Chapter 7

A steady source of income was, of course, important. I'd already acquired a good deal of cash, but there's no way that I could declare it due to its dubious provenance. Income without some sort of gainful employment most certainly would be noticed, sooner or later.

Even an ordinary human doesn't want to call undue attention and scrutiny to himself from the CRA.

The Government, its multitude of agencies, and miles of bureaucratic tape were potentially much more dangerous to my existence than any stake and holy water wielding vampire hunter.

I didn't exactly know where I wanted to go, so I just told the cabbie to take me to a bar in the Leslieville area. He was somewhat put out by the vague instructions, but the promise of a generous tip lifted his mood somewhat. At least my heightened hearing could no longer hear his grumbling.

I turned down the first one he brought me to without even leaving the cab. It was a relatively new bar, one of those cookie cutter franchises that inevitably pop up once an area reaches a certain socio-economic level. More or less the bar equivalent of a McDonalds or Starbucks. It was in an up and coming neighborhood, with some decent movement, despite the late hour. The area was clean, well lit, and with plenty of trees and greenery.

Of course it was. This was Canada after all.

Through the large front windows, I could see that it was mostly filled with a mix of loud and exuberant sports fans watching a hockey game (the Leafs weren't playing, so I wasn't interested) and a whole lot of white collared office workers, all looking to unwind after a hard day's work stuck in the midst of endless, identical cubicles. Though the décor was made up of obviously faux wood and an eclectic mix sports memorabilia of dubious authenticity, the pretty waitresses in small, tight t-shirts and barely there denim cutoff shorts made up for it.

Not a bad looking place. I might actually pass by on some other night. But, it certainly wasn't the right spot to start looking for some outlaw bikers and their possible associates.

"How about some place..." now how the hell am I supposed to put this? "less respectable."

The driver actually turned around in his seat and silently looked at me for a few seconds. I know that he had understood me – though obviously not a native Canadian, he spoke perfect English, maybe even better than I – so I assumed that it was from either surprise or incredulity.

"Are you sure? This is a very nice place. Friendly and clean, with reasonable prices."

"I'm sure it is. But, it's just not the right kind of place I'm looking for. I have ... business to take care of." I said, purposely keeping it very vague.

Thankfully, he got the gist of it.

"I know a place." He said, nodding slowly. He then turned back around and drove off.

And clearly, he did know a place. This bar was tucked away, almost hidden, on a secondary street, in the midst of an ambiguous area between low income housing and small, mostly cash businesses. Not exactly a first-class location, but far from outright poverty and dilapidation. There wasn't a lot of traffic around, whether on foot or vehicle, but there was enough to dispel the gloomy and abandoned atmosphere. The two story building boasted a simple blue-green neon sign flickering erratically over the door, identifying the establishment as Ben's, and there was a faded Molson's Beer advertisement in the curtained window. In front of the bar were a few parked motorcycles – most were Harley Davidson style cruisers, with two large, long distance touring motorcycles.

Without a doubt, there was some potential here.

I thanked and paid the driver, making sure to give him a nice tip for his troubles, and then exited the cab.

Crossing the semi-empty street towards Ben's I started to hear some low music – classic rock, I think - a hushed murmur of conversation, and an occasional clacking sound, that for the life of me, I couldn't identify.

As I reached the door, I couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement well up within me. I didn't know what I would find inside, but I was realistic enough to realize that I probably wouldn't automatically find Leon, the head of the Winter Born and all of his followers who had had a hand in killing me, just relaxing and having a couple of cold ones after a hard day of meth dealing and other violent crimes. Still, I felt like I taking my first real steps on the road to vengeance and answers.

There was no fear or doubts, just sweet anticipation.

I schooled my expression into one of bland, neutral curiosity and entered.

You know that scene in westerns, where some out of town gunslinger walks into a saloon and the whole place goes deathly silent? All conversations stop, everybody stares at him, sizing him up and wondering what the hell he's doing there? Believe it or not, the exact same thing happened to me, only, minus the cool swinging saloon doors behind me.

In my head, I heard a stereotypical spaghetti western twang setting the mood.

It was kinda spooky how everyone managed to more or less synchronize their reactions. It felt like the attention was mostly curiosity, but there was a slight hint of territorial aggressiveness in there as well.

Don't ask me how I knew, I just did.

It pissed me off, more than a little. I mean, just who the hell did these people think they were, trying to intimidate me!

ME!

It was only thanks to my undead nerves of steel that I kept up my nonchalant expression, masking my anger. I stared hard right back at the people collectively eyeballing me, pouring some vampiric heat into my gaze. At first, I wasn't really sure what the hell I was doing, I just did it instinctively. It felt a bit like mesmerizing someone, only without a specific target, and instead of imposing my will upon a single person's mind, I was weakly broadcasting general emotions throughout the entire room.

I felt a definite mental strain and a hint of actual pain at my temples. It must have worked though, seeing as they all quickly looked away, some simply with their curiosity sated for the moment, but most at least a bit nervously.

'Damn. Not bad at all.' I thought, satisfaction rapidly cooling my annoyance. 'I think I can get used to respect through fear.'

No longer the center of attention, I confidently walked up to the bar, took a seat on an empty and more or less isolated stool. I then ordered myself a cold beer from the burly and bearded giant that was tending bar. The service wasn't exactly warm and welcoming, but I was paying so he served me promptly. On the bright side, he didn't bother asking for photo ID.

Regrettably, I still get carded every once in awhile.

That kick-started a new and fairly troubling thought process. Though immortality would certainly be interesting, to say the least, it would also inevitably come with its own complications. I might be able to pull off the "good genes and healthy living" explanation for a couple of decades, but sooner or later the people around me were going to notice that I still looked like a healthy twenty something young man.

Notice, suspect, resent, question, investigate, accuse...

Eventually, I was going to have to somehow fake my own death, leaving behind my entire life and everyone in it. And then, I'd need to create a new, bulletproof identity for myself, complete with birth certificate, some school records perhaps, a social insurance number, maybe a passport, and a driver's license, of course.

And this was all just off the top of my head. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to manage any of that.

'Well, at least I have ample time to think it over and plan it out.' I mused, savoring my beer, just like the two that followed.

No, I wasn't trying to get drunk. At the time, I wasn't even sure that I could. I spent the time drinking my beer, taking in my surroundings, examining the bar patrons, and using my advanced hearing to eavesdrop.

The place had a definite old style pub feel to it. It was a bit dark, built primarily of real thick wood and brick, and smelt only slightly of stale beer, sweat and tobacco smoke. Then again, I was probably the only one really able to notice it.

There was a long, somewhat age-tarnished mirror behind the dark, highly polished bar, along with shelves covered with all manner of alcoholic drinks – some cheap, others surprisingly rare and expensive. The walls were somewhat decorated by a collection of framed photos (of whom, I have no idea and didn't particularly care), with the occasional newspaper article, and a couple of decades old Blue Jays and Maple Leafs banners. There was a games area in the back half of the bar with a pool table (that explained the clacking noise) and a dart board, both being used by small groups. A jukebox - an older model, with actual vinyl records - was playing decades old rock in a corner, and an apparently out of order TV was hanging up in a corner.

It looked like Ben's had been here for a while, a veritable community fixture. Not at all an unpleasant place, the "warm" welcome notwithstanding.

A quick headcount told me that there were seventeen people in the bar, including the bartender. I noticed that there were no waitresses. Judging by the barman's looks, customers were most likely expected to get off their asses and pick up their own damn drinks.

At least three quarters of the bar patrons were men, and all of the women were obviously "taken", either with significant others or preferred suitors. That was a-okay with me – though all the ladies were relatively young and dressed to entice, they also had more than a bit of that "rode hard and put away wet" look to them. The men were all clearly rough customers of varying ages and builds, with strong, calloused hands and hard, scruffy features. Flannel, denim and leather clothing were in abundance, all more than comfortably worn in. They looked like a band of lumberjacks and construction workers.

All we needed was a Mountie and a couple of hockey players, and we'd have a room full of stereotypical Canadians.

And then there was the small group of what I took to be bikers at a back corner booth, a couple playing pool and accepting bets. Though they all had black leather jackets or vests covered in assorted patches, I could see that none of them displayed any colors. They really didn't look like the weekend warrior types, so I guessed that they were just unaffiliated.

It was a bit of a letdown really.

'Still, they might have heard some rumors about the Winter Born.'

As the bikers' latest opponents left the pool table – a couple hundred dollars lighter – I decided that it was time to introduce myself. Taking my third beer along with me, I ambled on over towards their booth, where they were laughing raucously and toasting their victory.

"You guys up for another round?" I asked, idly picking a cue from its rack and getting a feel for its size and weight.

The group of obviously rough, older men all quieted down and looked me over with a heavy dose of suspicion, but with no outright aggression. They sure didn't need it; they were all pretty intimidating, both individually and as a group. Heavily built and brawny, even the one biker with a substantial beer belly had thick arms, covered in corded muscle. A lot of their exposed, sun and wind weathered skin, featured tattoos, a couple unmistakably crudely made. A sure sign of "prison ink". I even spotted a handful of hidden weapons – knives tucked in belt sheaves and boots, and two suspicious lumps under shirts, were almost certain to be guns.

Before I died, I never could have approached a group like this. If forced to, I most likely would have simply tensed up and shuffled my feet uncertainly, not meeting their steely, intense gazes. Understand, I was no coward or a weakling. I'm a bit taller than average and pretty damn athletic, but these guys were really built, with barrel chests and arms as thick as my thighs. Plus, judging by the abundance of calloused and scarred knuckles, they obviously knew how to handle themselves.

Now though, I met their eyes unflinchingly. Despite being the youngest and least imposing guy in this place, I knew that if need be I could take any of them on. Maybe even all at once.

Yep, supernatural strength, speed, endurance and healing can be a real confidence booster.

"Sure." The gravelly voiced speaker said, after a long, silent consultation with his friends. Pushing his empty beer bottle away, he then stood up and approached the pool table. "We're not real picky about whose cash we take."

Laughs followed. They seemed a bit too loud and raucous for the weak quip. I smiled indulgently.

I took advantage of the short interruption of my opponent picking out his own cue and chalking it to get a good look at him. He was middle aged, and though a couple of inches shorter than me, he was almost twice as wide, and all of it was sheer muscle. His bald shining head, cold grey eyes, tattooed knuckles (with the much clichéd love and hate), and braided goatee just added to his whole "don't fuck with me" look. Also, that fact he didn't introduce himself, offer to shake hands, and just barely acknowledged my existence, all served to try to intimidate me.