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by Nick Zagone


            [A young man, center.]

YOUNG MAN: Ran her debit card for purchase
Flaming haired young thing
tats on the side of her face
and spikes up and down her ears
Ran her debit card for the purchase
Her books: Ditta Von Teese
and the newest young adult Twilight schlock
I’m unfazed, how Portland ubiquitous
Ran her debit card for purchase
Thin waif, seemed tall but must have been the heels,
pale against her black tank top
Ran her debit card for purchase
Pretty tough but pretty and the look seemed to fit her
and she was comfortable in it― Some aren’t
The confidence might be what made her… well…
“Please enter your PIN”
(Not your PIN number―that would be Personal Identification Number-Number BTW)
She leans over the counter now close, into my… area
Holding the pad (not many do)
Mentions (like many do) that the keypad was unusually loud
(It does have an annoying little “beep!”)
There’s reason for that:
And I give her my patent one liner:
“Yeah, but during Christmas in here?
You can’t even hear it.”
She looks at me quizzically, lets that sink in,
I smile, she coyly volleys a smile back:
And. There. They. Were.
Full reveal, there they were:
She had Fangs
Pearly white and brilliant against blood red lipstick
She had Fangs
Made her entire mouth gleam red and full
She had Fangs
About a half an inch long. Bicuspids. Canines?
I don’t know I’m not a dentist,
And I wasn’t about to go Google it either because I was too busy
  being stunned into zombie like silence.
Fangs. This is new.
Of all the tats spikes henna piercing scarring branding and kidyounot
  even devil horns,
Of all the book stores in the city your insecure show-your-
  independence-body-mutilation had to come into Powell’s
Forget that. Of course she would whatwasIthinking
In the seconds seemed like minutes seemed like hours—
I was trying to think… fake or grinded or implanted? Or maybe…?
Now starting to, really becoming conscious of how:
“Stirred” I was.
Stirred was I.
Deepdown. Deeep doowwn
Abdomen.  Thighs.  Loins.
Seen women with Fangs in the movies hundreds of times
but see real ones Grotesquely beautiful ones up close
You suddenly realize the allure
I was turned on and off simultaneously
My Catholic physiognomy simultaneously made me believe yet
  crushed my instinct Yin yet Yang
I don’t really know what I’m saying.
Basically, to be base, my John Thomas didn’t know whether to pull a
  Frampton Comes Alive or shriek and shrink into my pelvis: “Closed… But Please, please, please, call again.”
Because frankly what if her mouth came anywhere near my…
Oh god:
And She knew it: What she was doing
She’d seen it before And she liked it. What she was doing:
She had fangs.
I guess that’s why you’d get Fangs.
And like a zombie automaton mouth agape, staring, I put the receipt
  in the books the books in the bag put the bag in her hand and then
  stopped, we played a little tug of war, she raised an eyebrow and I
“I’m sure you’ve um.
Been asked. But… um,
I guess what I want to inquire is um—
“Why?” She says “Why? That’s new. Usually I get ‘how?’”
No, I’m just like, ya know… Why?
And she says “Well, I guess, so I can do this:
            [He hisses, loud, like cat, teeth bared and evil.]
Oh. And I let go of the bag.
And she smiles again.
And as she leaves, as she struts, as she moves across the store
she keeps her eyes on me… all the way, out… the door.
And then… in the window, because I’m still watching, she pauses and
  she does…
            [with index finger, a come hither motion]
Well, I’m on the clock, working, but hey I also got a girlfriend and
  that didn’t stop my ass either.
I darted “Takin’ a ten!” To whoever leaping the counter
Through the door the crowds
Out past the spare-a-dimes,
The Beevo kids trolling for pot
The Greenpeace voter registration clip board-ers
She was already shakin’ her can clear down Burnside.
Far and weeeeeee
Her face, turns back with a smile
And I almost get hit by a truck and I look back up
and she’s even farther, down past Broadway
Turn back and smile
I look both ways and look up and she’s past Big Pink,
Turn back and smile
And I’m running now, and coughing and hacking and she’s like Fucking Peppy LePew springing along,
Da-dup Da-dup
I’m almost to where she is and she’s farther away,
Like she stretches time, like a space jump, 
Past the old Theatre Paris, Voodoo Doughnut, Berbatti’s Pan
And I feel like I’m slogging through heavy mud
And bums with cans
And tourists and Old Town pushers:
“What do ya need bro? What do you need man?”
And my feet are weighted with lead now and my joints feel rusty, Then I catch sight of her heading back toward the Burnside bridge! Our eyes meet and she’s gone as a streetcar goes by, I dash and dance
  and ache and the streetcar is past and
There it is: Another Full Reveal
The glorious Saturday Market, In full tilt
Throngs of undulating crowds and oh shit.
The music and the noise and the guy juggling garbage cans and
  cleavers and shrunken heads and oh Christ I’m never ever, ever
  going to find her and there she is! In the booths! and I run and it’s
  patchouli and pot and stinky candles and bam I run smack into the 7
  foot tie dye guy and I smell the wet leather and Birkenstocks and I’m
  high and I can’t fucking get through all the strollers! My God! The
  strollers and the strollers! The kid’s got legs! Let the kid walk for
  gods sake! Why won’t the kid sleep at night? because the child’s
  been in your damn stroller all fucking day! He’s atrophying for
  God’s sake and how does that stroller even fit in your car!
And There she is! Oh my God! By the Handmade Organic Hemp Dream Pillows, (I could really use one of those) and she’s licking her
  lips now and her eyes gleam like that yellow reflection your
  headlights catch—and suddenly she’s a pussy cat raccoon a opossum And she’s gone and I trip over the Cat in the Hat accordion player, Jew’s harp, ukulele, banjo and the violin player is playing the same
  damn Irish jig over and over again BADLY and (take me to the
  bridge, where is that confounded bridge) and there!
She stands among the glass blown bongs and she slowly melts into
  mist and is sucked into the carb of the tallest sweetest bong surely
  used by the girl with kaleido-Lennon eyes by the turnstile and don’t
  call me Shirley. And there! She’s hanging by her skin in Dean’s
  Original Ear Nest in Gory Jesus Christ Pose earrings piercing her
  entire body blood running down her face and her breast and her
  nipple and she’s smiling
(And dipshit clipboard guy asks me if I have a few moments for the
  “ethical treatment of people who need my money” and I take his
  clipboard and toss it across the cobblestones)
And there she is!
In the elephant ear booth and I stumble to her and she’s in a red
  checkerboard apron with her hair up sugar and powder on her cheeks
  and nose and she’s cute and I say “there you are” and she says “first
  an elephant ear” and I look down and she’s really handing me an
  elephant ear ripped from the side of an elephant’s head, blood and
  flies, and hay, and black curly hair and she laughs at the sky and her
  Fangs are bared and the sky’s all purple there were people running
  everywhere (and why no Prince T-shirts? They’d sell better than
  Neil Young for fuck sake)
And I step back
And fall ass over teakettle into the Skidmore Fountain and the taste of
  the water is McMenamin’s Hammerhead Ale which I believe is an
  IPA and a horse is licking it from my face and some ancient English
  bobby on the horse taps his billy against the fountain and says:
“Sir? Sir? You there! The fountain is not for bathing in I’m going to
  have to ask you to leave Huphup cheerio”
And there’s a beat a beat a beat
I look across the silent market where all the crowds are gone now and
  the Nike urban tumbleweed plastic bags blow across the tracks but
  there’s no wind
And the bobby is now on a people mover and he quietly slides across
  a vacant Waterfront Park and there’s nothing, nothing
And she stands in front of me now
And the quiet of the Willamette is lapping against the retaining wall
And she’s closer now,
And the Rose Festival Sailors are saluting me,
As she’s closer,
And the strippers on the Morrison Bridge throw roses in the waves
As she puts her lips to mine,
And she’s got fangs
And reaches into my hair
And she’s got fangs
And The Couv is burning to the ground in the distance
And she’s got Fangs
And she pulls my head back and sideways and I see through her red
  hair an image, a man’s face,
And I lock on the eyes of a Plaque of Bud Clark
And I reflect his sweet curly mustached St. Nick smile as I now look
  up to the clouds the lovely ubiquitous clouds breaking open a drizzly Portland ubiquitous rain and her ubiquitous Fangs pierce my
  ubiquitous flesh.
And after my ubiquitous Portland nightmare of the ubiquitous
  vampire girl, I reach and put a hand upon my tender neck
And I feel the two bumps
And I feel light headed
And in the mirror I sure look pale…
Like I’ve seen a ghost
And the wounds are fresh
And I think to myself…
Well. That’s new.


* * *

Purchase this script

Copyright © 2009 by Nick Zagone

CAUTION: Professionals and amateurs are hereby warned that Portland Blood Slam is subject to a royalty. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, and of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union (including the Dominion of Canada and the rest of the British Commonwealth), and of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, and of all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights, including professional and amateur stage performing, motion picture, recitation, lecturing, public reading, radio broadcasting, television, video or sound taping, all other forms of mechanical or electronic reproduction, such as information storage and retrieval systems and photocopying, and the rights of translation into foreign languages, are strictly reserved.

Inquiries concerning all rights should be addressed to the author at zagonenick@icloud.com or www.facebook.com/nickzagone



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