Author's Note: All constructive criticism is received happily. If you hate the story, please include reasons why so that I can improve. Any and all suggestions are greatly appreciated. Also, I'm sure if I should put this in comedy, historical, or supernatural. I'm guessing here. Chapters will be uploaded as they're finished.

Prologue

Parking structures, in the eyes of some criminals, are like shopping malls with free samples in front of every store. On the first floor of one such parking structure was a blue, dusty Lincoln Continental of the 1964 variety. It was spotted liberally with rust and the backseat was filled with articles of clothing: sweaters, dress shirts, beat up jeans, trousers, a nice jacket, endless pairs of underwear and socks, a pair of sneakers, and a pair of dress shoes.

Jerry Watkins stared at the monster of rust. Two Smokey Bear Snuffits stared back at him from the dashboard, one just a bear-in-hat, and the other mounted on a palm size box that read "Big Sur, California." It was, quite possibly, the most highly surreal car he had ever considered stealing in his life.

Los Angeles was hot that July day. Even in the dark shade of the parking structure, thick heat still floated through the air and gathered in sticky sweat under Jerry's white muscle shirt. The shirt wasn't showcasing much muscle at all- Jerry had forever been cursed with a 'husky' frame. He used the word 'husky' the same way a severely crippled man would use the word 'handicapable.' He also used the term 'thinning' for his hair. Jerry's life was a comfortable cushion of denial.

Rick Alderman, Jerry's younger and more confident right-hand man, had his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his blue jeans and too much gel in his hair. He was 'hmm'ing appreciatively over maroon TransAm that he circled like a vulture.

"What about this one?" Rick suggested.

Jerry was never certain why he disagreed with Rick at that point in his life. The TransAm was in better condition and was, undoubtedly, worth more than the Continental. The only excuse he would ever find later was that he just plain wanted the Continental; there had been something about the car that had enchanted him at first sight, at first loving touch.

"Let's take this one," Jerry breathed, never taking his eyes from the Lincoln. Rick moved over to stand next to him and stared, perplexed at the neon orange fuzzy dice that hung from the rear view mirror. There was a beat of absolute stillness coupled with thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence. Finally, Rick had to speak.

"You mean... you don't mean THIS one, do you?" Rick sounded lost somewhere between horror and shock.

"I want this one," Jerry insisted.

"We won't get any money for it."

"Who the fuck cares? Maybe I'll get a paint job and keep it."

"Sonofabitch," Rick hissed. Jerry was older than him and had been jacking cars since before Rick had started cutting class in high school. Thus, Jerry was the boss. Usually, the man had impeccable taste; just then he craved a rusted, outdated boat with a bunch of garbage in the backseat.

Jerry went to work on the lock. He'd worked for AAA his senior year and had handled a thousand and one calls from people who had locked their keys in their car. That was where he'd picked it up, the ability to break into cars. He took a screwdriver from his pocket, and was about to work on the lock, when he noticed that the door was already unlocked.

"Shit, this is too easy," Rick complained as Jerry opened the door. The keys were in the ignition. "SHIT, this is too EASY," Rick repeated. Jerry unlocked the passenger side door and Rick pushed brown paper bags from McDonald's out of the way, as well as a box of cassette tapes.

"If you say this is too easy one more time, I'm going to hit you in your damn mouth," Jerry warned. Wisely, Rick closed his mouth, teeth audibly clicking together when he did. Jerry started the car and Rick braced for something, ANYTHING, to explain his sense of unease. There was something extremely suspicious about the entire situation.

But the car started without protest, the radio coming to life as soon as it did. Madonna proclaimed that It, whatever It was, was like a virgin. Jerry, who had never found himself quite so enamored with a car, found himself agreeing. Stealing it made him feel giddy and young. It was like jacking a car for the very first time.

"Jesus, I hate this song," Rick muttered, viciously twisting the knob until the tuner found a rock station.

They rolled out of the multistory parking structure and then out onto the street.

Neither of them noticed when the black sedan that had been sitting four spaces down from the Continental started tailing them.

"So when can Miguel repaint it?" Rick asked as Jerry returned from a pay phone.

"Not for another hour. He said to bring it by around nine and he'd handle it." They were parked in front of a Mexican restaurant, one of the authentic ones. It looked cheap and tasty. Rick was too nervous to eat.

"I swear to God, that black car has been following us." Slouching in his seat, Rick shook his head nervously.

"Which black car?" Jerry asked absently, and Rick pointed towards the sedan at the gas station across the street. It was parked a safe distance away from the pumps, and a shadowed figure sat in the driver's seat behind tinted windows.

"It's been following us for the past hour, I swear to God himself."

"That's fucking ridiculous."

"Fuck you, Jerry."

Jerry rolled his eyes. "I just think it's a stupid thing to get paranoid about. They aren't going to send the freaking FBI after us for jacking a Lincoln Continental, Rick." He shrugged then. "Do you want to get a burrito here or hit a drive through and get some burgers or what?" Rick shoved open the passenger side door and practically flew from the car, shaking with anger and fear. Slamming the door behind him, he started to storm away, towards the gas station. Jerry launched himself after his protege and grabbed his arm, yanking him back towards the car.

"I'm getting out of here. This whole thing is off. I fucking hate this," Rick growled, slapping his palm angrily on the trunk.

"Don't be such a pussy," Jerry replied. Neither of them noticed as the sun finished setting. However, they did both take notice when the car wiggled.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Rick exclaimed, jumping a foot away from the trunk. The car shifted again, as though something were MOVING inside it. Jerry stared in horror and Rick started to swear, softly and quickly, under his breath.

There was a popping noise and they both leaped like a gun had gone off. The trunk sprang open.

A man sat up and stretched. His shirt was an ungodly shade of Day-Glo orange, matching the fuzzy dice inside the car almost perfectly. He climbed out of the trunk looking groggy and disoriented. Yawning, he stretching his arms over his head, eliciting a series of pops from his spine and shoulders. His dark brown hair was kept relatively short, a few tenacious strands falling into his grizzled face. He was probably somewhere between twenty and thirty, Jerry guessed. He was also fairly short. Jerry was 6'2", and guessed that this man couldn't have been taller than 5'10", if that.

The man yawned again, scratched at his flat stomach with one hand while he checked his digital watch. Then he looked up once more and stared at Jerry and Rick.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Rick made an odd sound, like a man might make if his lips and teeth were removed. It sounded like "Hwaor?" Jerry couldn't even find his voice.

Then the trunk-inhabitant peered about the parking lot. "Hey, this isn't where I parked this morning," he mumbled. Rick staggered back when he said it, before breaking into a run down the street. Realization seemed to dawn on the confused trunk-man. "You assholes stole my car!"

When he said it, a delicate looking pair of fangs flashed in his mouth. It was too much. With a girlish shriek, the aging man turned and fled, leaving the Continental and the neon-clad man far behind him.

The man frowned and then shifted his gaze to stare at the black sedan across the street. Breaking into a cheeky grin, he blew the car a kiss. The headlights turned on, blinding him for a second. When his eyes adjusted, the car was pulling away. It disappeared down the road.

Shrugging, he turned away from the street, and in doing so realized that he was parked in front of a Mexican restaurant.

"Burritos! Radical!" Whistling blithely, Tom the vampire closed the trunk of his car before heading inside.