The first rule of the Fang Club was that you talk about the Fang Club.

Constantly, loudly, and preferably on social media.

Jo stared at the flyer posted on the Harmony Café bulletin board. The words fang club meeting was in capital letters surrounded by blood drops and fang marks. 

It read,

We drink together.
We rise together.
We glamor responsibly.
Free snacks. Garlic-free zone.
Tuesdays, 7:00 PM.
Emotional support bats welcome.

“I’m not saying I hate it,” Matteo said, staring at the font choice of Gothic Sans, “but this screams undead pyramid scheme.”

Sev, officially a part-time dishwasher and full-time crypt-iquette consultant, sighed. “It’s supposed to help newly awakened vampires adjust to modern society.”

“Why are they meeting in the café?”

“Because the cemetery’s booked for a werewolf drum circle.”

Jo rubbed her temples.

The meeting attracted a mixed crowd. Three vamps still dressed like it was the French Revolution. One was a crypt bro in a backwards cape and muscle tank, and one was a goth teen who was ninety-five percent sure she had been turned, but said she could have also been iron deficient.

Mira, trying to be helpful, offered calming tea. Unfortunately, the brew acted like a truth serum and caused an impromptu group confession circle.

“I once bit a mime,” one whispered, “and I saw his soul scream.”

“I tried online dating once,” another sobbed, “but my reflection didn’t show up in any of the profile pics!”

“I accidentally glamored a squirrel.”

Sev calmly passed around tissues and explained the concept of consent, vegan blood options, and why glamoring squirrels was frowned upon but not illegal.

Meanwhile, Clorvex showed up with a clipboard and a homemade t-shirt that said UNDEAD BUT UNIONIZED.

“I’m here to represent demonic freelancers,” he said, “and to steal a biscotti.”

Later, as the vampires practiced conflict resolution via interpretive dance, Jo leaned against the counter and watched the mayhem unfold.

“You know,” she said, “this is the least weird Tuesday we’ve had in weeks.”

Mira nodded. “No one’s levitating, no one’s on fire…”

As if on cue, Clorvex’s shirt caught fire.

“There it is,” Jo said, grabbing her mop.