Like the internet needs another Molly.

Mini-Crossley: Interlude

The Brooklyn blogosphere was simmering: baristas showing up late to work with eyes more violet-shadowed even than usual, die-hard gardeners missing their shifts at the community farms.  Rumors of parties where the cops showed up late and left much later, summonsless and sleepy, careened around Carroll Gardens.  It was starting to get worrisome.

Creighton Crossley watched it unfold with a growing sense of unease, refreshing webpages even more often than her Sazerac.  One Monday, she woke up at the early hour of ten-fifteen, blearily cramming hair into a topknot, jamming feet into Hunter wellies, and heading for the B57.  It was time to investigate.

She started at Café Grumpy, as suited her mood.  “Who’s up at eleven?” she moaned quietly.  “Fucking animals.”  The girl at the counter was obnoxiously perky, and too rosy-cheeked for Creighton’s purposes.  Dragging herself down the street, she stopped at shop after shop, ever jittterier from the mounting caffeine.  Waiting for a drip coffee, she did the Times crossword.  “Four minutes and twelve seconds,” she berated herself, submitting.  “That’s what you get for waking up early.”

She was finally rewarded when she caught a brunette staggering out of the staff room at a small bistro, putting her apron on backwards.  The girl’s skin was sallow, and she wore a checkered scarf around her neck.  Creighton snapped to attention; keffiyehs were so 2007.  After some delicate questioning, it came out that the girl had gone to a burlesque show the previous night and the last thing she remembered were red tassels, spinning hypnotically on alabaster tits. 

Creighton strategically Facebook-friended the girl, and then the girl’s friends, and a pattern began to emerge.  All attractive, all vegetarians, all with missing time.  She tracked “Likes,” Twitter accounts, RSVP’s, and at last found an address. On first glance, it was an abandoned garage, corrugated gate smudged with teenagers’ tags, a hardware store ‘Beware of Dog’ sign.  She summoned all of her yoga breathing, concentrated, and saw a neat storefront, hand painted window and artfully distressed plywood.  Although part of her still insisted it was a grate, the glass door eased open under her hand.

"Welcome to the Park Slope Blood Coop!" an adorable vampire chirruped.  Creighton tongued her fake fangs, bought in bulk at Duane Reade at Halloween and applied in the bathroom of a nearby bar. 

"I have a few questionth about the provenanth of your product," Creighton lisped around her newly-acquired orthodontia.  "Exthuth me.  Dentitht appointment." 

"You should go to Dr. Les Statton, on 59th Street," the vampire suggested, practically incandescent with helpfulness.  "He understands our needs."

"Muthch obliged," Creighton nodded. 

"Our product!" he reoriented, tossing his Loréal Féria Starry Night hair and straightening his prescription-less glasses on his nose.  "We guarantee our blood comes from rigorously-vetted donors.  Totally local, vegetarian diet, no additives or preservatives."  He pulled a pamphlet from beneath the counter. 

You don’t want your blood contaminated by Cheetos!  We here at Park Slope Blood Coop guarantee a totally organic experience for dietarily and environmentally conscientious locavore vampires. 

A lanky man in an artfully worn parka picked up a bag from the platinum-tressed lass at the end of the counter.  “This is definitely not a pescatarian O negative? Because last time there was a definite smack of Irish salmon.”  The girl consulted briefly, and apparently appeased, he left.  Creighton spit her plastic canines into her palm.

"You can’t keep doing this," she hissed. 

"It’s totally voluntary!" her cashier yelped.  "They’re free range!" 

"No more hypnosis, I’m watching you" Creighton warned, brandishing a stake.  The vampires were unfazed.  "I know an editor at the L Magazine,"  she tried again. The vampires cowered. 

"Okay! Okay!"  The black-haired vampire capitulated. "We’ll behave." 

Creighton Crossley, job well done, decided to take a cab back. 

  1. cherrispryte said: gah my bestie did this ridiculous anthro project in 2003 (so pre-twilight) and she met with people who thought they were vampires, and were legit one step away from having a blood co-op. I am sending all of these to her, they’re fantastic.
  2. mollyculetheory posted this