CHRISTOPHER MOORE BLOODSUCKING FIENDS PDF

Thomas Flood lands in the city by the Bay, fresh from the farming fields of Indiana, determined to write a great American novel. He rents a cot from a Chinese entrepreneur named Wong and finds himself living with five other Chinese gentlemen all named Wong as well. The Wongs are excited because they have recently learned that it is legal for two men to marry in San Francisco. Thomas has something they really, really lust for American citizenship. Needless to say living with five men who C.

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Chapter One Death Sundown painted purple across the great Pyramid while the Emperor enjoyed a steaming whiz against a dumpster in the alley below. The financial district: an hour ago it ran with rivers of men in gray wool and women in heels; now the streets, built on sunken ships and gold-rush garbage, were deserted quiet except for a foghorn that lowed across the bay like a lonesome cow.

The Emperor shook his scepter to clear the last few drops, shivered, then zipped up and turned to the royal hounds who waited at his heels. My city is decaying before your eyes. The air is thick with poison, the children are shooting each other in the street, and now this plague, this horrible plague is killing my people by the thousands, and all you think about is food. Does one have to die to find dignity?

I wonder. The Emperor turned to see the lid of the dumpster being slowly lifted by a pale hand. Bummer barked a warning. A figure stood up in the dumpster, his hair dark and wild and speckled with trash, skin white as bone. He vaulted out of the dumpster and hissed at the little dog, showing long white fangs. The vampire brushed a bit of rotted lettuce from his black shirt and grinned.

The vampire laughed, then turned and walked away. The Emperor felt a chill run up his neck as the vampire disappeared into the fog. He hung his head and thought, Not this. My city is dying of poison and plague and now this — this creature — stalks the streets. The responsibility is suffocating. Emperor or not, I am only a man. I am weak as water: an entire empire to save and right now I would sell my soul for a bucket of the Colonels crispy-fried chicken.

Ah, but I must be strong for the troops. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be the Emperor of Oakland. There is a bakery in North Beach that will presently be dumping the day-old. The foregoing is excerpted from Bloodsucking Fiends by Christopher Moore. All rights reserved.

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