Right, so this is an attempt at satire that came to me in the midst of early-morning musings. I know I did a Fight Club silly a while ago- but that's what it was, plain silly. This one is more a take on it, with the vamps, of course, and following Jack's form of crazed narrative, book-style.
I think it's a bit more, well, grown-up.

SPOILER! Anyone who does not know the twist for the film, do NOT read. The Tyler character is represented as he really is in this story.

MW spoiler: up to MW 4.

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Lestat...

“Ten minutes,” said David, “Think of everything we’ve accomplished. We’ll be immortal!”
I gazed at the bars of the sunbed I was laying on and said, “David, you’re thinking of vampires.”
“Yes,” he said, “Yes, I am.”
As I waited for David to flip the switch and for the cancerous UV rays to obliterate me, I couldn’t help thinking that all this started because of a stupid late-night video session with Louis.

See, Louis had been going through this thing with trash movies. He had an entire room full of videotapes, and when his house got really draughty, and another slate tile fell off the roof and got him drenched in rain, he would come round to my excellent palace of a flat to bore me.
“Porky’s” was a perennial favourite of his; a study of sexuality towards the end of the century. I said I thought it was a cheap porno. So too, did he love “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”, which he said was an effective metaphor for one man’s struggle against the constraints of society. I said it was a comedy, and he hit me.

Then, one night, he watched various James Bond things in a row, some lame Fred Savage comedy called “Vice Versa” and various Merchant-Ivory Helena Bonham-Carter Victorian adaptations. I dozed off and then I think that was the part where I got up (when he wasn’t looking) and went to find my very good English chum David.

I never let Louis come to the Night Club. He just wouldn’t get it. Me and all my English chums would sit there and drink tea with our little fingers hooked around the handles, and talk about tearing foxes apart with dogs, because all British people love that, and we would talk of tweed and scotch and how great the Queen was, God love ‘er.

Once, I made the mistake of letting Louis come, and he said it was just a room full of confused old men, most definitely senile, and as for my friend David, he couldn’t see him at all.

I said David had just nipped out to adjust the Union Jack at the bottom of the garden.

So, there I was, talking to David less than twenty seconds after leaving Louis in the flat, and he said…no, wait, I said, that somebody had been following me round with Vice Versa tapes. As David gave me his views on this, I waved at Helena Bonham-Carter, who had just dropped in for some tea and Custard Creams.

David said I should confront this dastardly Raglan James immediately. I think David is really intelligent; he knew the man’s name before I did.





Later, after I had beaten the nasty Body Thief and everything, and fired off loads of bullets, and got the girl, and made a really stupid remark at the end of the film, ah, I mean, event, I took David to get better reacquainted with Louis.

Louis was not happy. He said I had been missing for three weeks and to top it all off, I had brought back some filthy Alsatian dog off the streets that had been attacking him at every given opportunity. I said, I am Lestat’s Insane Laughter. But he didn’t get it.

I introduced David to Louis, but my Creole friend was acting like an idiot. At first, he totally refused to acknowledge David was there, but he perked up when I showed him David’s diary of his entire seventy-five…no, wait, sixty-four, no…um…*many* years of life.

After a long time, Louis put the book down, shook his head, and said, “Lestat, I think you need serious help.”
I said he was jealous of David’s British upbringing.
Louis said, “Amazing, that someone who was educated at Oxbridge spells color without a ‘u’!”
David said I had better make him shut up.
Louis told me that he was going out to hunt. After all, if he continued arguing, David might go a shade of grey, or gnash his teeth so much he’d have to see his dentist. And then wouldn’t David be confused?
I am Lestat’s Failure to get the Point.

The next night, David decided to have a heart-to-heart with Louis. He asked Louis if he had something against the British?
Louis said, “I quite like the Scots.”
David turned pale. He said Louis was mocking him; everyone knows that British people look like Hugh Grant, talk like him or Liz Hurley, live near London and love the Queen.
Louis said he had obviously never seen *Trainspotting.*
“Och, aye,” said David, “see, ye hae tae understand…”
Louis said I was speaking in tongues. “What about the Welsh?” he asked, “They’re British, too.”
David said he couldn’t do a Welsh accent. But he had once been to a good ‘ol Rugby match in Cardiff.
Louis said, “What about other English people? Geordies? Scousers? Brummies?”
David said the North of England didn’t exist in books with British characters.
Louis said, “What about the Irish?”
“Oh, tae be sure,” said David, “You are a soft shoite.”
Louis said that accent was Republic of Ireland, hence, not British.
David said Louis was cruisin’ for a bruisin’.


David said, “I don’t like that Louis. He looks into everything too much.” David said I should hit Louis; that would shut him up.
I didn’t think that was a good idea. After all, last time I smacked him one, he set my ass on fire.
David said he had an idea.

David said I could have chosen a better place to hide than a walk-in freezer. David said his nuts were going to freeze right off.
I told him to shut up. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have to hide.
David said I was a coward. I should go out and face Louis and told him why I set his house on fire.
I would have replied, but I could hear something moving about outside the restaurant, and I began to tremble from something other than cold.
I am Lestat’s Fear of Fire-Wielding, Revenge-Seeking, Creoles.

Louis managed to save some of his stuff from the fire. He said that I was a total nutcase, but since he was going to live in comparative luxury for free, he’d forgive me.
I said he should be begging me to forgive him.
Louis said, “What are you going on about now?”
I said that he had turned me away when I had come around to his dingy ex-house in the guise of a 6 foot 2 Asian guy and begged him to help me fight Raglan James.
Louis scowled and said he assumed I was drunk and to shut the hell up.
But wasn’t I in someone else’s body?
Louis said, “I’m going to go and give Armand a ring and arrange a party for you. After all, it’s not everyday you make the gigantic step from split to multi-personality.”
Louis said he was very proud of me.
I am Lestat’s Suspicion that Louis is Taking the Piss.

I locked myself in my room, and Louis knocked on the door. “Lestat,” he said, “I’m sorry. I suppose you have been feeling a little stressed-out lately; that could be what’s causing these hallucinations. So, I’ve booked us…a romantic holiday. Italy. Two weeks. You, me, Moonlight, sea, sand, and…” he purred suggestively.
I had to use the telephone.
“Why?” he asked.
Because I’d have to break it gently to David. He might feel a little left out.
Louis said not to bother. The only thing I could go fuck now was myself.
I am Lestat’s disappointed Sex Drive.

And then, all kinds of James Bond stuff happened.

So I made David a vampire and we all lived happily ever after. That is, until David captured me and put me on a sunbed if I didn’t get him a bit-role on “Frasier” as a snooty English Butler.
I said, I don’t own NBC.
Laying here, in the spare room where I keep a sunbed I bought on whim (It was in a sale!), I think, this is all Louis’s fault.
“Just think,” said David, “You and I will go down in legend. Forget “Interview With the Vampire”, angst is old hat. James-Bond style books are the new classics, baby.
Please, David, I said, Please stop it. Louis said the story was derivative and shite. And, like, I trusted Louis.
David said shut up. He was going to switch the sunbed on now.
I am Lestat’s Cold Blood-Sweat.

“Lestat! What the hell are you doing?” said Louis. He stormed into the room, dragging behind him that Alsatian dog, which was permanently fastened to his trouser-leg. “This canine fiend has ripped up all my clothes, and then it…oh…” he stood there and frowned. Then he began to cry. “You bastard! You said if you were ever going to kill yourself, you’d let me be in on it, too!”
But I tried to kill myself a few weeks ago. In the Gobi desert, remember?
“You’re a nutcase.”
I looked to David for support, but he had gone. Gone back to England, forever, and it was all Louis’s fault. I told him so as he pulled me off the sunbed.
“Shut up,” he said. “I’ll make it all better.”

That night, laying in my arms, he said to me, “Look, Lestat, I know you’ve been having a hard time of it lately. I promise I’ll try to humour you in future, all right?”
I was all right. The book of my adventures with David was coming out tomorrow, and soon I would be mega-mega-mega rich.
Louis rolled his eyes and said, “well, at least it won’t really harm our reputation. Just…no more crazy hallucinations, all right?”
Yes, I said, and I smiled, still remembering the lovely dreams I had last night, after taking that drug-ridden guy. Hmm, all of a sudden, a word, Memnoch! Flashed into my head. Yes, I had an idea. Oh Louis, I said, you haven’t seen anything yet.

I am Louis’s look of weary anticipation.


The End!