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I was home thinking, thinking about dick.
We vampires are superhumanly strong and fast, and we heal instantly from bullet wounds, knife wounds, and even the most debilitating of injuries. A werewolf's bite negates our ability to heal, and depending on the extent of the injuries, it condemns us to a slow and painful death.
"End my suffering, my son, I beg you," Lorenzo whispered to me as he lay on the floor of his villa in the south side of Modena, Italy. I'd gone hunting and left the old man unguarded, and the Lobos took advantage of that to slaughter him. Putting a stake through Lorenzo's heart was one of the hardest things I'd ever had to do. The old man was kind to me, a young black Muslim man from the Horn of Africa. In those days, Italy was even more racist than it is now. As a person of color, I was the object of hatred, scorn and derision.
Lorenzo Agnelli and I met while he was visiting Mogadishu, Capital of Somalia, where I lived at the time. The old man was new in town and needed a guide. Since the dude was offering big bucks to explore the nightlife, I eagerly accepted the assignment. Well, one night, we got attacked by machete-wielding bandits, not an unusual occurrence in the otherwise lovely City of Mogadishu in those days.
The Italian people have done all kinds of bad things to the people of East Africa, ask any Somali, Ethiopian or Eritrean. Colonialism, folks. It's left some ugly stains in the modern world, and it's not easily forgotten. As the bandits came toward Lorenzo and I, I faced a drastic choice. I could abandon the rich old white man to his fate, or I could stand and fight. The Horn of Africa was full of rich white guys who come to live under the African sun, living like kings while enjoying the food, culture and the women. Still, I had a code of honor and wasn't about to abandon an old man to the clutches of bandits. I defended Lorenzo, and got fatally wounded by the bandits as a result.
"Brave of you to defend me, young man, but I needed no help," Lorenzo said as he knelt over my bleeding body. I'd been stabbed half a dozen times by the bandits before something truly incredible happened. The old Italian man, who seemed feeble moments before, turned into a blur of speed. Lashing out with clawed hands, the old man tore into the bandits, making short work of them. I looked at the old man, whose eyes were red now.
"Before I die, tell me what you are," I whispered, and Lorenzo smiled and told me he would not let me die. The old man turned me into a vampire, took me in, taught me much about the world and about myself. As the Second World War raged around us, Lorenzo Agnelli and I used our preternatural powers to protect the people of East Africa from the depredations of wayward Italian soldiers. You should have seen the way they treated us Somalis and our Ethiopian neighbors.
"Our kind are confined to the shadows, Salim, but we can use our powers for the good of mankind, with discretion of course," Lorenzo said to me, and I nodded in agreement. We stood over the corpse of Italian Army soldier Paolo Martini, a monster of a man responsible for the rape of three young Somali women in the City of Mogadishu. When the young women's families protested, their cries fell on deaf ears. Well, I took great pleasure in ending Martini's life. Before I drank his blood, I ripped off his balls. I cut him into little pieces and fed them to wild dogs in the wasteland outside Mogadishu.
"Well done, my friend, well done," Lorenzo said to me, and we returned to our villa, to sleep away the daylight hours. Like angels of death, we traveled from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, to Djibouti City, Djibouti, and Mogadishu, Somalia. Wherever European soldiers abused their power and mistreated the local population, we hunted down the worst of them. We always drank the blood of the corrupt and the evil. Our way of making the world a better place.
"Ridding the world of evil, that's our sacred duty," Lorenzo taught me, and I wholeheartedly believed the truth of those words, and lived by them.