenge.
I resisted the urge to give myself a pat on the back for having chosen a meal that so obviously tempted Eric's taste buds. This was all just a momentary setback.
The fact that we suddenly found ourselves fleeing a police raid had barely registered on his radar; so complete was his fixation with her. What did register was the fact that she was in possession of information she should not have known. He would have her and the answer both. He always got what he desired.
"I enjoyed meeting you Miss Stackhouse. You will come again," Eric breathed.
Oh yes she would. And again. And again.
"So," I drawled at him. "Even if you did not get to taste her, you still have to admit I found you a most interesting meal."
"You did not find me a meal, Pamela," he answered in a low voice.
I turned to look at him. If I'd had a heart, it might have sunk a little. Instead, I allowed my brows to furrow slightly.
"You found me my future lover," he corrected. There was not an ounce of disingenuousness in his voice. He was serious.
I smiled in self-satisfaction. My master was in need of this. I had finally spurred him to stop his pathetic moping and emerge from the shell he had placed around himself. I flooded our bond with pride.
He reached out and cupped my cheek, stroking it with his thumb. "Pam, you have proven your worthiness as my child yet again this evening. You are my finest creation. You are…."
A second chuckle emerged from Eric's throat – the second chuckle of the night after decades of mirthless existence.
I really was Pamtastic.
A/N: Portions of dialogue from True Blood, Season 1, Episode 4: "Escape from Dragon House," were used to set the scene for this story.
Many thanks to my wonderful beta IWishIHadARiver, and of course to the gracious judges and hosts of this competition - I loved the idea and I had a great time writing my story.