It’s 3 AM and winter rain is falling on deserted black-mirror streets slick with pale orange streetlamp glow. An anemic old vampire dressed entirely in monastic black is pushing a shiny-new, blue Surly bicycle through the once grand marble lobby of a dispirited residential hotel that now houses a small church and vestigial wrap-around services devoted, at least in verbiage, to providing for the least among us.
The wheels of the impossibly bright bike make a whirling noise as the ghostly apparition wheels it past the chapel’s darkened, night-stained glass doors, past the impassive doorman, and out into the cold, dead night. The old man stops by Jesus sleeping motionless cast in bronze on a park bench and awkwardly mounts the steel contraption he has christened The blooDakini. In a flash he is gone; disappeared into the night.