Bloodsucking fiends: a love story

Divination. Psychic Readings $5.00. All proceeds go to AIDS research."
    Madame Natasha was sitting with his back to Tommy. As Tommy stared at the pentagram tattoo, Madame Natasha turned to him. Tommy looked away quickly.
    "I think you need a reading, young man," Madame Natasha said, his voice high and feminine.
    Tommy cleared his throat. "I don't believe in that stuff. Thanks, though."
    Madame Natasha closed his eyes as if he were listening to a particularly moving passage of music. When he opened them again he said, "You're new to the City. A little confused and a little scared. You're an artist of some kind, but you don't make your living that way. And you've recently turned down a proposal of marriage. Am I right?"
    Tommy dug into his pocket, "Five dollars?"
    "Have a seat," Madame Natasha said, waving him to a seat at his table.
    Tommy moved to the seat across from Madame and handed him a five-dollar bill. Madame Natasha picked up his tarot cards and began shuffling. His hands were tiny and delicate; his nails painted black. "What shall we ask the cards today?" Madame said.
    "I've met this girl. I want to know more about her."
    Madame Natasha nodded solemnly and began laying the cards out on the table. "I don't see a woman in your near future."
    "Really?"
    Madame pointed to a card on the right of the pattern he had laid out. "No. You see the position of this card? This card rules your relationships."
    "It says 'Death.' "
    "That does not necessarily mean physical death. The Death card can be a card of renewal, signifying a change. I would say that you recently broke up with someone."
    "Nope," Tommy said. He stared at the stylized picture of the skeleton with the scythe. It seemed to be laughing at him.
    "Let's try again," Madame Natasha said. He gathered the cards, shuffled them, and began laying them out again.
    Tommy watched the spot where his relationship card would fall. Madame paused, then turned the card. Death.
    "Well, well, what a co-in-kee-dink," Madame Natasha said.
    "Try again," Tommy said.
    Again Madame shuffled, and again, when he laid down the relationship card, it was Death.
    "What does it mean?" Tommy asked.
    "It could mean a lot of things, depending on your other suits." Madame waved to the other cards in the pattern.
    "Then what does it mean with the other cards?"
    "Honestly?"
    "Of course. I want to know."
    "You're fucked."
    "What?"
    "As far as relationships?"
    "Yes."
    "You're fucked."
    "What about my writing career?"
    Madame Natasha consulted the cards again, then, without looking up, said, "Fucked."
    "I am not. I'm not fucked."
    "Yep. Fucked. It's in the cards. Sorry."
    "I don't believe in this stuff," Tommy said.
    "Nevertheless," Madame Natasha said.
    Tommy stood up. "I have to go find an apartment."
    "Do you want to consult the cards about your new home?"
    "No. I don't believe the cards."
    "I could read your palm."
    "Will it cost extra?"
    "No, it's included."
    "Okay." Tommy held out his hand and Madame Natasha cradled it delicately. Tommy looked around to see if anyone was looking, tapped his foot as if he was in a hurry.
    "Goodness, you masturbate a lot, don't you?"
    A guy at a nearby table spit coffee all over his paperback Sartre and looked over.
    Tommy pulled his hand away. "No!"
    "Now, now, don't lie. Madame Natasha knows."
    "What's that got to do with an apartment?"
    "Just checking my accuracy. It's like zeroing out a polygraph."
    "Not a lot," Tommy said.
    "Then I'll have to adjust my reading. I would have rated you a wankmaster of the first degree. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Considering your relationship card, I'd say it's your only option."
    "Well, you're wrong."
    "As you wish. Let me see your palm again."
    Tommy surrendered his palm reluctantly.
    "Oh, good news at last," Madame Natasha said. "You will find an apartment."
    "Good," Tommy said, pulling his hand back again. "I've got to go."
    "Don't you want to know about the rats?"
    "No." Tommy turned and headed toward the door. As he reached it he turned and said, "I'm not fucked."
    The Sartre reader looked up from his book and said, "We all are. We all are."

Chapter 13 – To-Do List of the
    Fashionably Doomed
    When you know the future is grim, there is no need for speed. Tommy decided to walk to the financial district. He shuffled along with the hang-dog look of the cosmically fucked.
    He walked through Chinatown, spotted three of the Wongs buying lottery tickets at a liquor store, and headed up to the room to get his