An Interview with a 107 Year-Old Cowboy Vampire Detective

It was the middle of June, in 2006, and Hank Jasper almost didn't hear the Little Rock Police chief call his name.

He obviously did, but for the first time in a while he had to actually turn his head to look at Jennifer Cole, the forty-three year old woman with blonde hair that she always had in a braid; the one that always hung over her left shoulder.

"Ma'am?" Hank asked her.

His smooth, well defined face was topped with red hair that was cut off on the sides and back, and a red mustache covered his top lip. There was a thin stubble that hung over the rest of his cheeks and chin, though it never seemed to go anywhere. That was, of course, normal for a man like Hank.

Now the man stood up with a grunt, taking the white cup of still warm coffee that was sitting next to the computer on his desk. A metal basket to the right of the computer held a number of pencils and pens, and a picture frame was to the left of the keyboard. It held an very old white and black photograph with five people in it, most of them dressed in black leather jackets, wearing nonchalant expressions on their faces. Hank himself stood in middle of the gang, his hands resting on the same belt buckle that now adorned one of the many belts he'd worn though his life. To his left in the photo was a young girl, a hand of hers resting on Hank's shoulder; she stood a full head shorter than Hank did.

To Hank's right was a man with blonde hair and a mustache to match, wearing a black hat that looked like it had been plucked from the head of a plantation worker you could read about in an old history book. To that man's left was another man who had a black hat with a ring of bullets around the top of the brim, and wore to bandoliers of bullets crossed around the front of his chest.

The last man who stood to the woman's left, her name had been Lottie Jane May, was a man with a black mustache, a well-fitted black leather jacket, and a pair pants that hung to his booted feet; the boots head metal on the toes.

Now Hank walked past another row of desk, his own worn down black boots rapping across the white and grey tiled floor of the upstairs office of the Police Department.

"That guy who wanted to interview you last week is here," Jennifer said.

"Mmm," Hank took a sip of his coffee, a mild expression on his face, "where's he at?" his tone had a very southern accent to it.

"Just down the hall, I put him in interview room three," Jennifer turned to start walking.

"This is the same fella that was buggin' me last week, ain't it?" Hank asked.

"Yep," Jennifer nodded now, "I told him you were busy, but he said he knew who you were. Says you guys were old friends."

"I don't have many friends, but all of them all old," Hank muttered then.

Jennifer only chuckled, glancing at him.

"I wish some of the other guys up here could be as cooled off as you," Jennifer said, "You and your people.... must not worry about a lot, huh?"

"Worrying only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades," Hank said.

They had rounded a corner and walked a few feet down a hallway then, and Jennifer kept walking as Hank stopped at a door, labeled "Interview #3" in black letters on the small square of glass in the top of the wooden door.

"Hey, when you get done in there go and find Patrick. He told me this morning that evidence he checked out for you in the McCulligan case came back as a match for the gun that was used," Jennifer said to the rest of the hallway.

"Can do," Hank called after her.

Pulling open the wooden door then Hank sighed, and looked into the room. It was as plain as a interview room could be, with bland grey carpet, a grey metal table in the middle of the room, and two chairs on either side of the table. There was a window on the left side of the room, and the room to the immediate left of the interview room was used for listening to the conversations that happened in said interview room.

One of the chairs was taken, and a man sat in the chair. Hank held onto his coffee mug as he stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him.

The man sitting in the chair was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, a white shirt under his black vest, and a black tie to match the vest. He had black hair that swept away from his head, and a smooth and freshly-shaven face. He looked up at Hank as the detective stood there, but smiled at Hank. His smile turned into a grin, and Hank saw the man had very prominent fangs in the front of his mouth.

Hank licked his lips then, and took another drink of his coffee with his left hand, and rested his dominant right hand on the grip of the revolver that he wore in a gun belt on his waist. Dressed in his own white collared shirt and a black tie, black slack pants that were over the black boots he wore, Hank very much looked like he was posing for a picture as a generic detective that could have been searched up on the internet.

The other man cleared his throat then, and said in a mild tone,

"Hello Hank."

"You must be, ah..." the detective snapped the fingers on his empty hand, trying to remember, "Jonas, right?"

"James," the other man said, standing up then to hold out his hand.

Hank only responded by stepping forward and pulling out the empty chair on the other side of the table, and dropping into it.

James cleared his throat then muttered,

"Right," as he sat back down.

From his lap he took a manila file folder, and then picked up a tape recorder from the floor by his feet.

"So," James cleared his throat again, and opened up the manila folder he had with him. He turned to towards Hank, and pushed it forward.

"What kind of things are you looking to talk about?" Hank asked then, "I've got a lot I could tell you, but might not believe me."

"Aha," James let out a short breathy chuckle then, "I have worked with your kind before, Mr. Jasper. I've heard quite a bit about you all."

"Right, my kind," Hank nodded, taking another sip of his getting-cold black coffee.

"Sorry, if that offends you," James stopped, a black tape in his hand as he opened up the recorder.

Hank only frowned and shook his head.

"I've been called worse," he said as he frown turned into a smirk.

"Haven't we all?" James asked with a light smile.

The blank tape slid into the recorder then with a snap, and James closed the top of the recorder with a snap. He pushed it gently forward so Hank's voice would be clear into the small microphone that was connected to the machine, and Hank leaned forward some, resting on arm on the tabletop.

James cleared his throat then and asked,

"You ready?"

Hank only nodded, and James pressed down a button that clicked into place. He cleared his throat into his fist, then said clearly to the room,

"This is James Holbrook, interviewing Hank Jasper, who was born in 1876, and then bitten by a vampire in the year of 1906, at the age of thirty. Is this correct?" James looked at Hank.

"Yes," Hank nodded, looking at the tape recorder.

He'd seen them before, but they were still interesting to him. He motion to the device then, and James nodded. Now Hank cleared his own throat, and said clearly aloud,

"In the year of 1876, I was born to mother Jenny Jasper, and the man who you could consider my father, Marshal Franks. We all grew up in a small town called Hope, in what you would now call Arkansas. Back then the country was called Wisteria, which all of locals thought was a bad omen of some kind.

"But life moved on, and I grew up on a farm. We had cows, chickens, goats, those kinds of things. I started helping my father with the farm-hand life when I turned fifteen, just before it was winter time. He wasn't an evil man by any account, but he was like other men of that time. He woke up when the sun did, and didn't stop working until the sun was going back down. He might stop three or four times to eat or have a drink, and then go right back to the work. There was always work, so that didn't always appeal to a younger man like myself.

"My mother died when I turned eighteen. She was a kind woman who wasn't against changing from a dress and into her ranch pants to help my father. He wasn't against my mother helping him, but men back then saw women as providers for their families. Keeping a clean house, hot food on the stove at the end of the day. That kind of thing.

"Now my father, as it turned out in those times, wasn't really my father. The man I grew up helping on our farm was named Hector Smith, and after my mother died he told me that I wasn't really his son. It was hard for me to grip, being only eighteen, but after another year I understood. He explained it to me that sometimes men and women who weren't married would fuck to fuck, and it didn't mean a damn thing.

"As he and I made it through the winter he was less of a father to me, and more of a man who took care of me after my real father just up and abandoned our family."

Hank paused to take the last drink of his coffee, and set the cup down with a click on the table. The words "International Agency of Vampires" was stamped into the cup of block black letters.

"Now," Hank licked his lips, "later in the year, before I turned twenty, we had two state marshal come to our farm. We were down the road from the main town, and on a cliff that overlooked the river that ran at the bottom of the county. If you crossed the river and walked for another ten more minutes, you were in the next county over, I think it's called Faulkner county now?

"So the man who raised me and I were talking, just stood next to the pig pen while the animals ate, or shit, or slept. It was a clear but cold day still, it was probably just the start of what you'd consider February. So these Marshals come riding up on horseback, both of their badges shinning in the sunlight.

"They came right up the dirt road and stopped just before the gate. Now Hector had a gun on his hip, and he'd been teaching me to shot a gun for about three months up until just now. I had my gun on my right hip, right where I wear my current gun. Some things don't change I guess, even eighty something years later.

"So the Marshals stop, and they tell Hector that they bumped into a man who said his bastard son was living at "that fucking ranch down the road, with that dumb whore who mothered him."

Hank paused again to glance away from the ceiling at James. James only nodded, and Hank resumed,

"As it might seem, that didn't really go over to well with me. I knew my mother for long enough to love her like any son or daughter could love his mother, and that got my blood real hot. Hector immediately asked where the man was, and the marshals told him he was still town, renting a room in a hotel at the end of the road.

"Not maybe five minutes later I was saddling my horse in stables. Her name was Chestnut, a brown Missouri Fox Trotter breed that I'd had since I had been sixteen. I jumped on that horse, and sent her flying out of the stables and down the road, riding her as fast as I could into town. We lived far enough out of the way that you had to know where our farm was to find it, tucked away down the road and hidden by a long drive that was dotted with trees in the front. My mother had picked up the place, but every time I asked her why she only told me she liked the quiet.

"So down on the road I flew. It was almost dusk when the marshals had shown up, and it was getting dark when I get into town. It was a little stock town called Horseshoe, which I'd always thought was silly as a young man. Now I came barreling into this town, my hat almost falling off my head and Chestnut breathing hard having been ridden that hard after such a time of hanging out in the stables.

"I went to the hotel the first thing, barely throwing the horse reins over the wooden post that was in front of the porch. I pushed past two men standing outside, both of them cussing at me for acting like I was important or something like that. I asked the clerk at the desk where a man named Marshal Franks was, and he said he'd just left for the bar.

"Turning right back around I went across the street to the saloon, which had needed a new coat of paint for a while now. I was pulling my revolver off of my hip before I even kicked open the little swinging doors of the saloon, which drew me some attention.

"I stood there a moment, breathing hard, and yelled out "Which one of you is Marshal Franks!" nearly as loud as I could. A man turned around from the bar, white hair that was balding at the top of his head and a scrawny mustache hanging on his top lip. He had on a white shirt and a tattered black vest, pants barely stuffed into his boots.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked me then. I loudly declared back,

"I'm your god damn son!"

"Then I was bringing up the revolver in my hand. I held it up until it lined up with that mans head, and he was pulling out his own gun almost as fast as I was. He didn't get the chance to draw on me all the way though, because I took my shot just as his gun came all the way out of his holster.

"My one shot buried itself into that man's head, painting the bartenders face with blood. He stumbled back, crashing into the bar and then hitting floor in a shitty, crumpled up heap.

"My face was hot, I remember that part real clearly. Like I'd only taken a hot tub of water on my head, and the blood started to came back to my body. I had seen red as the man told me he was my father, and then the reality of the situation started to set in.

"Someone yelled to go and get the sheriff, and someone who had been sitting behind me jumped up so fast their chair fell back onto the wooden floor with a bang. I didn't waste any time in turning around and leaving the bar, holstering my gun and mounting my horse.

"I rode out of that town without ever looking back. I knew the law would more than likely come after me, because I had just murdered a man. I was at the legal age of the time to go to jail or even just be hung at the gallows, and that scared me as a young man.

"So I didn't bother going back home. I rode down the road past our farm, and then I kept riding. I knew the next town over wasn't a town but a city, they had electricity and a theatre, bars and restaurants. I'd never been there, and I figured it would be a good place to lay low before the law eventually found and killed me. Murder was bad enough back then, but if you ran from it, the price was just going to tally on up."

James coughed then, and Hank paused. He asked Hank then,

"This city, it was called uh..." he looked at the open folder that was in front of Hank.

"Lou-Vrea," Hank nodded, "no clue what that meant until I was older. It was really bad French for "Little City."

"And that was where you met the vampire?" asked James with more enthusiasm.

"Yep," Hank nodded, pulling up his feet to rest them on the tabletop.

"It was dark, when I got to Lou-Vere. I put my horse up in a stable for the night, and spent the night in the saloon they had there. It was a real nice little place, full bar and liquor and wines I'd never even heard of before. I had beans and a steak for dinner, washed it down with a full bottle of wine, then decided to go for a walk. It didn't dawn on me that I was still a criminal. All I was at that time was a young kid who didn't have anything else he wanted in life.

"I ended up sleeping in a back alley, and then I spent the next ten years in that little city. I took my horse out about a month after getting there, and I went out on a request from the train clerk that was in the city. He'd had a wagon of goods stolen the day before, and It had to be on the train that was coming in the next night. I had about four hours of daylight left, but I didn't leave by myself.

"A blonde haired fella was talking to the train clerk about the same job, and we resolved to work it out together. He told me his name was Grant Palmer, and I told him my own name. He laughed at it, but we both mounted our horses and set off.

"There was a nasty old bayou outside the city, and we found the wagon was taken by some bandits who were hiding out in the swamp. I asked the fellow named Grant what we were going to do, and he pulled a little jug of moonshine from his horses saddle.

"When we came up to the wagon, the bandits were hiding up inside of little piss shack that was nearby. This boy Grant, he couldn't have been more than two years younger than me, and he tossed this jug of shine right through the window of the house. I heard it shatter, heard someone shout it smelled like rotten dog shit, and then Grant pulled a rifle from his shoulder. He took aim at a lantern that was sitting in the window of the shack, and took his shot. He hit the top of the lantern, shattering the glass and blowing flame into the house, which caught like a bundle of hay in a bonfire.

"That house blew up about three seconds later, washing us both with a real intense heat. He whooped and hollered the whole time, even laughed when one man came screaming out of the house, covered in flames. He threw himself into a nearby lake, and got real still after those flames went out.

"So we went back with the wagon to the train station, and both got paid about six dollars and sixty something cents for the trouble. I had a whole bag of money hidden in the saddle bag on my horse, and I just added that six dollars to what I had already.

"So, let's speed this up a touch now. I would meet four other cowboys or gunslingers, what have you, in the 10 years I would live in Lou-Vere. One of them was a young girl, maybe only 18, 19 at the most. I didn't see anything in her than just some girl who was running around doing odd jobs for the state. She of course had no idea who I was, but she would end up hating what I was going to become. The two others were bounty hunters that came to Lou-Vere after a couple of years went by, and I took up bounty hunting after they taught me what they knew. They were Danial and Andrew if I'm remembering correctly.

"I did the bounty hunter thing right up until I met that vampire, who coincidentally was who I was sent out to catch and bring back. I found his poster on a board just inside of the police station in the city, and looked it over real good. The man had pale skin, a slim nose, and these weird, pointed ears."

Again Hank paused to glance at James, who only rolled his hand through the air. "keep going," the motion said.

"Now this man, this... vampire. He was unlike any man I had ever met before. I took the station chiefs word that he was last seen lurking behind one of the bars, where he was preying on the ladies of the night. So I went out, taking my horse to where an alleyway started. I went through a gate that I pushed open as quietly as I could, and moved up slowly. The other five weren't with me, and it was probably a good thing, reflecting back on the ordeal.

"Coming to the end of this short alley, I heard a woman scream. I pulled out my revolver then, breaking into a run. I hurdled down another alley, and heard the scream again, closer this time. Like this woman was right behind the door that in the alley.

"She wasn't, however, and I kept running. I went from the back alleys and crossed one of the minor streets, running now. Her scream came once more, and that was when I saw the vampire. He was standing across a grass field from me, the screaming woman in question held in his hands, like she had fainted in his arms.

"It was dark out so I couldn't see his face, and didn't bother to bring a lantern with me, thinking I would have the element of surprise. As it would turn out, I did not.

"This vampire, this man who stood probably a whole head taller than me, looked up where I was standing, gun drawn and in my shooting stance. He dropped the woman like she was an old newspaper, and I saw him take one step.

"Just one," Hank held up a sole finger now, looking at James.

Hank's ice blue eyes studied James a moment as James looked back at the detective, then Hank continued with,

"This was where my mortal life ended. Just at the edge of this lake, where this vampire would grip my neck and chin in one of his hands. I moved to bring up my gun, and he took my other hand, chuckling. His hands were like ice on my skin, freezing me right down to my bones. I couldn't move, and even as I brought the gun up to point it at the vampire, I squeezed off one shot. It hit the vampire in the side of his head, making him turn just barely an inch; his grip didn't faltered.

"When he looked back at me, blood rolling down his face where the bullet was buried in his head, he said to me,

"Bonne nuit, cow-boy," with a very distinct French accent.

"Then he bent his head, and bite into my neck. The pain was blinding, but it took me a few moments to start screaming. I could hear him sucking the blood out of the fang punctures in my neck, and I reckon he could have killed me right then and there. He didn't though, and as he kept drinking my vision started to fade in and fade out.

"After a few minutes he pushed me back and away, taking a deep breath. I fell to the ground, barely able to move and only clamped my hand to my neck. I was seeing colors just by themselves now, yellows, greens, reds, all looking like they had a muddy color mixed in with them. That monster stood in front of me for a few seconds, and then as I dared to blink, he vanished into what I could only think then was thin air.

"I lay in the street until I passed out, my hand covered in blood and my body cold, like I'd taken a week long bath in ice. My head was pounding like a door someone couldn't stop knocking on, and I was very sure I was going to die...."

Hank paused then to ask James,

"How much longer you got for this?"

"Ah," James turned his wrist to check his watch, "about ten or so minutes. I do have to get this to my publisher before the end of the week."

"Mhm," Hank nodded then, rubbing his mustache, "right then. The next day wasn't the best, if you want my honest to God answer."

"When I woke up, I was in an alleyway, leaning up against the wall. I had my coat on, despite not having it on the previous night. As I woke up, my neck felt like it had been burnt with a cattle prod. I touched it, feeling the holes, and suddenly felt more awake. I started to get more aware of my surroundings then, and I saw a woman laying across my feet.

"She was dead. Two holes in her neck, like the ones I had, were crusted over with dried blood. Her face wore an expression of both pain and surprise, and her face was red and puffy, like she'd been crying. I got up pretty quickly, my head swimming. I grabbed the wall to steady myself, and shook my head really hard.

"I got out of the alleyway, and headed to the stables, thinking someone would have taken my horse there. I was right on that count, and I took her out, taking a slow walk on legs that weren't my own. I started to get very thirsty then, and I looked around, trying to clear my head. It was early morning, just as the sun was coming up. The rays were coming through some of the trees next to a nearby pond, and the sun slowly crept up the street. Chestnut knickered at me then, and I pulled her away before the light could touch her. She knew something wasn't right, and horses have shown to have a very good judge of their surroundings.

"I think I stayed in the city for about a week longer, before leaving. I went to the closest bar, hoping I would find my gang there. I found the two bounty hunters, but they sat at a table talking to another man in a white hat with a black mustache. Danial, with his scruffy goatee beard, only glanced at my direction. There was something in his eyes that told me not to walk any closer.

"I regret taking his advice, but it would come to save my life a couple years down the line. I found Lottie May in the swamps nearby after a newsboy said he'd seen a girl matching her description ride off that way. She was staying there to hunt alligators, and I told her that I was leaving the city.

"She looked hurt at my decision, and asked me, then begged to stay. I was firm in my choice, though, and I told her it was for her own good. As we stood there, talking and pleading with one another, my deep thirst came back. I could hear then the blood rushing through her veins, and I swallowed. She shouted at me, calling me out for not listening to her, and that was when a part of me that wasn't really me decided that I had to drink her blood.

"I knew that's what I needed, but at the same time I didn't want to believe that. But I reached out and gripped her face in both hands, bending her neck back, and sank my teeth into her smooth, pale skin. She screamed at the pain that it caused her, but I only stood there and started to drink.

"I drank, and drank, and I kept drinking. Until her cries faded to whimpers, and I felt tears run down her face and decorated my hands that were already paler than they had been.

"Finally when I let her go, she crumpled to the ground, tears staining her face and a gentle trickle of blood falling in a trail down her neck. I gasped, staring at my own hands, small flecks of blood on my chin. I turned away and left that house, a shuddering cry coming to leave my body. It echoed in the noisy swamp, making other small creatures cry out in tandem with me.

"I rode away, leaving her body in that small house next to the swamp. I would not see her again, and the only memory of her I would take with her is her face the first time I saw it. Young, full of life, and happy to have found a friend in her own broken or disturbed life."

I stopped talking, finally, and rubbed my throat. I hadn't talked that much in quite a while, and I looked up at James. He nodded to me, pressing a button on the tape recorder. Nearly the entire reel was spun on the device, and James reached out to put a hand on the file folder he'd opened at the start of the interview. It had an updated birth certificate of mine inside it, along with various small newspaper clippings, most of which had the word "vampire" or "attack" in them.

Clearing his throat, James took the file folder back from me, and closed it, fastening it shut with thick paperclip.

"So," I tapped my fingers on the table, my fingernails rapping against the metal, "what do you think you'll call this interview?"

"I'm not sure yet," James admitted with a small smile, "maybe "interview with the 107 year old vampire, cowboy, detective?"

I let myself chuckle then, and James added,

"Of course I'm sure you've got more to your story. You saw the turn of a couple of centuries and saw the whole world you knew change around you. I'm sure it would make a good story."

I nodded, then, memories coming back through my mind. I had indeed seen a lot, and James looked eager to hear it.

"When do you want the next part of this, interview, then?" I waved my hand in a circle in the air.

"When works for you?" James asked his own question.

I clicked my tongue then, thinking.

"The department was nice enough to have me off duty in three more days, on Wednesday," I said, "what say I come find you at your office instead of the other way around."

"That works," James nodded, folding his hands on the table.

"Until Wednesday then, James Holbrook," I nodded back, giving him a smile than showed my fanged teeth.