Slip of the Tongue

[WP] You are the CEO of a successful energy company. You’re invited to a business dinner, and if the deal goes well, it could revolutionize energy as we know it. Only one problem. Garlic’s in the food, utensils are silver and it’s held in an old chapel. And you’re a vampire.

*****

"What about solar?"

"He hates solar. Whatever you do, don't bring it up."

"What's so bad about renewables?"

"Just keep your mouth shut."

I could hear them before they entered my office, their lips crackling and smattering like roaches frying in a pan. One of them was young, with a jugular vein through which blood coursed with every quiet thump of his heart. He flashed me the Duchenne smile, straightened his tie, and he said, "Sir, we think you're going to love this."

Another useless presentation. But I'd said I'd entertain any idea that might save the company. The only punishment for failing to convince me of its merits was a trip to the unemployment office.

It surprised me to see the seasoned veteran, Gabe, joining forces with fresh meat. Then I spotted a look between the two and I understood at once that they were sleeping together, that they'd had bedside conversations about this moment. Pillow talk. Strategizing.

Gabe clicked his pointer and a quote from Vaclav Smil appeared on the monitor. I hoped he wasn't about to read it aloud. "Life's great dichotomy is between autotrophs, organisms that can nourish themselves, and heterotrophs, or lifeforms that must feed on other organisms. This also applies to business. Some companies—"

Suppressing my groan I leaned back in my leather chair and I asked myself whether I was even interested in the young man's blood. Indeed I was a heterotroph, even more so than they knew. But this man? Did I need him?

His dark curls bounced as he gestured about with the fiery passion of youth. Two thousand years ago he might have been a prophet, he had it in him. And I should know. I'd met my share of prophets. The delirious son of a carpenter, for instance, who wept as I dug my teeth into his neck. The Catholics had it all wrong, though. It tasted nothing like wine.

At the end of their presentation, I breathed a deep sigh, and said, "You're both fired."

"S-Sir?"

"It's obvious you're trying to tell me what you think I want to hear. I'm embarrassed, Gabe. I expected better."

"Please, if we can just—"

"I've heard enough. You may leave."

The young man gave Gabe a look, and he cleared his throat. "Sir. I've kept this to myself, but I think it might be of use to you. I am the grandson of Ellin Calvino."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. He'd have surprised me less if he told me he was actually a mollusk. "Calvino? And yet you're here. Working for his main competitor."

"We had a ... falling out. I wanted to prove that I could work myself up, without his help. But if there's anything I can do, I mean, I have the connection, and—"

Gabe's face had gone pale. "Gabe. Is what he's telling me true?" I checked my schedule. "He's not Anthony ... Fechner? He's Anthony Calvino?"

The veteran stared at his shoes, and he gave a nod.

It would be amusing, to drink the blood of Ellin's grandson. Perhaps even in front of him. Or we could join forces, and corner the market. There was just one problem. "Rumor has it your grandfather has eased up on his duties. Isn't Marco at the helm? He'd be your ..."

"Uncle," said Anthony. "Yes. The rumor is true. My grandfather spends most of his days in his chapel, but nothing big goes through without his approval. He still runs the ship."

"Chapel?"

Anthony rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. It's modeled on the Cappella Palatina. It cost a fortune. You'll love it."

The young man's heart raced. As did mine. I ate the savior, but I cannot enter his place of worship. "If you can set up a meeting, you'll have saved both your asses. And if all goes well, you'll get the promotion too. As promised. How's The Parish?"

"Oh. I'm sorry, but my grandfather only conducts business in his chapel these days. Over a nice Italian meal. With the family silver and all. He's been a bit ... eccentric, ever since—"

"His wife."

"Yeah."

Gabe cleared his throat. "I think this sounds like a wonderful idea"

"I'm not interested."

Their faces dropped. "Sir?"

"So the old man has decided to spend his remaining years play-acting as the Pope. I won't be feeding his delusions. Forget about it."

Anthony's heart quieted down suddenly, and there was a commanding resolve in his voice. His whole attitude shifted. "Maybe you didn't like our presentation, but we all know the numbers. It's this, or you're going to have to branch into renewables. Such as—"

"D-Don't," said Gabe with a whimper.

"Such as solar."

Anthony had no time to straighten his tie. No time to smack his lips. No time to process what was about to happen. Before he knew it, he was a fountain. Blood spurted every which way when I tore into his jugular with my fangs, it dripped from his dark curls like dew from blades of grass.

Gabe stood motionless as his lover fell to the carpeted floor. His lips shivered slightly.

Life's great dichotomy is between autotrophs, organisms that can nourish themselves, and heterotrophs, or lifeforms that must feed on other organisms. Smil had it right.

"I ... I told him," said Gabe. "I told him to shut up about the sun."

*****

THE END.

I did deviate from the parameters of the prompt though, but it was what I felt like doing. And the idea was burned into my mind from the moment I saw the prompt anyway so...