\ 22:12 "Voicemail and hangovers" | unlimitedi.net
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2021-05-12 22:12
Jasmin's Apartment
151 Wooster Street, SoHo
The first thing that the vampire began to notice as she woke was the fact that she was in her own bed, almost completely unsure as to exactly how, or when that happened. That and her mouth tasted like carpet. Jasmin lay in bed, staring at the cieling. Time. What time was it? It didn't smell like the sun was up, or on the way up – but then, it didn't feel like it was on the way down either.
Sitting up in bed gave her pause, reaching down around her waist. Dress, check. Corset... was where? A glance around the room revealed that on the bed. She shook her head and stumbled out into the bathroom of the master suite, turning on the water of the faucet to begin splashing on her face. No reflection to help there, she knew, but...
The memory of the previous night started to return. Her friend Evalyn, not that they did anything serious, except for a great deal of drinking, and for the first time ever, mixing drugs into her blood. The lightheaded, irrational feel. As she finished with her face, she found her phone and glanced briefly at the time.
Ten at night.
May Twelth.
You have voicemail.
Of course I have voice mail; I cancelled all my appointment last night... I think. She'd handle those later, she decided, as she took the time to shower and, at least for the moment, change into a black silk robe.
Jasmin opened her missed call list. No surprises there; half her messages were probably just confirmations anyway, though she'd still have to listen to them all. Memory came back from the night before as she sat out there.
"You know what we should do? Let's go kill something!" She had proposed that. "Come on. A demon or a mugger or something. The two of us giving chase. It'll be fun!" Jasmin groaned to herself as that part of the evening came back. As fun as it would have been, in restrospect, the protest Evalyn wisely raised was correct: too drunk and too high to kill, especially to do it and not get caught. The fact that she had promptly lost the fight of Vampire vs Stairs sealed the fact that they would not be killing anything, save for additional bottles of alcohol.
Then she made the mistake of opening her bedroom door.
It wasn't a mess that did it. Not a huge mess, as much as it was the collection of glasses, wine bottles, scotch bottles, and . . . "When did I buy the Viking's Blood?" she asked as she picked up a bottle of mead, sniffing at it. Nightshade? They made it with nightshade? A look at the couch confirmed a number of bottles over there, including one torn up, three-quarter finished packet of blood which only by some miracle had not spilled on the furniture.
She picked up the remainder of that to sniff it, remembering what she went through with her cabinet in the fridge to find it. "I need the special blood. The good stuff.. not this American crap. We've gone downhill since we started having a fastfood diet. American, American, Chinese never before midnight, the Russian is a bit more Red than most – here we go, Romanian!" She had popped up from there triumphantly, and went into a bad impression of George Hamilton doing a bad Romanian accent, quoting a film from 1979. "Look at me, I'm not even scary anymore. I am a skinny-legged yenta, a little black chicken flying around!"
Right. Time to survey the rest of the damage, as she turned around and poked her head into the bedroom that served as the combination of occult library and office. That was miraculously in tact. At least that room was spared, as she went to check the guest bedroom.
Clothing. Piles of clothing, much of it old. Then she remembered the "film through the ages" game, which resulted in her trying to dress like various old-time characters, and... she lost her train of thought going through the garmets. When did I buy this outfit? No, wait, why did I.... oh. That's right. That ex was fucking wierd. Jasmin put aside the fake cat ears and almost non-existent costume, having a memory of sitting in the other woman's lap and purring at her, somehow culminating in a discussion of how attractive and bitable certain necks could be.
Evalyn pointed out only that her flirting technique needed work.
At least, she thought, nothing serious happened, when she went up the stairs in the apartment to the terrace. More bottles. Plastic baggies that had to disappear, and singing a rap song about getting high with dinosaurs. Then the improvised rap song about getting high with demons and vampires, which somehow digressed into how music and cinema had gone downhill over the past ever.
"Never again," she swore to herself, starting back down to get to work on the arduous cleaning chore ahead of her.

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