The SAME Saturday Night

By Nyx Fixx

Explicit LC/LC (Includes shades of M/F, M/M, M/Self, and a dog.)

Facetious Drama

Warnings and Disclaimers:

    Greetings, list readers:
  About a year ago, close to Halloween, in fact, I lost
  access to the internet. Allison Percy agreed to post a
  story to JADFE for me in my absence. That story was
  "Another Saturday Night" and featured Nick in an unusual
  pairing (Nick/Nick). Now, I'm back on line, and I'm back to
  my old tricks of posting vile trash on JADFE. The story
  that follows is a kind of sequel to "Another Saturday
  Night" and features LaCroix in a similar pairing. (LC/LC).
  The first story has not been archived. Anyone who'd like to
  see "Another Saturday Night" can contact me off-list, and
  I'll be happy to send the file. And an obsequious thank-you
  note as well, since I'm a fool for flattery.

    1. Disclaimer: Playfulness, not plagiarism. These
  characters belong to Sony/Tristar, and I am only putting
  them in the most absurd situations I can devise
  temporarily. A thousand pardons.
    2. Rating: This story contains veiled references to sadism,
  group sex, homoeroticism, incest, cannibalism, bestiality,
  murder, rape, pillage, and accounting. The usual FK
  subtexts. I've tried to keep the vulgar language to a
  minimum, though, and most of the really awful stuff is
  handled as tastefully as possible. Explicit, I guess you'd
  call it.=20
    3. Beta-Readers: A thousand thanks to Kristine Ward and
  Nancy Kaminsky. Their bravery knows no bounds. Nancy
  exterminated the extraneous commas that infested this
  story, and Kristine curbed my tendency to run on sentences.
  Plus a dozen other improvements large and small.
  Both helped to improve this story immeasurably.=20
  Inasmuch as something like this could be improved.
    4. Archives: Permission to archive gladly granted.
  Copywrite - 10-17-97

    Thank you, Nyx Fixx    <NYXFIXX@Hillsboro.net>
+++++++++++++++++++++++++

The SAME Saturday Night

(Another FK lapse in taste by Nyx Fixx)

     LaCroix filled another scratch pad with a cryptic
collection of M's, X's, and L's. Let the whole world
convert to the Arabic system, he thought grumpily, let
flood and famine and binary math encompass the globe! I'm
STILL sticking with Roman numerals!

     LaCroix hated tax time. When he had accepted the deed
to The Raven from Janette, he had little known how much
paperwork was involved in running a small business.
Inventory, accounts receivable, general ledger, who knew
what--and once a year, TAXES. That his stubborn refusal to
abandon the elegant, but  unwieldy numerical system of his
youth needlessly complicated his accounting tasks was a
matter of small moment to LaCroix. There was such a thing
as principle, after all. And principal, as well, he thought
smugly, utilizing his recently acquired accounting
knowledge to make a mental bon mot.

     This knowledge had come directly from the veins of one
Irving J. Finkelstein, an unfortunate Certified Public
Accountant LaCroix had picked up in a yuppie bar across
town. Mr. Finkelstein had proven to be a veritable font of
wisdom,
just as had his predecessors.=20

     Since his first frustrating attempt to make heads or
tails out of The Raven's books, LaCroix had quickly
developed the habit of hunting accountants, tax attorneys,
bookkeepers and investment bankers at this particular time
of the year. The borrowed knowledge his specially selected
prey had vouchsafed him had always helped him make his tax
payments on time, and stay ahead of any potential audit.=20

     That such fare tended to be uninteresting emotionally
was, in LaCroix' mind, a necessary evil. Mr. Finkelstein,
though an excellent CPA, had not been the most desirable of
sex objects.

     Apart from a predilection for tall, imposing
middle-aged men with an air of domination, the accountant
had been dismally conventional in his tastes. An
unresponsive LUMP, in fact, LaCroix reflected bitterly. He
put his scratch pad aside and decided to complete his
onerous bookkeeping chores on the morrow. Dwelling on the
sexual shortcomings of Mr. Finkelstein had made him
restless.

     So difficult to find kindred spirits in the
politically correct, super-sanitized culture of the late
twentieth century. LaCroix cast his mind back to various
orgies, bacchanals and city-sackings he had presided over
in his salad days as an Imperial Roman general. A wolfish
smile stretched his bud-like mouth. THOSE had been the
days! A well-placed Roman citizen could have anyone he
wanted, any way he wanted, any time he wanted, and never
mind all that silly whining about human rights, consenting
adults, and unspeakable sexual practices.=20

     Unspeakable! What was THAT supposed to mean, anyway?
If you could DO it, he thought, you could speak about it.
In fact, a little well-placed talk could actually enhance
even the most diabolically perverse acts. A little secret
he had discovered early on in his erotic career.

     Nowadays, the world was full of CPAs and the like,
pale blooded ninnies who insisted on condoms, clear gender
boundaries and similar boring limitations. How jejune!
Petronius' "Satyricon" had been his favorite erotic lexicon
for as long as he could remember. These days, most people
couldn't even read Latin.

     LaCroix left his small desk and crossed the dimly lit
chamber. Pale yellow candlelight flickered on the polished
wood grain of his closet door as he opened it. He had, he
consoled himself as he began to remove his various items of
pitch black clothing, at least one sexual partner who never
failed to be in perfect accord with his complicated desires
....... . .=20

     "The Lord helps those who help themselves," he purred
aloud, with an evil chortle and a mildly blasphemous smile.

     When, finally, he was clad in nothing but white skin,
he drew an ancient Imperial dragon motif sheng-go out of
the closet. The gift of one S'ui Li, a marvelously depraved
court concubine who had, theoretically, been the personal
property of a minor Ming emperor. LaCroix and S'ui Li had
disproven the theory countless times, in an infinite
variety of ways, during one of his brief visits to China.
S'ui Li  (who had been nicknamed "Jade Needles" by the more
knowledgeable gossip mongers of the court) had given him
the silken robe as a going away present.

     LaCroix pulled the fragile antique silk around his
cool flesh, grinning as he remembered S'ui Li's doll-like
face, apple-like breasts, and shark-like carnal appetites.
A pity the wicked little thing had come to such a bad end.
If the Emperor had not discovered the infidelity of "Jade
Needles" and drowned her in a bucket of rice wine, LaCroix
would certainly have brought her across. Such rare erotic
talent was worthy of preservation.

     LaCroix slipped a pair of embroidered Turkish slippers
on his bare feet and padded to his cozy bed. He plumped
some of the cushions, rearranged others, and then draped
his long body comfortably across the satin sheets. All
vampires, he knew, tended to purchase satin sheets for
their various resting places. It was the exquisite
sensitivity of vampire skin. Even the highest grade cotton
was just too rough for comfort. After a little judicious
wriggling, he relaxed into the soft bedding and smooth
fabric.

     His thoughts began to drift through the complex maze
of his long, long memory, picking out a piquant erotic
encounter here, dwelling on an especially delicious sexual
conquest there.=20

     Nicholas, of course, made many an appearance during
the course of this meandering mental journey. The younger
vampire, in some senses, had the moral outlook of an
anal-retentive Medieval archbishop, but he was also
inhabited by as wanton a sexual spirit as LaCroix had ever
encountered. This weird combination was a large part of the
fabulous creature's enduring appeal. =20

     Nicholas had never surrendered to seduction willingly,
LaCroix reflected, running his big white hands over his own
skin lazily, but he HAD occasionally surrendered to the
imperatives of his own sensual nature in the end. And
invariably hated himself for it in the morning, LaCroix
added mentally, with a fond chuckle. Nicholas could be
completely compromised, seduced, and defiled, over and over
again, and yet never lose one iota of his infinite
innocence, nor one particle of his adamantine will. He was
like the mythical magic porridge pot, which was always
full, no matter how much you took out of it.

     LaCroix' chill fingertips absently sought out the most
sensitive bits of his pale physique as he constructed a
fantasy around his stiff-necked prot=E9g=E9's willfulness and
endless capacity to be scandalized . . .=20

.. . . LaCroix was happily buried in a goose-feather bed in
a drafty thirteenth century castle keep, the ancestral home
of a certain fledgling vampire of LaCroix' intimate
acquaintance.=20

     LaCroix was also buried in the gleaming flesh of a
former virgin called Fleur, and the fact that this
circumstance had been expressly forbidden by Fleur's
brother merely added to his enjoyment of the lovely
ex-maiden.=20

     Not that she wasn't infinitely enjoyable on her own,
LaCroix reflected, listening to Fleur's exquisite cries of
joy as she experienced her fifth orgasm of the night.
Apparently, innate sensuality was a Brabant family trait.
LaCroix had never deflowered a more responsive virgin.

     Just as Fleur was emitting a particularly piercing
scream of pleasure, the oak-plank door of the chamber flew
open and an enraged young vampire burst in.

     "YOU DEGENERATE FIEND!" shrieked Nicholas, accurately
assessing the implications of his sister's happy screams at
once.

     "Uh-oh," whispered Fleur, her fifth approach to
paradise cut short in mid-ecstasy.

     "Now, Nicholas - " LaCroix began, with an infuriating
cat-that-ate-the-canary smirk on his face.

     "My SISTER!" Nicholas accused, beside himself with
wrath. "How could you? How many times have I told you I
didn't want you screwing my sister!?"

     "He's a Medieval maniac," Fleur said to LaCroix
angrily. "I haven't been able to have a boyfriend in my
life, thanks to him."

     Nicholas, red-eyed and conspicuously fanged, leapt for
LaCroix' throat as he growled at his sibling, "That's not
true! What about Jean-Pierre?"

     "Oh, sure. You beat him to a pulp after you caught us
holding hands at the jousting tournament. He never came
near me again."

     Nicholas had landed on all fours right on LaCroix'
solar plexus.     =20

     "Oof ," said LaCroix.

     "He deserved it," Nicholas argued, digging his long
fingers into his maker's throat. "You'd only been going
steady for three years. Who told HIM he could get away with
something like that, anyway, the horny little punk! As for
you - " he turned to LaCroix with a malevolent glare.
"Castration's too good for you! Fine guest you turned out
to be!"

     LaCroix was preparing to break himself free of his
fledgling's outraged grip when a graying female head
emerged from under the covers and said sternly: "Nicolas de
Brabant! You stop this nonsense right this minute!"

     "Maman!" Nicholas cried in anguish, and leapt out of
the bed as though it was a vat of boiling oil. "Not you
too!"

     "Women have needs, son," said Madame de Brabant
calmly.

     Nicholas burst into horrified tears.

     "I can't stand it," he moaned, voice strangled by
emotion. He stared at LaCroix. "Is there ANYONE in my
family you HAVEN'T slept with, you unconscionable
bloodsucking satyr?"

     A smallish lump at the foot of the bed wriggled
vigorously, and a small fluffy head emerged from under the
covers.

     "Fifi!" squawked the appalled Nicholas.

     "Woof!" said the apricot French poodle bitch,
wriggling all the way out from under the bedding. "Woof,
woof," she repeated, and wagged her tail vehemently.

     Nicholas fainted dead away . . .

. . . LaCroix had worked himself into a frenzy of malicious
snickering with this whimsical rewrite of actual history.
Although he was really laughing too hard to continue to
pursue the release he had proposed to give himself, he
didn't regret the turn his fancy had taken. Not what DID
happen, he thought, giggling madly, but what SHOULD have
happened. It was really too funny.=20

     Ah, he'd have to get his mind on a less humorous track
if he hoped to find fulfillment this night. His fingers
toyed with the cup of his own navel as he gradually
controlled his malign sense of humor. His hand strayed
toward a twitching target to the south of his bellybutton
and he imagined an ancient villa in Egypt, in old Luxor . .
.....

.. . . "Divia!" he shouted, striding out of the interior of
the small but luxurious home he had rented for their stay
in the land of Khem. The full desert moon struck him almost
blindingly as he entered the open atrium of  the
Roman-style villa. Sensible accommodations had been easy to
find in the major cities of Egypt since before the time of
Julius Caesar, and traveling Roman citizens were treated
like honored guests throughout the Black Land. Rome pretty
much owned the ancient nation, anyway, if the truth were
known.

     "Divia," he shouted again, "What have you done with
the . . . "

     He trailed off as he took in the moonlit scene in the
atrium. His implacable daughter, Divia, was sitting,
cross-legged, at the epicenter of the scattered and
shredded remains of twenty-one costly and highly skilled
domestic slaves.

     " - with the servants." LaCroix finished lamely.

     Gore dripped from Divia's sharp little teeth as she
gnawed at what had been the steward's left femur. She
beamed at her dismayed father girlishly.=20

     "Divia," LaCroix said, not quite sure whether he was
reprimanding his wayward little girl or simply stating the
obvious for his own mental comfort. "You've devoured our
entire domestic staff."

     "Sorry, Daddy," she said in her high-pitched little
voice. "I had the munchies."

     "Do you have ANY idea how much servants like these
cost, young lady?"

     Divia spit out a bit of gristle she'd inadvertently
swallowed and rose to her feet. The moonlight transformed
her pale hair into the halo of a savage angel. She glided
toward her Dad gracefully, deliberately adding a
provocative sway of prepubescent hips to her unearthly
gait.

     An uncomfortable chill tiptoed up LaCroix' spine. He
began to back away from the repulsive, yet hellishly
seductive preteen, until he caught himself doing it and
forced himself to stand his ground.

     "Are you suggesting I've been a bad girl, Daddy?" she
inquired silkily.

     "Well, Divia, there ARE limits, you know," he
answered, unable to keep a nervous, guilty squeak out of
his voice.

     "A REALLY bad girl?" asked the perverse little lady.

     "Um . . . well . . . pretty bad, I suppose . . ."

     Divia came to a stop approximately three centimeters
short of full body contact with her deeply ambivalent old
man. The top of her head was a mere handbreadth above his
waist. He could have eaten soup off her head, if he had
crouched down a little, and if he had been capable of
digesting soup.

     She was small, yes. But that didn't mean she wasn't
also evil incarnate.

     "Really, really naughty-bad, Daddy?" she crooned in
baby-talk.

     I'm not just the worst parent on the planet, LaCroix
said to himself in fierce self-accusation. I'm probably the
worst parent in the HISTORY of the planet. Just LOOK at
this poisonous little abomination. And she's so . . . cute.

     As that last treacherous thought worked an evil magic
on LaCroix' traitor libido, the horrid preteen before him
grabbed his left hand, quick as a striking adder, and
brought it into sharp, stinging contact with her own nubile
backside.

     "Then I need a SPANKING, don't I, Daddy? Wouldn't you
like to-"=20

     (!)

     (STOP THIS AT ONCE!)

     LaCroix cut the nasty fantasy short with a mortified
shudder, before his malevolent dream-daughter could finish
whatever unthinkable proposition she'd had in mind. There
were SOME dark depths in LaCroix' wicked psyche that even
he was afraid to plumb. Divia, the ultimate fate he had put
her to, and his own unvarnished feelings toward her, lurked
at the Stygian bottom of one of them.

     LaCroix determinedly cast his thoughts toward other
places, other faces, and dwelled on them avidly until he
had calmed down. Eventually, the miserable specter of Divia
faded, and was finally replaced by a more wholesome
imaginary scenario . . .

..... . . He was walking, rather despondently, through the
darkened barroom of the Raven, locking up for the night.
Earlier, the place had been packed from opening to closing
with scores of riotous vampires who'd come to help LaCroix
celebrate his one-thousandth, nine-hundred and ninety-ninth
birthday.

     Gifts had been given, well-wishes had been wished, and
a small ocean of house red (predominately type O) had gone
down any number of vampiric hatches.

     Quite a bash, LaCroix reflected wistfully. Really,
there'd only been one important element missing.

     Nicholas had failed to show up.

     The fact that the younger vampire had forgotten his
birthday wounded LaCroix bitterly, much as he would have
liked to deny it.=20

     The thoughtless, selfish  . . .  putz, LaCroix
exclaimed mentally. You'd think, after eight hundred years,
he could remember an important occasion like his sire's
1,999th! LaCroix scanned the dark, empty barroom one last
time, then trudged toward his in-house apartment.

     It was even possible, LaCroix theorized with a hurt
sigh, that the stubborn young ingrate had not really
forgotten at all. He'd had no trouble remembering Father's
Day, after all. LaCroix had a very nice antique watch in
his pocket to prove it. Nicholas might have stayed away
deliberately, as some sort of petulant gesture of defiance.
He was certainly capable of such childish tactics. LaCroix
shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger, as he moved
down the hall toward his private chamber door.

     He was startled when the door slid ajar at his touch.
Hadn't he locked it? He almost never forgot.

     He sidled cautiously inside and a merry female voice
shouted "Surprise!" right in his ear.

     "Doctor Lambert," he intoned, as he disengaged all ten
fingers and the toes of both shoes from the plaster of the
ceiling and dropped, with what dignity he could muster,
back to the floor. "A surprise indeed. Perhaps Nicholas has
never acquainted you with the fact that persons of the
vampire persuasion do not like it when you shout in their
ears?"

     "Oh, fiddle-dee-dee,  you old grump," she said. "Happy
Birthday!"

     LaCroix' annoyance faded as he took in the pretty
pathologist's costume. She was wrapped, mummy-wise, in
yards of pink satin ribbon. A fluffy bow at her neck
completed, and apparently anchored, the eccentric, but
fetching, ensemble. One quick tug on that loose end there,
he calculated, and the whole thing would come unraveled
like -  what WAS this, anyway?

     He also noted, with dawning pleasure, that Doctor
Lambert was standing next to the biggest white icing
birthday cake LaCroix had ever seen. 1,999 little candles
blazed cheerfully at the top of this edifice in pastry.

     The doctor began to sing in her off-key, but not
unpleasing, contralto, "Happy birthday to you . . ."

     When she had finished the timeless birthday ditty, she
grinned like a lunatic and produced a serviceable drumroll
by beating her small fists against a nearby end table.
LaCroix, mistaking her intent, obliged her and immediately
blew out his hundreds of birthday candles. Yet, even when
the last candle had been extinguished, her impromptu
makeshift drumroll continued.

     LaCroix stepped back from the monstrous dessert, at a
loss. Then, Natalie's drumroll reached its climax, and
Nicholas erupted out of the mountain of cake, wearing
nothing but a huge grin and a tasteful blue bow.

     "Happy Birthday, LaCroix! I bet you thought I forgot!"

     In all of LaCroix' long history, he had only known one
individual who had the ability to render him speechless.
That rare individual was standing in about a hundred pounds
of exploded birthday cake right now, laughing hysterically.

     Nicholas' bow waggled perkily as his whole body shook
with mirth. Natalie laughed so hard she choked.

     "Why, you conniving, deceitful things!" LaCroix said,
unable to stop grinning. A being of his years was rarely
surprised, and he found the novel experience strangely
gratifying.

     "Read him the poem, Nick," Natalie croaked, tears of
laughter in her eyes.

     "Oh, right . . ." Nicholas giggled, trying to get
himself under control. "Oh, ah, a minute . . . the look on
your face, LaCroix! Priceless!"=20

     He cleared his throat repeatedly as he slogged his way
out of the cake. LaCroix noticed a small scroll in his
unpredictable prot=E9g=E9's hand. Finally, Nicholas was ready
to recite, and he unrolled the scroll with a flourish.

     "A Birthday Poem for You," Nicholas declaimed, in his
fine, satiny baritone. Then he went on:=20
     "Happy Birthday, master,
     That's what we're here to say,
     We're giving you a present,
     To mark your natal day:

     I've quit my job with the coppers,
     And just to prove you're boss,
     I've sharpened up my choppers,
     And brought our Nat across!

     And just to make you happy,
     another gift for you:
     I'll let you fuck Nat's brains out -=20
     and fuck MY brains out, too!"

     Natalie applauded Nick's faultless recitation as both
of them executed absurdly theatrical bows.=20

     LaCroix was thunderstruck.=20

     Were they joking? Some sort of sophomoric birthday
prank? The gods knew, he'd played enough pranks on Nicholas
over the years to warrant some just retribution. But no,
there was nothing the least bit disingenuous in their
playful expressions. Besides, although LaCroix didn't know
the Doctor as well as he would have liked to (but THAT may
be about to change, he thought with greedy anticipation) he
was certain Nicholas simply didn't have the brains for such
an elaborate practical joke. He wasn't really mean enough
for it, either, to give him his due.

     Natalie pressed her beribboned body against LaCroix'
left side and whispered in his ear.

     "I still hate your guts. But Nick tells me that love
and hate are not mutually exclusive conditions in vampire
psychology, and I'm beginning to see what he means."

     Her eyes ignited with supernatural avarice and her
lips parted around a brand-new pair of pearly little fangs.
She administered a deliciously vicious love-bite to
LaCroix' earlobe, and shuddered voluptuously as she
swallowed the sip of blood that welled out of the small
wound. Her satin wrappings rustled maddeningly.=20

     "Besides," she said. "What the hell, you're only 1,999
once."

     "How true, Nat," Nicholas agreed, tracking frosting
across the floor as he moved to a spot behind Natalie and
took her into one of his customary retrograde embraces. He
reached around to give her beribboned right breast a
companionable squeeze and tossed a provocative glance at
his sire. "The fact is, we had no idea what to get for you,
LaCroix, and we were stuck for a rhyme on that last verse,
anyway. So, we decided to give you something we suspect
you've always wanted. Correct, Doctor?" he added, with a
private leer at his gift-wrapped new fledgling.=20

     "Just as you say . . . master," Nat answered, doing a
pretty fair Karloff burlesque. She produced a comically
salacious leer of her own to answer Nick's and they both
laughed delightedly at one another

     "Ahem . . ." said the birthday boy, who was beginning
to feel a wee bit neglected. It was all very well to make
outrageous promises, but it was also important to remember
who was in charge around here. Although he was experiencing
some uncharacteristic uncertainty as to just who that might
be.    =20

     Nicholas trailed away from Natalie and wove around to
a spot at LaCroix' right. The sticky white footprints he
left behind as he moved looked like a mail order dance
lesson; intricate paper steps laid out on the floor. And it
WAS a dance, of sorts, LaCroix reflected with a pleasant
tingle. Nicholas circling his prey. It's his way. I doubt
he's even aware he does it.=20

     He spoke softly to LaCroix. "Nat and I have decided to
move to Ohio and become CPAs, and I know you'll have a
little something to say about THAT (not that I'll listen to
anything you have to say, you understand), but tonight . .
..... well, tonight we celebrate. What do you say, Birthday
Pseudo-Father?"

     Nicholas forestalled any protest LaCroix might have
been inclined to make regarding these surprising new career
plans by initiating a series of small movements too subtle
and too fast to follow. The net result was a glorious three
way embrace, a tight fit that would have looked unworkable
on paper.=20

     Nicholas' blue bow crackled as it brushed against
LaCroix' upper right thigh. Nat's pink ribbons hissed as
they slid over her shifting limbs and under LaCroix' left
hand. He turned his face to the right and a breathstealing
kiss with some fiendishly clever tongue work issued from
that direction. On the left, a dainty mouth worked at his
bleeding earlobe like a kitten lapping cream. Oh, they had
him surrounded, and no mistake. LaCroix decided debate
would prove unfruitful in this instance, although he still
did not go so far as to actually shut his mouth.=20

     A pair of small female hands insinuated themselves
into the privacy of LaCroix' black clothing, and he
started, momentarily, as one of them located a particularly
private prize.

     "Don't worry," murmured the coroner. "I know what I'm
doing. I'm a doctor."

     Nicholas issued that strange throaty growl that he
only sounded in moments of extreme arousal, the one that
had always driven LaCroix out of his mind. A whirlwind of
black clothes, pink ribbon, and one blue bow showered the
room. Eyes glowed, fangs flashed, blood flowed. The three
of them fell into a mushy mound of defunct birthday cake in
an impassioned tangle . . .=20

..... . . LaCroix writhed in his solitary bed as he played
this
wonderful fantasy out toward its logical conclusion. Shriek
after ecstatic shriek poured out of his throat. As any of
his intimates could have verified, he had always been a
screamer.

     One hand performed intricate miracles of
self-gratification on his chill flesh, as the other
spasmodically ripped through seven layers of fancy bedding
and shredded the mattress beneath. Eiderdown puffed
dreamily out of the rents.

     When LaCroix became aware, distantly, that he was
reaching the outer limits of sensual delight, and that the
usual reckoning was imminent, he performed one last feat of
erotic prowess.=20

     He had a certain felicitous physical idiosyncrasy,
something quite rare among both vampires and mortals. This
peculiarity allowed him to do something many wished they
could do, but few could actually accomplish.

     He was completely double jointed, in every major
juncture of his body.

     The vampiric ejaculation response, though deliriously
satisfying, was inarguably messy. LaCroix wasn't about to
splatter his nice room and precious silk robe with an
orgasmic vampire's essential fluid. Even if HE was the
orgasmic vampire in question. The fact was, he had learned
long ago, bloodstains were next to impossible to wash out.

     So he twisted his long body into a geometrically
unlikely white pretzel and sank his fangs into his own
sexual centerpiece like a serpent swallowing its tail.=20

     The scarlet gush of vampiric climax vacated his body
via one aperture and reentered it at a moment's remove
through another.

     Perfect solipsism. Not a drop was spilled.

     LaCroix unkinked himself and lay back, sated, in the
comfy nest of his bed. He'd have to get that tear in the
mattress fixed tomorrow, and buy some new bed linens. No
matter. The current ones were getting old, anyway.

     He was perfectly content, at least for the moment.
Tomorrow night, the infernal bookkeeping still awaited. But
that was no matter as well. When you were pushing two
thousand, you tended to live in the moment.=20

     LaCroix stretched like a great albino tomcat that has
just feasted on an entire turkey and then curled into the
silky softness of his favorite robe. Dawn approached. His
eyes slowly drooped closed, and he slept.=20

     And ANOTHER Saturday night came to an end.