A CALL TO DISORDER
By Dixon Chance


            The meeting was gaveled in at midnight, but the Mayor hadn't arrived, and the city council, who only responded to threats of violence, refused to sit still.  Councilwoman Lady Camilla Redgrave, who was second in command and should have been stepping in, was over by the fireplace, in the good light, splayed dramatically across a Louis the Fourteenth chaise-longue in her black velvet gown, brooding over a cut-glass decanter of absinthe, completely ignoring Hank's gavel.  Councilman Dagon the Dark was arguing with Councilman Vlad Thrillkill , and they'd both thrown back the hoods of their capes, hissing at each other, their yellow eyes crazed with hunger.  The Thanatos triplets were all by the window, peering down, probably at the few brave humans who'd ventured out this evening, picking which one to eat later.
            None of them were wearing their nametags.  It was a little thing, but it was just one more sign of disorder that drove Hank nuts.  He had his.  It took five seconds to put it on.  A simple courtesy. 
            The clock clanged twelve thirty.  Hank banged the gavel again.  "Come on, people!  Councilwoman Redgrave?  I'm sure you feel very bleak this winter evening, but can you call this meeting to order?  We have a quorum here, and our bylaws state that we don't need the mayor unless--"
            Laughter boomed from down the hall and everyone sat up, including Hank.  That was him, probably with his entourage.  The massive double doors flew open with a single kick and there he was, in a floor-length leather jacket, blingy sunglasses, a woman on each arm, and six burly biker types in tow.  He called over his shoulder, finishing his anecdote.  "I tell you, Hans, she tasted like cherries, I swear to god!  It was amazing."  He hugged the women, as if he couldn't believe his luck, and said, "She'll rise again in three days and then you'll see what I was saying about her tits."  He smiled at the room so broadly you could see both of his gold-tipped fangs.  "Hello, everybody."
            "Let the record show," said Hank wearily, "that Mayor Acula arrived at twelve-thirty."  Then he noticed that Secretary Ravencloak wasn't here.  What else was new?  Grimly, Hank pulled out his notebook and pen.  It was getting to be a habit.
            "I call this meeting to order," said the Mayor, lazily slumping into his high-backed chair.  He put his feet up on the table--nice boots, with silver spurs.  "Somebody get me some laudanum.  Use the big glass."  Hans jumped up to serve.
            Even though he was here, no one actually sat down at the big long table.  It was just Hank and the Mayor at opposite ends. Even his entourage was just milling nearby, looking at the clock or the exit.  "So!" said the Mayor jovially.  "Any old business?"
            "Move to adjourn," said Lady Camilla Redgrave, her eyes fixed on the chandelier.
            "You can't move to adjourn, councilwoman!" said Hank.  "We just started."
             "Be nice, Camilla," said the Mayor.  "Does anyone have any old business?  Anyone?"  The fire crackled.  The clock ticked.  Snow padded against the panes.  "Fine.  I have some new business right here!"  He pulled out a crumpled newspaper and smacked it down on the table.  It was an independent human paper, The Daysider.  "The editor has been criticizing this office and our policies.  And he refuses to call me by my real name! 
            "Er, Mister Acula, sir..." said Hank.
            "It's Doctor Acula."
            "Mister Mayor, they have a point.  I mean, you don't even have a degree.  Your birth certificate says Irving Himmelfarb, and..."
            "Silence!" The Mayor pounded the table.  "They must be punished.  Here's my motion.  Resolved.  That the editors, writers, and distributors of the Daysider be hunted down and killed."
            "Mister Mayor," said Hank, "that's a terrible idea, and it won't..."
            "Do I hear a second?"
            "Second," said Dagon the Dark.
            "All in favor?"  All hands rose.  "All opposed?"  Hank bit his tongue.  He knew it was futile.  "Great," said the Mayor.  "That was easy."  The laudanum came, and the Mayor sipped it thoughtfully.  "Nice work, Hans," he said.  "But go back and throw in a little mint and some universal donor."  He looked at the Hank and spread his hands.  "Are we done here?"
            Nervously, Hank rose.  "I have a motion."
            "This again," muttered Dagon the Dark.
            "Every goddamn week," agreed Vlad Thrillkill.
            The Mayor nodded indulgently.  "The chair recognizes Councilman Hank O'Bannon."
            Camilla was supposed to say that, but whatever.  "I would like to move that we give it back." 
            "Give what back, Hank?" said the Mayor, leaning forward with just a hint of menace.  "Humor me."
            "The earth.  All of this.  We should give it back to the humans."
            Everyone laughed.  The mayor thumped the table.  He wasn't even angry.  It was almost insulting.
            Hank regrouped.  "I just think we're not...designed to be in charge of anything.  We're too inclined to the dramatic.  We're good at being despots and tyrants in small countries where no one is paying attention.  We can run a castle or two.  But by and large, we really don't have a talent for policy.  It takes...details and thinking.  We need more nerds."
            The Thanatos triplets snorted.  "Nerds," said one.  "Thank god they can't run for office."
            "That was a good law," said the Mayor.
            Hank pulled out a sheaf of notes.  "I was looking over the minutes from our last meetings, and you know what I found?  Over five hundred motions that people be killed.  That's all we do!  Meanwhile the trash goes uncollected, the streets are crumbling, and even though we're putting tons of humans in prison for easier feeding, we'll need to build bigger prisons if we're going to get them all."
            "We'll get them all," said the Mayor.  "They're running out of garlic already."
            "That's the other thing," said Hank.  "Three years ago, our city's population was two hundred thousand.  Only a hundred of us were vampires.  Today there are over two thousand vampires, and less than forty thousand humans.  We're eating ourselves to death!  This is unsustainable!"
            "You know," said the Mayor, "I was going to say that I never get tired of hearing you complain about this, but that's a lie.  Tonight I'm officially tired of it.  Hank, seriously.  You need to give it a rest."
            "But...look around at this room!  Are any of us happy here?  Don't you all wish you could be out hunting and killing?  We need the humans.  We're parasites.  The fleas shouldn't be running the dog.  We were fools to think we could."
            "Hank, Hank, Hank," said the Mayor.  "No one ever gives up power willingly.  That's crazy talk.  We're just doing to the humans what the humans did to the animals and the animals did to the plants.  There's no balance in nature.  There's just hunger.  You, my friend, need to put down those books and get in touch with that hunger.  Oh, wait I just remembered."  He snapped his fingers.  "New Motion.  Resolved.  That Councilman Hank be forced to relax and taste the blood of this young fellow we caught on our way here."  The motion was seconded, and passed, Hans was dispatched, and a young naked man of about twenty, tied up in ropes, was brought in and dragged to the table. 
            The Mayor grabbed Hank's head and shoved it toward the boy's throat. "Smell that sweetness?  Feel that pumping?  You've had a long day, Hank.  You've been hard on all of us and especially on yourself.  Wouldn't it be nice to just give in?"  Everyone was watching. And Hank really was hungry.  He hadn't eaten in days.  He felt his eyes turning yellow.
            Ah well, Hank thought.  I guess it could be worse.  Even bad government is better than no government at all.  Even as he thought this, he doubted it was actually true.  Then the blood flowed warm across his tongue and he stopped thinking entirely.


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"Dixon Chance" is the pen name of David Ellis Dickerson, who currently lives in Tucson, Arizona, but tomorrow, who knows. Dickerson's work has appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, Story Quarterly, and Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, and he is a regular contributor to National Public Radio.