"Didn't he? And besides that, there
was someone else who could see the vampires: Renfield. The pathetic pet
and errand boy. Remember Renfield in his cage in the asylum, eating
flies? Trying to be a monster? Von Helsing recognized the monster, but
so did Renfield."
"I'm no one's Renfield," Krishna said, and spat onto Alan's lawn. First
fire, then water. He was leaving his mark on Alan's land, that was
certain.
"You're no Van Helsing, either," Alan said. "What's the difference
between you and a racist, Krishna? You call me a monster, why shouldn't
I call you a paki?"
He stiffened at the slur, and so did Alan. He'd never used the word
before, but it had sprung readily from his lips, as though it had lurked
there all along, waiting to be uttered.
"Racists say that there's such a thing as 'races' within the human race,
that blacks and whites and Chinese and Indians are all members of
different 'races,'" Krishna said. "Which is bullshit. On the other hand,
you --"
He broke off, left the thought to hang. He didn't need to finish
it. Alan's hand went to his smooth belly, the spot where real people had
navels, old scarred remnants of their connections to real, human
mothers.
"So you hate monsters, Krishna, all except for the ones you sleep with
and the ones you work for?"
"I don't work for anyone," he said. "Except me.
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