He turned away from his typewriter and allowed the
picture to coalesce in his mind's eye.
The Cerebus readership was there, composed in some (small? large?)
measure of females with their male housepets. He squinted, endeavouring
to see if any male was chafing at the invisible conduits and
metaphorical tubing which drained his life, his essence, his energy as
surely and as effectively as any fictional vampire. Cats' eyes gleamed
in the darkness, filled with malice. A couple of rows back an obese
brunette was stripping away chunks of brain tissue from a thin, pale
youth with a spotted face. His head lolled against his shoulder in her
direction, his face radiant with ecstasy. He turned to her, his eyes
half-lidded. He smiled and mouthed, "I love you." She smiled back at
him, indulgently. His eyes closed once more. She stuck out her sandpaper
tongue, dotted with brains and blood, in Viktor Davis' direction and
then cackled loudly. The youth giggled quietly to himself.
To the far left, in the front row, the white husk of a heavy-set man in
his early thirties squirmed in the direction of his Lady and Master, his
features reflecting pain, confusion and fear. She held his forearm in
front of her as if they were bound, one to the other, but in such a way
that she was also holding him slightly apart from her. Viktor Davis
could see that the fellow had been a quick meal - little more than a
snack, by the looks of things. Traces of dried brain-matter, hard and
uninviting, encrusted what little there was left of the top of his head.
She looked very, very hungry. Every few seconds she turned around in her
seat, the hunger in her gaze sweeping across the rows to her immediate
rear. Females touched by that insatiable stare hunched a little closer
to their own housepets, a menacing growl rumbling low in their throats.
Viktor Davis turned back to his typewriter.
"Th
.
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