Vampire Strike

Perhaps the best way to tell this odd story of betrayal and bitter defeat would be to start at the end. It started like this:

The day was dark, covered with abnormally large clouds, and thunder could be heard in the distance. The single neon light in the tall building flickered and went out. The lone man looked up and smiled, his story complete, his life drawn out. The man laughed a hideous, rotting, obnoxious laugh. The neon light flickered once more, more brilliantly than before, but the man could not be seen. His laugh seemed to whisper away in the wind, but no one was outside to hear it. No one was outside to hear the final laugh of a dead man.

Truthfully, its not actually the end, just the end of an untold story, one of the million floating in the wind, one of the story's of the unfortunate few to be forgotten, because only the wind was there to hear it. However, this case was different because it is an ending that became a beginning of a new story, of this story:

Bill Tunaman stuck his arm out the window and felt the wind tickle his fingers and the cool sting of a light-drizzle about to begin. He sighed and pulled his arm back in before a bird mistook his arm for a branch. He shut the window and slid back in his chair. He tipped his cap's bill over his eyes in a useless gesture to avoid the light of the single candle. A loud snoring could be heard coming from the unfinished wall to Bill's back, and Bill ignored it, sighing once more, hoping that someone would get him a sleeping pill.

The morning broke little joy to Bill. The lone phone ...