Table for Four

His pale, cold fingers were wrapped aimlessly around the steaming hot cup, despite the absurdity of the thought that it could warm his dead hands. The scarlet, viscous liquid frothed ferociously in the Styrofoam cup as steam poured out like noxious gas. Orville inhaled deeply, smelling the sweet scent of human blood. AB+, he thought to himself. Maybe AB-? He took another whiff. Definitely positive. He took a sip of the scalding liquid. As he lifted it to his lips, he could feel his gums stretch and move as a pair of perfectly white fangs forced their way into his mouth. After a huge gulp, Orville placed the cup back on the table, glancing up just in time to see Herk stomping across the room toward him. 

Herk smashed his rocky fist down onto the table, in what was probably a gentle pat for him, and placed his drink. He squeezed his gargantuan frame into the booth across from Orville. He shifted to the left, trying desperately to find a comfortable sitting position, despite being the embodiment of a humanoid boulder. 

“This seat hard as rock,” Herk grumbled with broken English. One can't truly make fun of Herk for his lacking language skills. He’s quite literally got rocks for brains. 

“I don’t think it’s the seat, buddy. That might just be you,” Orville said snidely. Herk glowered at him but said nothing. Orville and Herk always had a very difficult time discussing… well, pretty much anything. Orville cherished humans, contrary to most others in their group. He found them a lesser version of himself. They were an infinite source of nourishment, and if he played his cards right, Orville could even make them into one of his own: a creature of the night, a vampire. 

“Strange how humans come to places like these, buy their drinks, and just continue about their day. No one even bothers to sit and talk anymore,” Orville noted. Herk nodded and downed a gallon of hot magma from his cup in one swig. Having lived so many years, Orville found the only thing that broke up monotony was a good conversation. The thrill of hunting a human and draining them wore off after the first century. But when people like Orville tried to talk to people like Herk, it never amounted to much more than a grumpy silence. Within that grumpy silence and distaste for poor discussions, Orville found himself admiring the room. 

The walls were each a different material it seemed. Some were a dark brown wood paneling, and the wall opposite them was black bricks. A wall of windows was to their right, and outside was the constant comfort of nighttime accompanied by streets alive with foot traffic, tentacle traffic, and hoof traffic alike. Dark black leaves crunched underneath them as Fall was upon everyone in town. 

Much like the weather outside, an eerie fog hung over the coffee shop, but this was where most monsters felt comfortable. Orville smiled as he pondered the word ‘monster’. Most modern creatures despised the word, calling it ‘demeaning’ and desired that no one use such language to describe them. Orville, however, felt quite the opposite. When Orville was still in his formative vampiric years, he would hear the word ‘monster’ screamed in the streets as he swooped down into a dark alley, chasing a helpless woman and feasting on her blood. Orville became hungry thinking about it and took another sip.

Orville heard an indistinguishable grunt: Breanna the Biter. She came staggering over to their booth, and wedged herself in next to Orville without hesitation.

“What’s up, boys?” she gurgled excitedly, her voice raspy and disgusting as ever. Orville cleared his throat, an action only done around Breanna in an attempt to inadvertently get her to do the same. As brain-dead as any other of her kind, she did not pick up. She dipped her finger into her pink brain smoothie and swirled it around, then sucked her finger clean once she had pulled it out. Orville nearly gagged. Zombies are disgusting creatures, he thought.

Cautiously drifting over came Howard, but everyone that knew him called him Ghostie. Ghostie was the most tolerable of the group in Orville’s opinion, but everyone else seemed to dislike him. Ghostie drifted into his seat and smiled at everyone. Breanna stared at him.

“Ghostie?” she grunted.

“Yeah?” he asked meekly, expecting a round of insults to be flung his way.

“Why are you drinking a hot chocolate with whipped cream?” 

Ghostie looked at Breanna fearfully.

“Well… it’s technically an order of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream… and I ordered it because it’s on theme!” he said, raising his voice slightly in the final part of his sentence, hoping to shift some heat to other people at the table. “My hot chocolate is orange! It’s Fall themed!” 

“My smoothie is cinnamon flavored,” Breanna told him with a mucousy throat. “I prefer original, though.”

“Magma is spicy, like cinnamon,” Herk chimed in intelligently.

“Orville’s drink is 0% Autumn themed, look at him!” Breanna gestured to Orville. “He gets the same drink every time!”

“Who cares about ‘theme’, seasons happen every year. Nothing to get excited about,” Orville griped. “And besides, it’s not the same drink every time. I ordered a mystery flavor today. I live life on the edge, okay?”

Everyone groaned as he said it, and Orville only smiled, having predicted such a reaction. “Anyway, it’s not like I would have expected your kind to be able to tell the difference between blood types,” Orville told Breanna.

“Woah, woah!” she called, slamming her drink down on the table. “I know you didn't just say ‘you people’ to me!”

“You’re right, actually. Technically, I didn't,” Orville said flatly. 

“Just because I’m not some pompous blood connoisseur like you,” Breanna began. “It doesn't mean I’m dumb or stupid!” 

“No, it doesn't,” Orville said. “But if you can spell either ‘pompous’ or ‘connoisseur’, I’ll stop talking.”

“Ghostie, how’s the people problem?” Breanna asked with the sound of phlegm still in her throat, turning her attention to the meek transparent figure.

“Nice subject change…” Orville mumbled slyly.

“Not good,” Ghostie moaned. “They’re so scary! And they keep coming into my house! I’ve been living there for decades, and people keep bursting through the front door to invade my personal space! I will go downstairs, rattle picture frames, slam window shutters and knock on walls, and they’ll run away. And for one, tranquil night… I’ll feel powerful. But then, the next night, they’ll come back with their friends, as if it’s some sick game to break into a man’s house! The humans have laws against this kind of stuff, and yet no one ever stops them! No no, not when it has to do with lame old Ghostie!” 

“I’m sorry babe,” Breanna growled mindlessly while taking another sip of her brain smoothie. Orville watched as Ghostie became flustered and stumbled over his words. No one ever called him babe. The saddest part, however, was that Breanna didn't even do it intentionally. She called everyone flirty names, she was just too full of herself to care.

“Look what you’re doing to the poor boy,” Orville scolded. “You can’t go around calling people ‘babe’, you’re sending mixed signals.”

“And you can't go around telling people what to do!” Breanna accused. “Just because you’re the oldest, doesn't mean you are the wisest.”

“I’m actually a few millennia older than Orv-” Herk started to say, before he was cut off. 

 “You’re so high and mighty, Bre, just because they made a bunch of stupid movies about you. You’re a fad, and just like your melty, decomposing body, it’s dying fast.”

“I would rather die with dignity than die as a teenage girl’s fantasy,” Breanna insulted, punctuating her statement with a sip of her drink. Orville, known for rarely losing his temper, banged the table with a fist.

“I had no part in that!” Orville shouted, but it was too late. The whole table was giggling. “Shut up, all of you!” Orville demanded. To protect his ego, Orville began demeaning his table-mates. “Bre! You and I both need humans to live, but you’re so self-centered you can't even be bothered to respect them! Ghostie! People are supposed to be afraid of you, but you’re afraid of them! And Herk! I don't even know what type of creature you are! No one cares about you!” 

The booth was silent after that. Orville stared blankly into his cup of blood, rethinking what he had done. 

“Hey,” someone began to say, but Orville interjected.

“I’m sorry, guys. I overstepped the line there. I don't get mad a lot, but I just… I just really hate those teen vampires. I took it out on you, I’m sorry.”

“That’s nice and all,” Breanna said, a smile sneaking onto her lips. “We were just gonna say that we each get one free insult to throw at you now.”

Orville fidgeted uncomfortably, disliking the idea.

“Fine,” he said, finally caving. 

“Orville! You claim to be this invulnerable being, but you die if someone pokes you in the heart with a toothpick!” Breanna cheered in her raspy voice.

“Orville!” Herk chimed in. “You have control issue,” Herk said firmly.

“Orville!” Ghostie said, laughing as he did. “Is this insult redeemable at any time?”

“Yeah, sure,” Breanna told him.

“I’m gonna save it,” Ghostie said with a friendly grin. 

“Oh, shoot. You know what, guys?” Breanna announced, looking at her watch. “I’ve actually gotta go. Super famous zombie business and stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. We all believe you,” Orville remarked. “I have to go, too. It’s nighttime in the Earthworld, and I’m really hankering for some O- tonight.”

“I have planet to destroy,” Herk said solemnly. Everyone laughed, unsure if he was joking or not. 

“I have to go stop some idiots from breaking into my house!” Ghostie squeaked.

“Well, this has been as entertaining as ever,” Orville said to the group. “I’ll see you guys next week?” 

Everyone nodded their agreement and waltzed to the trash can to discard their variously sized cups and exited the coffee shop, the cool, crisp Autumn air hitting them.

“God, I hate the smell of Autumn,” Breanna complained.

“Because rotting corpses smell so much better,” Orville jived. They all exchanged hugs, said their goodbyes, and parted ways. Orville couldn't wait until they next saw each other.