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Vampire Rule N°25: A dead body is immune to poison.
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What is a man to do when given powers beyond measure?
That's a pretty heavy question, something worthy of its own three-hour-long YouTube video essay.
But as he stood on the edge of a five-story building, the cold wind making a mess of his hair and his intrusive thoughts telling him to jump, John could confidently say that the answer was 'This.'
There was something undeniably cool about standing menacingly in a place where pretty much nobody could see you, which explains Batman, Spider-Man, and even Spawn's obsession with the whole thing.
It wasn't just some ego trip though, it served its purpose.
John's perch was on the very edge of the urban development nightmare known as the Red Hook Industrial Storage Zone, and high enough for his vampire eyes to see plenty of things.
Very interesting things.
He could also pick up on the noise of several people going at it, and pinpoint the areas with the highest blood flows in their body which appeared as red penile drawings on the periphery of his vision.
This was considerably less cool.
'Why is there always someone fapping to tentacle hentai?' Such were the thoughts of the modern-day nosferatu.
Not as glamorous as Dracula's misadventures impaling great amounts of more or less willing individuals, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
'At least, I have a working shower, don't see you beating that one Vlad.' John thought smugly.
He could also see one of the warehouses being surrounded by many small groups of young men, patrolling with all the subtlety of a bunch of geezers after Liverpool lost 3-0.
Fishy didn't begin to describe it.
That said warehouse was also packed full of meatbags was a pretty good indicator of some nefarious business going about in there.
Nefarious business that wasn't making him any money, now he couldn't have that, could he?
John counted a good fifty miserable piles of secrets up and ready for him to unravel in the most painful manner that did not involve a horse, lube, Diddy and a bunch of very successful Minecraft Youtubers.
"This is going to be fun," he muttered to himself, a smirk playing on his lips as he cracked his knuckles, put on his hood and mask. The Monster of Brideshead was ready to play.
He really needed a better name, but Crimson F*cker was sadly taken.
John took a deep breath, something he didn't need to do on account of him being a living corpse and all, but it was still rather pleasant and a good habit if nothing else.
Then he gave in to his intrusive thoughts, and let himself fall.
'Yup, this is the life...unlife.' He smiled, feeling his body flipping around as gravity did its work.
Before he could pick up too much speed though, he reached out with clawed hands and held onto the wall, slowly breaking his fall and doing a good amount of property damage he will never pay back.
He moved like a shadow, casually slipping through the badly surveyed perimeter without a sound. The thugs stationed around the area seemed to be substandard compared to those he brutalized during his previous raids.
Now be it Hungry's crew or anyone else, street soldiers were soldiers only in name, they might take orders and lives, shoot guns and bleed for the cause of a bunch of folks who care not for them, sacrifice everything to generate wealth for some corrupt prick and take years to realize that there was no honor, no code and no justice in their service.
But they were not soldiers.
They lacked equipment, proper skills, tactical knowledge and most of all, they had little to no discipline.
However, all thugs weren't made equal.
Compared to the morons patrolling outside, the gangbangers he took down in big stashes and prime territory seemed like exemplary warriors, stoic and well-trained as the best Roman Legionaries.
Yo Cesare! This is some good shit!
The penny-thugs in front of him though, must be the lowliest of the barbarian tribes, live meat ready for crucification.
'What a shame,' John shook his head, leaving his spot in the shadows, there was no point in stealth when the opponent was so pitiful, 'I hope it's part of their trap.'
As he approached one of the side alleys, a pair of low-life criminals—armed with rusty knives—spotted him.
"Hey, you! This is private property!" one of them yelled, trying to sound intimidating.
"Yeah? How about I make it public?" John's grin widened.
Before the thug could respond, John closed the distance in a heartbeat, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The other thug, shaking, tried to stab John in the side, but the rusty blade snapped as it made contact with his skin.
"Nice try," John said, before slamming the first thug into a wall, knocking him out cold. The second one, in a bout of lucidity, turned to run away, but John was already on him, delivering a swift kick to the back that sent him sprawling like Yamcha.
"Don't run, boys! The party's just getting started!" John called after them, laughing as he watched them crawl away before succumbing to their wounds.
More of them came to investigate, but they only joined the pile of moaning, broken bodies left on the sidewalk.
'Still better than paperwork,' He thought, wiping his hands on one of his victims...I mean opponent's durag.
With the perimeter 'guards' dealt with, John made his way to the warehouse, the supposed heart of the operation. The place was old and decrepit, a perfect setting for the trap he knew was waiting. As he pushed open the heavy doors, a wave of tension hit him—the anticipation of a hunter entering the lair of his prey, the excitement of a no-life player about to trash some noobs.
The interior was just as he expected: dark, cluttered with crates and old rusted-up machinery, and utterly reeking of ambush. John took a deep breath, savoring the atmosphere. He could sense the presence of several thugs hidden around the warehouse, their fear barely contained.
Why they gave so much loyalty to their boss was beyond John's comprehension.
It was almost admirable, the way they were facing their doom, or retarded.
Probably both.
"All right, boys," John called out, his voice echoing through the space and laced with just enough presence to make things interesting, just enough artificial fear to get their bladders working overtime, "Let's get this over with!"
The thugs didn't need any more encouragement. With the courage of a cornered beast and all the reckless bravery of a student who knows nothing about the coming exam, they sprang out from their hiding spots, brandishing bats, crowbars, and knives, rushing toward him with a mix of bravado and desperation.
"Get him! Take him down!" one of them shouted, swinging a bat aimed at John's head.
"Screw it, I'm not getting paid enough for this shit!" Another thug with an actual working brain dropped his butcher knife and ran away.
'Smart guy,' The vampire thought while breaking a wooden baseball bat on some unfortunate fellow's skull, 'Might see about getting him a new job.'
John ducked under a crowbar swing, delivering a quick punch to the thug's gut that sent him flying backward. Another thug lunged at him with a spiked baseball bat, but John sidestepped the attack, grabbing the man by the arm and flipping him over onto the cold concrete floor.
*Crunch*
That's what happens when you use an anti-zombie weapon on a freaking vampire, rookie mistake.
"Come on, is that all you've got?" John taunted as he effortlessly dispatched thug after thug.
It might be a bit too cocky, but the beast within reveled in the display of superiority, always eager to remind the cattle of their proper place in the bloody food chain.
His movements were fluid, his strikes precise, even with little to no fighting skills, sheer brute force, resilience and speed couldn't be denied.
He was holding back just enough to enjoy himself.
As he dealt with the last of the initial wave, a sudden movement caught his eye—a blur of motion that darted through the shadows, he would have missed it if not for the scent of blood more potent than anything he's ever had thus far.
John barely had time to react before something—or someone—lashed out at him with lightning speed. He felt a sharp pain in his side as two metal claws raked across his ribs.
"Well, well, who do we have here?" John staggered back, more surprised than hurt.
It slipped back into the shadows, and only then did he realize how bad of an idea it was to just throw unconscious foes around, he had no way of differentiating between them and this new opponent.
For a few seconds, nothing happened, until a small move gave away his clawed enemy's position. John turned around and charged in the direction only to come face to face with a bruised bald man crawling on all fours, heading for the exit.
"Uhhh, hi?" The thug said hesitantly.
"Fuck off," John told him respectfully, and that was all the permission the man needed to jump on his feet and get the hell out of there.
The vampire's mistake cost him yet another cut on his side, but all clouds have a silver lining, using a bit more speed than he usually would to avoid dealing with that annoying little thing called physics that did very inappropriate things to his shoes, clothes and the pavement when he wasn't very careful with his movement and balance, John turned around and grabbed the unsuspecting...woman?
Whatever, John believed in equal rights and equal lefts.
"Slippery, aren't you?" John taunted, trying to catch her in a grapple. But she twisted out of his grasp with a snake-like agility, slithering around him and scratching him up further along the way.
"A little more on the left, please." He said, squirming until her claws reached that itch on his lower back, "Yeah, that's the spot, baby."
"…"
He was confident in his abnormality, but then again he lived in Gotham, a place where folks like Joker and Scarecrow went around causing mayhem every so often, so her lack of reaction didn't sting that bad.
"Got you now," she hissed, locking her thighs around his neck and pulling him into a chokehold, "Es hora de que mueras, monstruo lamentable."
John grunted as her muscles tightened around his windpipe, cutting off his air. But instead of panicking, John chuckled, his voice strained but still amused.
"Kinky," he rasped, before using his brute strength to pry her legs apart and toss her off him.
Strangulation, deadly to humans, a minor inconvenience for the Strigoi.
The killer landed gracefully on her feet, her eyes narrowing as she realized her venom was having little effect. "You're already dead," she sneered, trying to hide her frustration.
"Poison, huh? Should've figured. But I'm not your average corpse, sweetheart." John licked a bit of blood from his lip, grinning.
A second was all it took for his partially crushed windpipe to heal, and the potent poison flowing in his body failed to accomplish anything on the biological madness that was his cursed, living carcass.
He took the opportunity to take a look at his new toy—playmate, he meant playmate...or was it enemy?
Meh, it's all the same really.
She was a contortionist, bending and flexing her body in ways that defied human limits. Her short whitish-blonde hair clung to her head, framing those unsettling yellow reptilian eyes. The black eyeliner she wore made those eyes stand out even more while also masking her features, giving her an eerie, predatory gaze that followed his every move.
Her skin-tight outfit, made from some sort of snake-skin material, hugged her form, accentuating the tattoos that snaked across her upper body and arms. Each movement she made was fluid, graceful—like a snake coiling to strike.
Did I mention that she looked like a snake?
A very hot snake...no furry...or should it be scally in this case? Food for thought.
She was dangerous, and quite obviously sadistic, but there was something oddly captivating about the way she moved, the way she looked at him.
"Copperhead" John managed to identify her with some minor difficulty.
Wasn't she supposed to be a weird snake dude? Whatever, he sure as hell wasn't going to complain.
The assassin lunged at him again, but John was ready this time. He sidestepped her attack, delivering a quick jab to her side that made her wince. But before he could follow up, a new wave of thugs rushed into the warehouse, armed with knives, bats, and cheap pistols.
"Perfect timing," John muttered, as he quickly adapted to the chaotic battle. Copperhead took advantage of the distraction, disappearing into the shadows to plan her next move.
As the thugs closed in, John couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
"You guys really think you've got a shot? I'm starting to feel bad." He shook his head.
One thug, clearly braver than the rest, swung a bat at John's head. John caught the bat mid-swing, yanked it out of the thug's hands, and smashed it across his knees, sending him to the ground with a scream.
*Bang* *Bang* *Bang*
One of the gangsters started shooting in John's general direction, but judging by the way he was holding his gun sideways, there was no need for the vampire to worry about him.
"Argh! Stop shooting if you can't aim, shithead!" One of the bullets ricocheted from the metal machines and struck one of them right in his shoulder, making him throw his weapon and scream in pain.
At this point, John could just stand around and let them take each other out.
"Anyone else wants to try?" John taunted, as he grabbed a thug by the collar and threw him into a stack of crates where he knew Copperhead was hiding.
"Pandejo." He heard her hiss ever so slightly as she scurried away, trying not to alert him.
"Hahaha." He couldn't help but laugh, further terrifying the foolish men who thought money was worth being stuck in a room with the monster who humiliated their bosses in their own hideouts.
Many of them were heavily considering switching jobs, they did hear about some guy hiring everyone from dopefiend to ex-convicts and paying decent money for what it was, they wouldn't make as much but not getting their every bone broken might just be worth it.
Those smarter-than-average hired muscles discreetly headed for the exit before making a run for it.
Not the bravest thing, but there was no honour among thieves.
The remaining, likely delusional thugs weren't exactly brilliant strategists. One of them, thinking he had the element of surprise, charged at John from behind, only for John to spin around and clothesline him.
"Man, you guys need better trainers," John said, shaking his head, holding one of them might be the ankle and using him, a grown man, as a mace to beat on the rest of them.
That's double the pain for every hit, sometimes John's genius terrified him.
As he finished off the last of the thugs, Copperhead reappeared, striking from above with a vicious slash aimed at his throat. John barely managed to dodge, feeling the air hiss past his neck as her claws missed by inches.
"Nice try," John said, grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm behind her back. Copperhead hissed in pain, trying to wriggle free, but John's grip was like iron.
Her other clawed hand reached out to gouge out his eyes, the best solution when someone was grappling you, but then the most insane thing happened.
"Stop." He said, his voice deeper and more intense.
And stop she did, despite the golden opportunity to kill or at least maim her target, despite her instincts honed through years of killing.
Despite all the blood she had shed, whether it was to protect herself, to avoid sleeping with a hungry stomach, or just because she could, because someone was willing to pay and it was the only thing she was good for.
When he gave her the order, all she could do was obey.
"Let's dance," he whispered in her ear, before tossing her across the room.
The spell was broken, whatever that bruja had done to her mind was over, forever if she had it her way.
Copperhead landed on her feet again, but this time she was slower to recover. John could see the frustration in her eyes as she realized she was losing control of the fight.
"Just give up, darling," John said with a small smile, advancing on her. "You're fun, but I'm getting bored."
Copperhead snarled, lunging at him with renewed fury. But John was done playing around. He sidestepped her attack, delivering a powerful punch to her gut that knocked the wind out of her and sent her crashing into a stack of dusty crates.
She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. John approached her, chuckling.
"You're a tough one, I'll give you that. I think I'll keep you around. You'd make a great pet." He smiled 'kindly'
Before he could reach her, the doors to the warehouse burst open, and the dozens of proper gangsters with proper guns arrived, the business ends of their rifles trained on both John and the injured Copperhead.
"¡Estoy aquí, cabrones! Hold your fire!" She shouted, eyes wide.
"We know, snake-bitch." One of them laughed, joined by a few of his equally criminally-inclined comrades.
It made no sense, they were the ones who hired her, paid the cartels for her.
The cartels who were already employing another copperhead, a metahuman who could spit poison.
The cartels who made her kill the previous one after he tried retiring from the job.
The cartels who were humiliated after her defeat at the batman's hands and the loss of the fifty million dollars that Black Mask put on his head, money they desperately needed to bribe officials, buy ships and planes with good pilots and keep fighting the drug war one day at a time, in an age where every other politician wanted to be seen as tough on crime.
The same cartels that made no efforts to try and break her out of prison despite their ability to do so, condemning her to a full year spent in Blackgate and another in Arkham Asylum before she found the opportunity to escape.
The cartel which just double-crossed her.
"¡Me cago en ustedes!" The assassin growled.
She wanted to get angry, to scream and rage and use that fury to get out of this situation and kill the backstabbing icho de putas who sold her out.
But she couldn't.
She just felt tired, very tired.
Her target though, seemed to be in a very good mood.
"Man, this keeps getting better and better." John grinned.
It was so much better than paperwork.