Forever Spam

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Spamateur Night



Night. A Toronto alleyway. Screed comes hopping and skipping along, singing to himself. Then he spots a rat, pounces on it and admires it.

Screed: Cheery little plumper for the ol' gadinkas!

Screed bites into it and drains it, thereby doing his part for vector control. He tosses the drained rat aside, then goes on his merry way.

In the shadows, we see a dark, sinister form. It might be a pile of rotting garbage that vaguely resembles a man, it might be a drunken gorilla with terminal acne, but--this being FOREVER SPAM--we know it can only be a spammer. Chuckling, it raises a pen and notepad, and jots down an entry that bodes ill for Screed.

Familiar music as the sun rises, then sets over Toronto.

"He was brought across in 1228.
Preyed on humans for their blood.
Now he wants to be mortal again.
To repay society for his sins.
To emerge from his world of darkness.
From his endless forever night."


ACT 1: Inside the old abandoned church. It's late evening as Tracy slips in through a side door and looks around.

Tracy: Vachon?

With a whoosh Vachon lands behind her, making her jump.

Tracy: Jesus! I'll bet you love scaring kids on Halloween.

Vachon: Kids, hell. I scare adults. What brings you here?

Tracy: It's about Screed. Some animal-rights people have found a few dead rats lying around, and they noticed the bite-marks in their bellies--

Vachon: And now they're complaining about cruelty to animals.

Tracy: The mayor has the police looking into it. You know what that means.

Vachon: It means they could start looking into vampires, and we don't want the cops doing that.

Tracy: It could give a whole new meaning to "stake-out." You'll talk to Screed?

Vachon: I'll tell him to pick up after himself.

            {glances at a window}

Sun's down. You got some time before work? Dinner, maybe?

Tracy: Sure . . . but it's a little awkward having dinner with you.

Vachon: Really?

Tracy: I feel kind of funny, eating around someone who can't eat.

Vachon: I feel the same way, drinking blood around somebody who can't drink it. Let's go.

They leave the abandoned church. In the shadowy recesses of an alley, which somehow seems darker than natural, we see the indistinct shape of a spammer as it chuckles and takes notes.

Spammer: Two! Me got two name here! Make longer list for spam!

The spammer chuckles again, then oozes over to a sewer grille and somehow flows down into it. As the spammer descends into the depths, scores of rats swarm into the open, retching and gasping for fresh air as they flee the spammer's noxious presence.

The scene cuts to a street in Toronto, as we watch Nick drive to work. As might be expected, he's listening to LaCroix on CERK:

LaCroix: In the end, what do we have but time? It is always limited, our time, even for those of us who will live forever. Only so many minutes in a day, and when one thinks of it, how few days go into a century. Once gone, each of those minutes is gone forever, to return only at the minute of death--as a regret for time lost, time wasted.

And what of those who waste our precious, irreplaceable time? What of those who think our time worth nothing, who fritter it away for their convenience and profit? It is bad enough that we sometimes kill time, but these foul creatures murder time. It is not to be tolerated.

It is a crime that deserves punishment, yet it goes unnoted, a foulness lurking in the shadows of our lives. I will never tolerate it. I have never tolerated it.

Nick flashes back.


New York City, 1901. Nick, Janette and LaCroix enter a darkened building where they meet a man. He wears a loud, cheap suit, and he speaks in a voice tailor-made for a man who dresses like that. It's early-morning twilight, not long before the dawn.

LaCroix: Our time is short. You said you had something important to offer us.

Man: Yes, indeedy-do! Have I ever got a deal for you! Just give me five minutes and I'll give you a deal like you've never seen!

LaCroix: I have seen a great deal. What do you offer?

Man: Why, it's only the greatest deal in history! An incredible deal! You might even call it the deal of the century!

LaCroix: A bit presumptuous, seeing how the century has barely begun. Now tell me about this deal.

Man: Well, it's an absolutely terrific deal, the deal of a lifetime, a deal you just can't afford to miss! A deal like this--

Nick: You've been told our time is short. This deal. What is it?

Man: It's incredible, it's stupendous, it's amazing, that's what it is! It's been praised by kings and queens, by robber barons and captains of industry! It's the most remarkable--

Irritated, Janette grabs him by his cheap suit's lapels and shakes him like a cat playing with a rat.

Janette: ***WHAT*** ***IS*** ***IT????***

Man: It's something no home should be without, something that no right-thinking man or woman can afford to miss!

LaCroix takes him from Janette, vamps out, and brings his hypnotic powers to bear on the goniff.

LaCroix: What do you offer?

Man: It's a deal . . . that lets you spot . . . phoney deals.

So LaCroix kills him.

Nick: And you say *my* business ventures are folly.

LaCroix: I admit this one had me fooled.

Janette: And he has wasted a night we could have spent hunting prey.

Nick: What's more, the sun is rising. He wasted so much of our time that we can't get out of here.

Janette: Then we must spend the day *here.*

LaCroix: It could be worse.

Nick: It will be.

LaCroix: What makes you say that, my boy?

As if in reply, music rattles into the building: the strains of a Salvation Army band as it plays--badly--"Onward Christian Soldiers." All three vampires settle down to a day of immortal agony.


ACT 2: Screed's sewer. He enters, carrying a dozen live rats by their tails. He goes to a line and hangs them up with clothespins. After that he goes to his computer, sits down and gets on-line.

Screed: Time to tyke a squint at the listies, me loverlies, see what folks have inned into the little in box. Allo-allo-allo! What's this?

Screed peers at the screen, a baffled look on his face--a look that slowly changes to horror.


At the 96th precinct, Nick and Tracy do paperwork at their desks. An officer carrying a box of doughnuts approaches them.

Officer: Munchies?

Nick smiles and shakes his head. Tracy looks up from her computer, starts to reach for a doughnut, then stops.

Nick: What's wrong?

Tracy: Nothing. It's just that I feel kind of funny, eating around--oh, forget it.

Nick: If you say so.

Tracy's computer beeps. She frowns, types in some commands, and then looks disgusted.

Nick: What's wrong, Trace?

Tracy: I'm being spammed!

Alarmed, Nick gets up and stands behind her. He looks over her shoulder as she reads from the screen:

Tracy: "From:

    "Vampires! We've identified your kind to vampire hunters for centuries! It's our business! So ask yourself, who is better able to keep your name *away* from vampire hunters? Right! It's us! Send us $10, and we'll see to it that the van Helsings of the world don't learn about you! We know who you are, bloodsucker, so call us now at 516-458-8893. Or better yet, mail your money to
Post Office Box 112
Albertson, NY 11507

and we'll send you a *free* t-shirt that says " keeps this sucker safe!" Remember, you have to be a real *sucker* to take this deal!"

Nick: Spam. Ignore it.

Tracy: Yeah . . . right. It's silly. Why would anyone think I'm a vampire? I'm no more a vampire than you are.

Nick: Absolutely. Hey, look, it's late. Why don't we go home before the sun comes up?

Tracy: Good thinking. Catch you later, partner.


Tracy leaves the precinct and gets into her car. As she starts the motor Vachon pops up behind her, startling her.

Tracy: What next? Are you going to pop out of the glove compartment?

Vachon: Trace, I've got a problem. I've been spammed.

Tracy: You, too?

Vachon: Uh-huh. Somebody is offering to protect me from vampire hunters.

Tracy: That sounds like blackmail.

Vachon: I think so, too. They don't *say* they'll tell any hunters about me, but they imply they could. I could get staked, burned, decapitated, or even . . .

Tracy: Spammed again?

Vachon: And spammed worse. And I don't even know who these people are.

Tracy: They're called

Vachon: How do you know?

Tracy: They spammed me. And they think *I'm* a vampire, too.

Vachon: You? You're no more a vampire than--never mind.

Tracy: Whatever you say. Let's go to my place and see what we can learn.


ACT 3: A--place, hidden in the bowels of the earth, too dim and foul to identify . . . not that anyone would want to identify this place, which exudes the aura of a spiritual cesspit. Three spammers skulk into this place, in a manner reminiscent of MacBeth's three witches.

Spammer #1: Me make spam!

Spammer #2: Me make lotsa spam!

Spammer #3: Me make even more spam, so there! Me be king spammer!

Spammer #2: You make spam with vampires?

Spammer #3: Spam all vampires! Make them send money!

Spammer #1: Vampires send money! They be real suckers!

Spammer #2: And after we get they money, we sell vampire names to vampire hunters! Get more money!

They laugh. Although no normal person can understand the spamming mind, it's a safe guess to think that dishonesty is the basis of what passes for humor among spammers. Then they stop laughing. Stealthily, eerily, disgustingly, the spammers depart. As they leave a glimmer of light gives us a vague look at one. It's a spammer, so it's too hideous to describe. As it leaves a black widow spider descends from its web, bites it, and throws up.


The Raven. Nick enters, and he looks concerned as he approaches LaCroix. LaCroix looks unhappy, too.

Nick: There's trouble.

LaCroix: Indeed. The entire community has been spammed.

Nick: We've all been identified. We may have to move on.

LaCroix: I shall not do that. No mere spammer shall force me from my life, force me to accomodate myself to its pleasure. Life is too fleeting to let others waste it for us. No, I shall stand and fight, just as I did when barbarians threatened Rome.

Nick: Rome fell.

LaCroix: Picky, picky, picky.

Nick: When the hunters come--

LaCroix: It shall save me the annoyance of hunting *them*--and dinner. Do you know, Nicolas, it occurs to me that our interests merge here. As a detective, you wish to find these spammers, just as we vampires wish to destroy them. Now, how would you draw them into the open?

Nick: By refusing to give into them.

LaCroix: Excellent! And I feel we shall not have long to wait before our enemies make their first move.


Actually, there's no time at all, as can be seen at Tracy's apartment. She and Vachon are working at her computer, and they're getting nowhere fast.

Tracy: Okay, let's try this. We'll find the original post, and forward it to Plus, we'll forward it to, and see what sort of a response we get from them.

Vachon: What will they do?

Tracy: Probably ask us for more information, but if it's a scam, which is how it looks to me, they'll start the legal process rolling. At the very least they'll give us advice on what to do.

Vachon: I liked the sixteenth century better. Somebody offended you,  you challenged him to a duel. End of story--for him, at least.

Tracy: If you won.

Vachon: I always did. That's why the story always ended for them, not me--

There's the sound of shattering glass as something bursts into Tracy's apartment. It's a spammer, and the sight of it would give Godzilla a hissy fit. For a second Tracy is paralyzed by fear and revulsion. Vachon vamps out and tackles the revolting thing, and as they grapple and roll around they do a thorough job of trashing the apartment. Tracy draws her gun and plugs away, but she is so unnerved by the sight of the spammer that she misses it. Vachon rips off one of its arms and beats it over the head with it, but nothing can slow it down. Then Tracy has a stroke of genius. She digs through the rubble, finds a large chunk of a broken mirror, and gets into the middle of the fight. She sticks the mirror in the spammer's face, and at once it shudders, clutches at its chest, screams in agony and dies. Weary, Vachon gets to his feet.

Vachon: What did you do?

Tracy: I showed it a mirror.

Puzzled, Vachon takes the mirror and looks into it.

Vachon: I don't see anything.

Tracy: Of course not, vampire. But what do you think the spammer saw?

Vachon: Well, it saw a spammer . . . oh. You mean--

Tracy: It saw itself and died of fright. Or maybe disgust.

Vachon looks at the dead spammer, and shudders.

Vachon: That's one down. But how many more are out there?


ACT 4: The morgue. Natalie finishes her necropsy of the spammer (Technical note: It's only called an autopsy when it involves a person. A post-mortem on any lower form of life is called a necropsy. So what else could you call it when you're carving up a spammer--other than fun, of course?). She turns away from the table, pulls off her mask and looks to Nick.

Natalie: Well, I'd say it died of heart failure, except spammers don't have hearts.

Nick: At least it's done for. But why did it attack Tracy?

Natalie: Simple. It's picking on vampires, and she spends a lot of time with vampires. So do I, and that's probably why I got spammed, too. It's a natural mistake.

Nick: But anyone with an ounce of brains can tell that you and Tracy aren't vampires!

Natalie: That's absolutely right. And--

            {she uses tweezers to put an itty-bitty glob of something icky on the laboratory scale; she then peers at its needle to take a reading}

--spammers don't have anywhere near that much brain. I make it out to be one ten-thousandth of an ounce, give or take a ten-thousandth.

Nick: The question is, how can we kill these things besides showing them a mirror? I don't think that trick will work twice.

Natalie: No, we can't always be that lucky. I don't know, Nick. It's like penicillin. It worked fine for a while against bacteria, but then bacteria evolved, mutated, adapted, and it lost effect against them.

Nick: So we have to keep thinking of new ways to fight spammers.

The phone rings before Natalie can reply. She answers it.

Natalie: Dr. Lambert . . . a what? You're kidding . . . No, I'm on my way.

Nick: What is it?

Natalie: A dead spammer . . . and an injured vampire. They're in a sewer at Queen Street and Spadina.


They leave the morgue, go to Nick's Caddy and drive. They reach the scene of the crime, where cop cars and ambulances surround an open manhole in the street. As Nick and Natalie get out of the Caddy they see that Screed has been taken into an ambulance, which has its rear door open. Joe Reese, captain of the 96th precinct is there. So is Vachon. Nick glances at him, exchanges a nod, then goes to Reese.

Nick: I heard you found a dead spammer.

Reese: Down in the sewer. He attacked this homeless guy. Funny kind of guy. For a while I had this strange feeling about him, but it passed.

Nick: I'm sure it did, captain. Can I talk to him?

Reese: Go ahead and take a crack at it, but nobody can understand a word he says. I thought about holding him for psychiatric observation, but for some reason that didn't seem like a good idea.

With Vachon around, Nick can guess what that means. He and Natalie go to Screed, who's sitting up on a gurney, drinking blood from a transfusion bag. The paramedics are too hypnotized to notice, and Nick feels a stab of envy at Vachon's hypnotic skills. Then he speaks to Screed.

Nick: What happened?

Screed: It was a real balls-up, mite, let me tell you. There I existed, minding me own, doing what I could to help the little pitter-patters leave this world, when what happens but this muck comes in on me and tells me it wants the coin of the realm.

Natalie: What?

Nick: He says he was killing rats when the spammer showed up and asked for money.

Screed: Right greedy sod it was, too! Nervy-swervy, the little scurvy! Tells me it's me last hope, give it the dope or feel the rope, just like when it spammed me. Well, not old Screed, not me. I gave the Spanish Armada the royal finger when I sailed with Drake, and I did the same to this bugger when it tried to lord it over me. No jammy spammy git gets away with what-for against old Screed!

Natalie: What--skip it.

Nick: So you jumped it and drank its blood?

Screed: I wish! I whipped out the old stickers, you know me, carouche type, drink any type of low blood, the lower the better, so what's better than the stuff a spammer drips when you tap into its plumbing? Only it put up a stiff one, take my word for it, never had such a fight in all me days! Trampled me right into the muck, it did, the mucking mucker!

Natalie: Then--how did you survive?

Screed: Well, it was trampling away, bruising its soles against my fists, when it got all this sewer-bottom muck sloshed all over its outer-outerness. Next thing anyone knows, it's screaming bloodless murder, rolling in all the slime and bile down in the sewer, and then it's no longer among the living, or the undead, just fit to be a trophy on the wall, spammer-skin rug, turn its fangs into ivories for your eighty-eight, mate.

Nick: How could a spammer just die like that?

Natalie: Well . . . a spammer is the foulest thing in the world. Vile beyond words, utterly impure and indecent.

Nick: Everyone knows that.

Natalie: And you can be poisoned by something that doesn't suit your metabolism. Now, when you figure that raw sewage is infintely cleaner and purer than what you find inside a spammer--

Nick: --then the spammer was killed by the relative cleanliness of the sewage. It worked on him like a disinfectant. So that's two spammers down.

Natalie: And how many more are out there?

Nick: Three. It has to be three.

Natalie: Why's that?

Nick: It's a law of nature. Bad news always comes in threes.

His cell phone rings. He answers it.

Nick: Knight . . . right away.

Natalie: What is it?

Nick: It's LaCroix. He's at my loft--and the third spammer is stalking him.

Nick hands her the keys to the Caddy, then hurries into the nearest alley. He looks around, decides he's safe, and takes to the air. At the far end of the alley, a large, bearded man in a trenchcoat has seen him fly away. He nods, then walks out of the alley. He spots Natalie, and keeps his eye on her.


ACT 5: The loft. Nick bursts in. To his astonishment he finds LaCroix working on a painting. He stands before a large canvas which, oddly, shows a mirror image of one of the loft's walls, with Nick and LaCroix's backs.

Nick: LaCroix! Where's the spammer?

LaCroix: It's still looking for me. A rather dull-witted creature, it seems confused by the fact that there's a wall between us. In time it will recall that there are such things as doors, and then it will grace us with its presence.

Nick: And you're going to prepare for its attack by *painting?*

LaCroix: Yes. Rather good, don't you think? I've always favored realism.

The spammer bursts into the loft.

Spammer: Give money or die, vampire!

LaCroix: Such impertinence.

Without further ado LaCroix attacks it. Nick goes to his aid. No need for a long fight scene; we know who's going to win. The surprising thing is that LaCroix doesn't kill it. Nick cuffs its hands behind its wart-covered back, then stands.

Nick: You're under arrest--

LaCroix: No, Nicolas. I have another use for it. We must await  another guest.


Back to the sewer scene. With a copious amount of glib talk, Natalie gets Screed released into the custody of Vachon and Tracy, who help take him away. She goes to the Caddy and gets in. As she starts the motor the man in the trenchcoat gets into the passenger seat and sticks a cross in her face. She looks puzzled. So does he.

Natalie: What's your problem?

Man: You're not a vampire!

Natalie: There's no such thing as a vampire.

Man: But the list sold me said you are!

Natalie: And you believed them?

Man: Of course! Would they lie? So you must be a vampire's slave!

            {he draws a pistol}

We're going to 101 Gateway, and I'm going to destroy the next vampire on my list. Nick Knight. Drive.

Natalie hesitates . . . but she knows Nick is resourceful, and LaCroix is at his loft. That puts her two up on this guy. She drives.


At the loft, LaCroix puts the finishing touches on the painting while Nick places a phone call. Finished, he turns to LaCroix.

Nick: Reese and Tracy are on the way, with back-up.

LaCroix: Excellent. Ah, our next guest is here. Do give me a hand.

Nick and LaCroix take the bound, unconscious spammer by its elbows. They pick it up and stand in front of the painting with it--just as the vampire hunter arrives with Natalie. What does he see but Nick, LaCroix and the spammer standing in front of a mirror--but only Nick and LaCroix cast reflections in the mirror. This can mean only one thing. At once the vampire hunter pulls a stake from inside his coat and runs forward. He plunges the stake into the spammer's chest. As he does so, Reese, Tracy and a whole bunch of cops pour into the loft. The vampire hunter pours lighter fluid on the spammer and sets it aflame. The painting catches fire, too, while the cops grab the man.

Man: Vampires! Everywhere! I bought a list from!

Reese: Yeah, yeah.

Man: It's true! The vampire didn't show up in that mirror!

Reese: What mirror? All I see is a burned-up painting.

Man: I tell you it's true!

Tracy: Don't tell us. There are some experts you can tell.

Man: Experts?

Tracy: Uh-huh, nice experts with nice white coats, and they'll give you a room with nice soft walls and a jacket with nice long sleeves, and you can tell them *aaalllll* about vampires.

Man: And I can tell them all about the nice people at Gee, that sounds really nice, you nice lady.

Natalie, LaCroix and Nick trade satisfied looks as the cops take the man away.


TAG: The loft. Nick and Natalie talk over drinks as they sit in front of the fireplace.

Nick: So the spammers are dead, and their list of vampires is discredited.

Natalie: Uh-huh. When a madman tells you he has a list of vampires, the last thing you do is believe him.

Nick: But he wasn't really insane.

Natalie: Hey, he believed spammers, didn't he? Gave them his money, didn't he? That's nuts.

Nick: Yes, you're right. Maybe they can cure him of that. But it seems a shame.

Natalie: What, that he trusted spammers? That he didn't know that, even when they claim to be honest, they're still schmucks?

Nick: No. That these spammers wasted so much of everyone's time. Minutes that could have been put to better use.

Natalie: So let's stop wasting time and start making time.

Nick gives her a kiss.

Fade to end theme and credits.

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Last modified: April 10, 2006