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John loved one thing about this town. Los Angeles is a city of resurrection. It's a city without memory. It doesn't matter who you were yesterday, or who you are today. Tomorrow, you're nobody, or dead. He was nobody. He lived in the periphery. You'd seen him a million times, and never. He could hardly be blamed, given the short life expectancy of those around him. Solitude saved more lives than the stakes in his hands.

 

The sunrise seemed to wait for him each morning, afraid to peek over the hills until it knew he was inside. This day was no different. John, carrying a large black duffel, marched slowly up the sidewalk to his apartment, a cloud of smoke following him as his leather coat billowed in a soft breeze. There were no sounds, save the dull hum of early morning traffic on the nearby highway. There was always traffic, as though everyone in this city had somewhere important to be, and refused to believe anyone else's destination merited attention. John lifted a bloody hand to the door, leaning for a moment as he searched for his keys. Another plume of smoke, and a short jingling was heard as he produced a set of worn copper keys. Turning to flick his cigarette to the curb, John spied a single ray of light pushing through the morning smog, like an escaped prisoner. His attention returned to a large set of locks, and the Hunter slowly disengaged each lock. The door opened, and like a shadow he slipped in as quickly as he had slipped out hours earlier. The door shut quickly, and a series of loud clicks could be heard as he locked himself inside. It had been a long night, and like so many mornings, he didn't expect company.

 

A single chair and card table were the only furnishings in an already humble living space. John slid his bag across the floor to the table and took off his coat, revealing a torn and bloody black t-shirt. Hanging the coat onto a lone coat near the door, he made a beeline into the kitchen, returning shortly with a bottle of Glenfiddich and a single glass. All men have routines, and the Hunter was no different. John sat down in the lone chair and opened the scotch, staring at the glass before bringing the bottle to his lips. After a swig that was perhaps longer than it should have been, the bottle returned to the table. John wiped his mouth and leaned over, opening his duffel bag. It wasn't often he brought so many weapons with him, but everyone likes variety. With one hand searching the confines of the bag, his other hand managed to fill the glass with scotch, the amber elixir redefining the term "half-full". As quickly as the glass was filled, his other hand produced a worn, hand-bound book. John placed the book on the table, opening to a dog-eared page whose spot had been saved with a pencil. Another drink and the hunter began writing, the pencil making short, deliberate strokes on the page. Like every war, battles are won not only by the actions on the battlefield, but also by the preparations made in the war room. Half a page later, he replaced the pencil in its familiar groove and closed the book, tossing it back into the bag. It made a clunking sound as it landed on the various stakes and crosses inside the duffel. With an almost imperceptible wince of pain, he softly examined his injuries before leaning back and slowly finishing his drink. He stood, grabbed the bottle, and walked toward his bedroom.

 

The sun slowly began to drop behind the skyline, the tall buildings in downtown acting as fingers, trying to catch the Promethean orb. John's alarm buzzed, but found him already awake and in the shower. Hot water fell on his head, and he stood, hands against cracked white tile, letting the deluge push the previous night's work out of his brain. It's no good to dwell on the past, and with as much past as he had, John needed all the help he could get. His hand slid down the wall and slowly wrapped around the knob, shutting off the water. The Hunter pushed wet hair out of his face and over his shoulders, concealing a tattoo at the base of his neck. Stepping out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and placed himself at his bathroom sink. He lathered his hands and face in soap before reaching into the medicine cabinet. His hand returned, grasped firmly around a straight razor, and as though on auto-pilot, quickly dragged the blade over his face. After a splash of cool water, he strode out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

 

A loud whistle pierced the silence of his apartment. Fully dressed, John walked into his kitchen and removed a kettle from the stove. These were his days; quiet, repeated movements, small preparations, and long, solitary hunts. After a cup of coffee, he walked over to his duffel bag. Reaching inside, John pulled out a leather holster, slid it over his shoulder, and placed two stakes into the pocket. He strode quickly to the door, grabbing his coat on the way out. Shutting the door behind him with a snug thud, he wrapped his coat around him quickly, in time to see the sun disappear, its crimson haze staining the Western half of the sky. With a smile punctuated by a cigarette, John flicked his lighter, took a drag, and walked off in search of trouble.

 

Trouble would have to wait for a pint. John's boots found a rhythm as he loped down the street. The roar of buses, bike messengers, car horns and street vendors searched for the melody that always found this town at night. He paused for a moment, waiting for a lull in traffic before crossing the busy thoroughfare. A man in a sandwich board with ruddy hair and a grim disposition marched in circles on the opposite sidewalk. In chipped black paint, the words"THE END IS NIGH" flashed each time he turned. As John passed him, he slid a dollar into the man's hand. The doomsayer stopped long enough to smile at the hunter, who was already nearly gone. It wasn't long before John found himself in front of a heavy steel door. The green paint had almost completely chipped away, the rust attempting to claim sole possession of the entrance. Above the door a sign that read "Oliver's Pub" flickered half-heartedly. John stamped out his cigarette, pulled the door open, and disappeared into the dim bar.

 

Oliver's was a dive, in the most honorable sense of the word. Black walls, hardwood facades and stained carpet did little to hide the small size. Billiards tables with dodgy felt took up half the back end, with rickety bar stools lined up haphazardly at the bar. John quickly scanned the room. Two pale men in dated clothing were shooting a game of eight ball, although their conversation seemed to take most of their attention away from the game at hand. A young man, possibly a minor, sat in the corner, a half-empty pint glass in front of him and his face buried in a thick-looking book. He looked up at John, who had already turned his gaze to the middle-aged woman at the bar. She had the look of someone who wouldn't say no to a drink from a stranger, but was mostly concerned with forgetting the day's stress in her colorful cocktail that seemed to have too many umbrellas. John straddled a stool near the end of the bar and held up one finger. The surly man behind the counter gracefully spun a pint glass, pulled a tap, and carefully filled the glass before sliding it down to John's open hand. As John brought the crisp brown ale to his lips, he stared at the rest of the bar in the reflection of the mirror behind the liquor shelf. The young man was still busying himself with his book, pausing every few pages to take a sip from a flat lager. The two men playing billiards didn't seem to have any real talent for the game, instead passing the time with idle conversation about a local club they wanted to check out that night. One of them seemed rather anxious, remarking he was starving and needed a bite. With that, they placed their cues on the table and walked out the back door. John finished his beer, placed a five dollar bill on the bar and got up.

 

"Leaving so soon?" She had finally decided to take a chance on the stranger she'd seen so many times before. He seemed a little young for her, but she'd been needing a some excitement in her life. Someone dark, and mysterious, like in so many of the dime store novels she'd read over the years. John walked toward her.

 

"It ain't me, babe."

 

With that, he strode past her, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He pushed open the back door, and as quickly as he had walked in, he was gone. The young man looked up from his book to the woman still at the bar. Dejected, she had turned her attention back to the brightly colored concoction in front of her, her straw idly poking at one of the garnishes. The sound of the metal door slamming shut punctuated the silence, and the young man closed his book and packed it away into a school bag.

 

The cold night air wrapped itself around John's face as he scanned the alley behind the bar. He searched his pockets for a lighter, but it eluded him. Frustrated, he reached into his left breast pocket.

 

"Having some trouble, friend?"

 

The two men leered from behind a dumpster, slowly walking toward the Hunter. John pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, replacing it in the pack of cigarettes still in his hand. One of the men slowly made his way behind John, blocking the door back into the bar. The one who had spoken to him was now only a few feet from John. As he stepped out of the shadows, the moon betrayed his true nature as its light revealed a demonic visage.

 

"You guys really need to work on some better opening lines." With a flash, John whipped a stake out of his jacket and plunged it into the chest of the blood rat behind him. It fell to the ground with a scream. The lead vampire, furious, charged the Hunter in a rage. John ducked its first two blows before responding with a devastating kick that sent it across the alley into a brick wall. Before it could regain it's balance, a whirling sound was heard. It looked up in time to see the stake John had flung buried in its chest. With a demonic howl, it slumped to the ground, a pool of blood collecting underneath it. John, having finally found his lighter, leaned over and ignited the first vampire. Within a few moments, it burned to ash. In a few seconds, the second was ablaze and he was lighting a cigarette while walking out towards the street. As the hunter disappeared around the corner, a slow creaking sound was heard, and the soft flickering flames cast an orange glow on the young man in the bar, who was now staring at the carnage at his feet. He looked up in the direction John had left.

 

"One of these days, he's going to get himself killed."