Breaking Point

 
        This is so damn humiliating.
         This would never happen to Dracula, or the Vampire Lestat, or that suave jerk from Twilight.  This would never happen to any of the three hundred humans I go to school with, not even the zit-covered nerd who pissed his pants last year.  This wouldn’t happen to my twelve year old brother, who thinks burping songs is an art form.
         No, only I, the outcast, the flunky, the loser, the eldest son of the only nonviolent, environmentally-conscious vampire family in south-western Pennsylvania, could be stupid enough to get cornered in this shit hole.
         Oh, yes, it’s a literal shit hole.
         I’ve been trapped in this porta-potty for about three hours now.
         It wasn’t too bad until those assholes tipped it over, and, well, I can’t even describe the stink.  Be grateful, human, that you will never have the advanced sense of smell that I have.  It’s often not a blessing.
         So, who are those pricks that trapped me in here?  Only the same three pricks that have beat me up at least twice a week for the past three years: Calvin Veeks, Roy Niagra, and Corky Sumner.
         Yeah, I know, I’m a vampire.  I have the strength to hurl all three of their overweight asses onto the roof of a two-story building.  I could tear their fat arms out of their sockets.  I could stuff all three of them into this porta-potty and roll it into the river.
         But I’m not allowed.  My overly religious mother forbids it.
         “Ma, I’m getting beaten up all the time by a bunch of low-lifes who are older than me and can’t even pass tenth grade remedial English.  I won’t hurt them bad.”
         “No violence, Eugene.”  Yes, as if life couldn’t get any worse, my name is Eugene.
         “But, Ma!”
         “No violence!  Now go read your bible like a decent, well-behaved little bloodsucker.”
         “Ma!”
         “Your mother is right, Eugene,” my dad interjected.  “Go read and pray God forgives your impure thoughts of violence.  Ask forgiveness for those water bottles you didn't recycle, too.  Don't think I didn't see them in your trash can.”
         That is my life. 
         No swearing, no smoking, no alcohol, no girls.  No rock ‘n’ roll.  No caffeine.  No human blood, for Christ’s sake.  We drink rat and squirrel blood every night.  Seriously.  By choice.
         But “no violence” is the kicker, the hardest rule to obey.  I’ve never broken that sacred rule, despite how ridiculous I find it to be.
         Good God, this porta-potty stinks.
         Outside, Corky knocks on the door, which is facing skyward.
         “Hello?” he calls.
         “I think it’s occupied!” cracks Roy, and the White Trash Trio burst into moronic laughter.
         A beer bottle crashes against the roof of the porta-potty.  “Hey, Eugene,” Calvin yells, “We’re getting shit-faced drunk out here.  What about you?  You shit-faced yet?”
         Again with the idiotic laughter.
         I grit my teeth and pain shoots through my mouth.  With my tongue, I inspect the sharp, jagged edges of my broken teeth.  Not only am I a loser vampire, but I am now a loser vampire who can’t even strike a vein in a puny little squirrel.
         I was drinking when they found me.  Recklessly assuming I was alone, I had chased a rat into the woods.  Eventually I caught it, and tore in with my smooth, healthy fangs.  Ignoring my surroundings like a complete fool, I didn’t even sense the presence of the White Trash Trio until it was too late.
         Even my twelve year old brother, who once crashed his skateboard into the same tree sixteen times in a row, would not have been so stupid as to get caught feeding by the loudest, smelliest rednecks in town.
         The rat was still at my lips when they busted me.  Calvin and Roy, who both held six packs in each hand, just stared in disbelief at the scene.  Corky, however, whose hands were free, apparently thought the appropriate reaction would be to punch the rat as hard as possible.  My teeth, still sunk deep in the rat’s flesh, snapped right off like dry twigs.  Such wonderful genetics I was granted.
         “You eat rats?” Corky scoffed.  “Eugene, dude, you eat rats?”
         “Maybe he’ll live in the sewers when he grows up,” Calvin suggested.  “Lots of rats to eat down there.  Whaddya say, Eugene?  Wanna live in the sewers?”
         “Back off,” I firmly stated, heroically concealing the excruciating pain of my broken fangs.
         “You gotta start small,” Roy muttered, barely audible.
         “What?” Calvin asked.
         Roy cleared his throat and spit on the ground.  “You can’t just move into the sewers.  You work up to that.  Don’t worry, Eugene, I’ve got a great idea.”
         He then proceeded to grab my arm and drag me through the forest for about a quarter mile until we came upon a construction site.
         “What are we doing here?” Corky asked.
         “You’ll see,” Roy said, grinning.
         Then they came into view: three porta-potties standing majestically in a row.
         “No,” I said, beginning to panic.  “No way.”
         “Don’t be a wuss, Eugene.  We’re trying to help you achieve your dreams.”
         Into the middle porta-potty they shoved me.  After about five minutes of leaning against the door, Corky suggested they push it over and sit on it instead.  Mortified, I desperately clung to the plastic walls as the porta-potty toppled over, drenching me in a day’s worth of construction workers’ shit.  The White Trash Trio then climbed onto the door and resumed their drinking.
         And here we are at the end of the third hour.
         “Maybe a rat will be your prom date, Eugene.”
         “Eugene, loosen up.  Don’t have a shit fit.”
         “Do you look like a piece of shit yet, Eugene, you piece of shit?”
         I hate my life.
         “Hey, maybe we can make waves if we kick the sides,” Roy brilliantly devises.  “Stir up a real shit storm!”
         Calvin and Corky giggle like schoolgirls for the idea, and promptly the walls are shaking and the sewage splashes up all around me, stretching dangerously close to my still relatively clean face.
         Searing pain shoots though my mouth as my jaw clenches.
         This is utterly unbearable, utterly degrading and unforgivable.  My blood runs white hot through my veins.
         To hell with the rules.
         To hell with my parents.
         To hell with the Bible.
         To hell with getting beaten up all the time.
         To hell with being a loser.
         With all my might, I kick open the porta-potty door.  The White Trash Trio stop kicking and burst into laughter.
         “Jesus Christ,” Calvin chokes through his laughter.  “You look like shit.”
         Breaking point.
         Game over.
         Calvin’s laughter dies as I lunge for him.  Grabbing him by the shirt collar, I twist and heave him into the porta-potty.  Roy and Corky rush to his aid, but I am too fast…
         As I cross the construction site, I glance over my shoulder at the three overturned porta-potties, each with a random assortment of heavy machinery set atop the doors, each with a piece of white trash screaming to get out.
         To hell with the rules.
         I’m tired of being treated like shit.