Cheeseburger Gothic

GENERATION UNDEAD BRONX GOTHIC SUMMER SPECIAL (July 1997)

SCENE ROLLBACK: Lucretia Pine, a.k.a. the Stump Woman, swore revenge on the lovable losers of Generation Dead when they escaped her terrible Garden of Sin. Deciding to fight fire with fire, the Stump Woman killed seven college students and revived them in her garden as monsters to fight on her behalf. Pose, Rainbow, Winter, Airgun, and Seattle might’ve been beaten until an unexpected eighth resurrection occurred to aid them at the last minute. Freed from the witch’s control but their humanity robbed from them, her eight victims rejected the supposed pity of Generation Dead and fled the lives they could never reembrace. Now attending night courses at a community college and squatting in an abandoned Bronx beach club, ACE, DJINNKO, GISELLE, MEDJED, COTTON, MANXIE, and CRUNCH are guided by SILENZIA as GENERATION UNDEAD, waiting for the day when even death may die.

Crunch in “Cheeseburger Gothic”

(TW: Blood, gore, topics of consent and sexual assault)

Who leaves trash in a graveyard, who fucking does that? The dead deserve more respect than that. Well, I guess not if they were, like, a rapist or a Nazi or something. Eww, or a rapist Nazi. But then why the fuck would anyone let a rapist Nazi get an official burial? I’d dump the body in a ditch somewhere and let the coyotes have at it.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Which Crunch has done, as seen in last year’s holiday crossover GENERATION UNDEAD: I’M DREADING OF A NAZI CHRISTMAS)

I’ve seen some shit happen in graveyards. Including actual, human shit. How bad does it have to be for someone to take a dump on someone’s tombstone? Is it cuz the century’s almost over or was this country always a flaming mess?

…don’t know why I asked that.

Maybe I’m not one to judge with the messes I’ve made in cemeteries. Okay, two. But unlike some people, I was taught how to wipe my own ass. I know how to clean up after myself.

There’s this old church over by a 6 train stop, near the end of the line at Pelham Parkway. Episcopal, I think. Looks pretty old. A couple of other buildings nearby look just as old. Red brick with moss and rusted metal turned kinda minty green. The bricks are that faded dark shade of red from age. It can make you think of blood. Me? I’m reminded of when I’ll bite into an especially rare cheeseburger and the juices run down my chin onto the plate. Sometimes I’ll dab it up with a French fry, so it doesn’t go to waste. Mmm. Blood fries.

You’d figure a vampire would steer clear of a church, what with all the crosses and “sacred ground” shit. Well, if I’m not welcome for being a bloodsucker, no one’s said anything yet. I would’ve noticed if I was supposed to burst into flames by now, even with all the brain cells I’ve fried. But then again, I’m not a “regular” vampire. I wasn’t bitten by Bela Lugosi or Brad Pitt, or Anne Parillaud from that gangster movie with Robert Loggia. You know the one. Don Rickles is his lawyer and he practically explodes. Maybe the rules are different for me. Considering I haven’t actually met another vamp, I haven’t been able to compare notes.

Maybe I’m the only one.

I’ve never actually seen anyone inside the church. I know I only hang around here at night so it could be different during the day. But I’ve never seen a groundskeeper or anyone like that who’s supposed to clean up around here, so maybe this place is abandoned. Would explain why there’s always so much garbage in the graveyard.

At least I can say with certainty that the graveyard’s an actual ghost town. Not with real ghosts, like ‘Selle. There’s been a couple of times I’ve run into a few homeless guys sleeping in one of the mausoleums, but I try not to bother ‘em. If they ask me for a light I oblige. Sometimes I’ll share leftovers or some weed.

What, you didn’t think I was gonna suck their blood just cuz they’re homeless, did you?

Lots of the tombstones are so old they’re just slabs of green and gray jutting out of the dirt. I doubt they get visitors. Doesn’t look like anyone new’s been buried here since probably the 70s. I wonder if any of the newer graves belong to someone who was killed by the Son of Sam.

Some graves have little plastic flowers and American flags near them, so I guess this place does have some legit visitors during the day. Not just people looking for a place to ditch their trash, like it’s so hard to put it in a garbage can when there’s one on every block. I’m talking beer cans and plastic bags, old newspapers and takeout containers from Chinese places, and McDonald’s. Even a goddamn mattress. One time I found an old plastic moving bin half filled with stained clothes and, I shit you not, a whole, uncooked chicken that was starting to rot. The thing was swarming with maggots. It was almost enough to make me lose my appetite.

Almost.

I come here some nights to be alone, away from the guys so I can eat in peace. Sometimes I just need a little space, and I don’t doubt my friends wouldn’t think to find me here. None of us are into the whole “religion” thing. Considering when we died and all we got for an afterlife was an especially fucked up reawakening in a bastard version of the Garden of Eden, you can see how we doubt the whole “Heaven and Hell” scenario.

Still, even with a disinterest in the Bible and all that, the place is quiet and creepy in a good way. It’s the perfect place to kick back and relax. Light a joint, unbutton your pants and hang loose after a big meal. A space to enjoy that full feeling or treat yourself to a doggy bag before it gets cold. You’re less likely to have someone stare at you because they think you’re disgusting.

Or sexy.

Or both.

Hey, I know what it’s like to stare at a piece of meat you want to sink your teeth into. They called me “Crunch” long before I got my big boy fangs. See how pointy they are? And they’re retractable! I also know what it’s like to be stared at as though someone wants to sink their teeth into me. For some reason, people feel the need to tell me how hot I am. Like they’re surprised. I’m not like Ace, with his plastic perfection and smile that literally fucking twinkles when he grins. Or Jed with his classic countenance and thick black curls people want to smother themselves in (if they can take the smell of herbs and embalming fluid he tries to mask). I’ve always been a bit more… beastly, I think’s a good description. Something about animal magnetism people tell me I have. Maybe because I’ve always worn my red hair long and don’t remember to shave as often.

And yes, I do see it. No use in pretending or faking modesty, right? I don’t have a problem being a hotty, no more than I have a problem being a fatty either.

Guys I went to school with would sometimes tell me I’d be even better looking if I lost some weight. That pissed me off like you wouldn’t believe, and still does. Y’know how people assume because someone smokes a lot of pot that makes ‘em goofy and laidback? Imagine how surprised they are when they meet me, and how perpetually pissed I can be. But I know, now you’re probably thinking “Oh he loves to eat AND he’s fat what a shock.” So first, fuck you. Second, fuck you. Why does that have to be a bad thing? Or why do people have to make it into such a bad thing?

Enjoying my body is something that’s always been a huge deal for me, and it only got reinforced after I was killed. There are other ways sure, like sex, but I’ve tried that twice and I still don’t get the appeal. In 10th grade, I lost my virginity to Carella Stokes in my English class. She asked. I said, “Sure.” We did it in her car.

Most make a big deal about virginity, but I didn’t really care. I still wore a rubber because the last thing I needed was like, herpes or some shit. Maybe doing it with her would’ve meant more if I actually felt attracted to Carella. I didn’t know at the time she was dating Michael Fletcher from the basketball team and trying to make him jealous. When I did find out, I slept with Michael when he wanted payback. We did it in his car that time, and I didn’t feel anything for him, either. Sometimes I wonder about whatever happened to them. I mean, both times it was fun I guess, but I’m not in a hurry to do it again. Dying didn’t change that, at least.

I like feeling myself, my body, of knowing I’m there. When I place my hands on my big gut or feel the plumpness on my arms and legs. As much as I enjoy the thrill of getting my hands on a fat as fuck burger fresh off the grill, or a tub of rocky road ice cream that starts off hard as a block of cement before it softens into chocolatey, marshmallowy goodness on your tongue. There’s something about the idea that a person can let themselves get fat which I think is sort of powerful. Transformative. To hold that control of yourself in defiance of what others think you should look like. Why should it be different from the guys who spend hours working out every day to get shredded, or starving yourself to fit in a pair of jeans you probably wasted money on (and was probably made by slave labor in some sweatshop)?

Take the cheeseburger, for example. Burgers aren’t exactly health food, but some day someone had the idea to add a slice of cheddar with a beef patty for no reason beyond wondering what it would taste like. And clearly they loved it so everyone started doing it. They liked it so much they added other stuff, like bacon and onions and tomatoes. The only reason they bothered to do it was to see if it brought them enjoyment. If anyone else liked it, that was incidental.

I am fat, hot fuck for nobody but myself. I don’t want or need anyone’s permission to be like this. You can call it vanity or ego or whatever and I wouldn’t give a shit. Or maybe I do because I’m sort of defending myself right now. I never know when I’m acting or reacting. I read that in a book in another lifetime. A girl named Gail from a shitty town in Connecticut gets creepy notes and phone calls before some guy rapes her. The book doesn’t even end with him in jail. He rapes another girl because everyone told Gail that getting him arrested wouldn’t do anything, then his parents send him off to some private school.

I only read the book once, but I never forgot how alone that girl was or how fucked up the whole thing was. Like no one helps her at all. Most tell her to suck it up and move on because they don’t want to rock the boat. For some people, she doesn’t get to be Gail anymore. She’s a mistake they don’t want to acknowledge because it’d make them feel bad. She didn’t do anything wrong, but she ends up losing herself.

God, I’m rambling. I didn’t realize how tweaked I must be right now.

Someone once called me a combo of Jay and Silent Bob, and I had no idea how I was supposed to react to that. The bandana I like to wear on my head might’ve had something to do with it. She said that was good because she thought Kevin Smith was hot. I belched in her face and asked if that was hot.

She said yes.

Christ.

Why do I always get these types? If they’re not telling me I’m hot despite being large, they start talking about how they wanna make me bigger. God forbid I should have any feelings on the subject. I can smell them coming from a mile away, even before I got a goddamn axe buried in my chest by fucking Lucretia Pine. Now I can smell a lot more of those creeps.

Okay, okay, they’re not creeps. Well, some of them are. Most from my life experiences. Everyone’s got a type. The problem is when someone assumes you’re their type because of how you look. Even when you make it clear you’re not interested, all they care about is what gets them good and hard and how it was super difficult for them to be open about it and that’s supposed to make you feel bad for them. You ever wonder what insecurity smells like?

*sniff*

Mm. On second thought, that could be me. I haven’t showered yet today.

I get it. With my body and preference for tight, torn clothes and odor scent, people think I’m either a slob or a bear. First, I am not a slob (on purpose, anyway). Just because I hang out in trash-strewn cemeteries doesn’t mean I enjoy lying around in garbage. Second, I am not physically hairy enough to qualify for bearhood. I get where the long hair and the chin fuzz gives the illusion, but I barely have, like, five chest hairs. Five. I counted one night.

If anyone around here’s hairy, it’s definitely Manxie. Comes with the whole catgirl thing. Sheds on everything like you wouldn’t believe. She thinks it’s funny when we complain about finding cat hair on everything in the beach club (except Silenzia, since she’s mute, and Cotton who doesn’t care). Sometimes she tries to see just how riled up we can get when she acts like more of a cat than she is. Manxie’s a definite glutton for punishment. Maybe that’s why she got assigned “Gluttony” when Lucretia brought us all back in the Garden of Sin, and I got “Lust.”

You think I should be flattered the ol’ Stump Lady didn’t go for stereotypes and let the fat guy be “Lust” instead of “Gluttony?” I would be if I actually gave a crap about sex. I try to make it more palatable by thinking about it as a lust for living or having a good meal. But she just had to make it about sex. When she turned me into a bloodsucking parasite and set us loose on those Generation Dead losers, we weren’t in control of ourselves. Lucretia was pulling the strings, and at her command I almost…

Almost…

If Silenzia hadn’t woken when she did, I…

I-I don’t want to talk about it.

There are nights I still get scared thinking she could’ve mutated me the way she did Cotton, Manxie, Djinnko, and ‘Selle. Ace, Jed, Silenzia and I can pass for regular without trying. I could’ve lost myself completely if she’d felt like it. Sometimes I wonder if I did lose myself.

I can literally smell lust in others. Arousal. It smells a lot like blood, which makes it harder to ignore when I get that pulsating feeling telling me I need to drink. I don’t just sense when they’re horny or hard, I can read what they’ve done with others. Like sonar or radar or something. Goes with the whole vampire bat thing.

Being a vampire somehow heightens how people see me. Made me more attractive, the way I move my hips or how I look at a person or even how my ass jiggles. Draws them towards me. If it’s pheromones or magic, I don’t know. At least whatever it is just gets me noticed more often instead of, like, acting like a love potion or roofie. I’m not doing it on purpose, but it makes no difference. Now I’m even more aware of when people wanna fuck me, and I hate it. I hate being able to hear it, feel it, smell it, taste their desire. I don’t want it. Always being reminded I’m an object to others. Nothing dulls it. No matter how much weed I smoke or even how much blood I can gorge myself, it doesn’t go away.

Djinnko can’t do anything about it. When she grants a wish, she can only make inanimate objects. Money, jewels, clothes. Nothing immaterial. Even if she could, her wishes only last a few hours before they wear off and disappear.

The one thing that makes it okay? Using it to suss out the creeps the world can do without. Who didn’t take “no” for an answer when they fucking should have.

“Got a light?”

Take this guy for example. Here I am, minding my own business with a to-go order of a deluxe bacon cheeseburger and fries with a side of BBQ sauce to dip ‘em in. Not from McDonald’s near the fire station. Their burgers taste like ass anyway. Probably aren’t even made from real meat. And their fries are like Styrofoam coated in salt. Only reason anyone really eats at that place despite the fucking nightmare clown and whatever the fuck the “Grimace” is supposed to be plastered on everything is for the toys or the ball pit.

There’s a pub around the corner from Mickey D’s, Irish place supposedly. It’s a few blocks from the church and one of the few places that’s open late for food, so lucky me. There’s nothing better or more filling than a good, old-fashioned bar grub sinking to the bottom of your gut. I’ve eaten at this place frequently enough that the guy behind the bar seems to know who I am. Not enough to make small talk, but enough to know I’m a big spender.

The thing about being a vampire is that I don’t need to eat regular food anymore, but it doesn’t mean I can’t. Now I can stuff my face just for the sake of pure enjoyment, which actually makes it better for me. I’m not compelled to ingest because of a craving or to avoid starvation. Food tastes so much better when eating isn’t a matter of survival. You get to appreciate the finer notes on your tongue without worrying about the growling of your stomach, or the need for energy.

My only concern is having to deal with people coming up to me while I’m eating, trying to make small talk or hitting on me. Like they don’t see I’m in the middle of something. I don’t know what’s worse, when they invade my personal space or when they watch me from across the room as I devour my meal. Would it be easier to just get a to-go order? Maybe, but that would be giving these assholes the satisfaction of knowing they’ve gotten to me.

And anyway, sometimes I need a pick-me-up for later.

Take right now. The guy standing over me while I’m sitting in the graveyard, my third burger of the night right up to my lips, I could smell him the moment I entered the bar. He looks about my age, maybe a couple of years older. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also goes to Country Club College. Average height, average build. He’s got a smirk on his face as he waits for my answer, holding an unlit cigarette in his hand.

Yes, I’ve got a light. Of course, I’ve got a light. But when he doesn’t pick up on my body language broadcasting I don’t appreciate him bothering me, I place the burger back in the bag and produce said light.

“Thanks,” the guy says before taking a long drag and blowing out smoke. I smell the smoke mixed in with the smell of his eagerness and desperation. Closing my eyes makes me see the kind of rough sex he’s had with other women as I inhale his lust. I see some men mixed in as well. When I open my eyes, he asks, “You hang out here often? Kinda creepy, don’t you think?”

Deciding not to drag this out any longer, I force myself to smirk and reply, “Is that a problem?”

Chuckling, the guy says, “Not at all. I like creepy.”

“Of course you do.”

After he finishes his cigarette, he places his lips on mine. I hate the taste of tobacco and tar and smoke, as much as I hate that my food’s getting colder by the minute. He shoves his tongue into my mouth.

“Ow!” The guy says.

“Sorry, did I bite your tongue?” I ask, knowing full well he scraped his tongue against one of my fangs. I try not to bear my teeth because I don’t want to scare him away just yet. Inside my mouth, I can taste his blood, and it makes my heart pound.

You can tell a lot about a person from their blood.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah,” the guy shakes his head. “Sorry. Now were we?”

“Quick aren’t you?” I ask before holding my hand up. “On second thought, I’d rather not.”

“Relax, I’m not hurt,” the guy assures me as he reaches forward to kiss me again.

“Dude, I said no,” I firmly reply as I try to push him away. “No doesn’t mean yes.”

“You were into me a minute ago,” my would-be admirer replies.

“And that was a minute ago,” I answer. “Besides, you’re not really my type. I’m not into smokers.”

“You’re awfully picky for a fatty,” the guy snarls.

“And you’re pushy for a guy who looks for random hook-ups in a graveyard,” I respond. “Hey!” I shout as he grabs me and kisses me again.

“Look, don’t make a big deal about this,” the guy warns me as he grabs me again.

I shrug. “Can do.”

The guy opens his mouth to scream when he sees how big my fangs are, but before he can get one syllable out, I sink my teeth into his lower lip and chin.

CRUNCH!

Blood splatters on my face and chest. He managed to open a couple of buttons on my Hawaiian shirt, so there’s splatter on my chest and boobs.

His eyes pitifully stare out at me, a look of failed comprehension as he lets out a wet gurgling sound. A fat pink tongue hangs out in the open along with his exposed esophagus, ribs, lungs, and heart. I still have the chunk of his jaw and chest clenched tightly in my mouth when I spit it out.

The sound of the subway speeding by drowns out the sound of my ripping his heart out and sucking it dry. I wouldn’t have been able to hold back much longer once tasting his blood as we kissed.

Drinking blood is not the same as eating food. The compulsion to drain in order to stay alive doesn’t give me any satisfaction compared to stuffing myself with junk food and snacks. When the need for blood overpowers me, I can’t even stop to savor the taste.

My would-be rapist falls over, and I pounce to continue feeding. The more I drink his blood, the more I see his past liaisons. Most of them were not consensual, and I see faces contorted in pain and anguish. Words like “no” and “stop” repeated. I have no idea if this guy’s a serial rapist or what, and in a few minutes it won’t matter. I could smell as much off of him once I caught his scent earlier. I don’t enjoy having to focus on creeps like him, but it’s the one thing that makes the drainings bearable.

Panting, adrenaline coursing through me, I stumble away from what remains of my meal. My stomach groans. I let out a wet belch. That should’ve been enough for tonight, but now there’s the matter of clean-up. Sighing, I unhinge my jaw as the rest of my teeth become like knives. The last thing I need is for the cops to section this place off, even though I hate the taste of stomach acid and bile.

Before I get to that, I reach over for my deluxe bacon cheeseburger. By now it’s gone cold, but I take a moment to dip it in a pool of blood in his chest cavity. Usually, I drain these bastards dry, so I’m surprised there was some left.

Mm. Not bad.

First, I’ll finish my burger and then my fries, and then I’ll do cleanup. I have plenty of time before dawn, and like I said, I know how to clean up after myself.

Jude Deluca’s a nonbinary aegosexual Capricorn, age 34, from Bronx, NY. Their areas of interest are magical girls, slasher fiction, YA horror, superhero dads, 90s nostalgia, and big beautiful men. As a professional horror detective they’ve rediscovered lost and unpublished stories, such as Goosebumps: Dead Dogs Still Fetch by R.L. Stine and Braden Gardner.

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