Chapter 2 ~Bald Bean Head~

~Vivaldi's POV~

I'M SITTING THERE, AND I CAN FEEL my blood running cold. I know I've stirred up some serious trouble, and it's about to explode. I tilt my head, purse my lips, and try to remember exactly what I said to piss off this bald guy. A fake laugh erupts from me, and I blurt out, “I say, I want a mug of beer!” But Mr. Bean Head isn't falling for it. Not for a second.

His chest puffs out, and he growls, “No, no. What did you call me?” My mind races, searching for a way out. I cough, trying to buy some time. “Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!” I lie, hoping he'll believe me. But this guy's no dummy.

He looks totally confused, staring at his reflection in a bottle behind the bar, rubbing his bald head gently. “But… I'm not a blonde,” he points out, looking both funny and pitiful with his scrunched-up face.

A wicked grin spreads across my face. This is gonna be epic. “If you're not a blonde,” I say, pausing for effect, “then that means you're a...” I let the words hang there, building up the suspense. Someone's about to lose their cool, and I bet it's this bald fucker.

I can see the anger rising in him, his face turning bright red. “Don't you dare say it,” he growls, trying to shut me up, but it's too late. I can't help myself. With a grin, I blurt out: “Bald bean head!” The guy's face shifts from shock to fury in an instant, his eyes bulging.

His face turns an even deeper red, like he's about to blow his top. He's practically steaming as he roars, pounding his chest with his massive fists. I shrink back in fear, my stool scraping the floor as I nearly fall off. I manage to grab the counter's edge just in time, my knuckles white with terror.

I close my eyes tight, bracing for the punch that's sure to come. But it never does. Carefully, I open one eye, and that's when I see him – the giant, frozen in place like a statue. His fist hangs in midair, his eyes bulging. He looks like he's seen a ghost – or maybe he's just realized that the “tough guy” he's arguing with is actually a tiny punk rocker.

I look down at my clothes and can't help but grin. I'm dressed like a total badass – studded leather jacket, tight black t-shirt, ripped jeans, and combat boots. My backwards cap and graffiti bandana complete the look, making it clear that I'm not someone to mess with.

Despite my edgy clothes, my face gives me away. My big, round eyes shine with innocence, and my soft, chubby cheeks practically scream “youth.” Even my button nose adds to my baby-faced appearance. I mean, let's be real, I'm no Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. My body is more like a skinny teenager's than a tough guy's.

Mr. Bean-head is still staring at me like I'm some kind of freak, his face a mix of confusion and amusement. I'm getting annoyed, so I snap, “What the fuck are you looking at?” He still looks confused, but he manages to say, “You're a child.” No shit, Sherlock. But being called out on it pisses me off.

I scrunch up my face, roll my eyes, and snap, “Stop calling me a fucking child!” I'm getting really sick of his condescending attitude.

Mr. Bean-head laughs mockingly, acting all superior. “Oh, I apologize. What should I call you instead, hmm? A dwarf, perhaps?” The guy's pushing his luck, and I'm about to lose my cool.

I narrow my eyes, getting angrier by the second. “Back the fuck off, or I'll start calling you baldy,” I warn, my voice low and threatening. He immediately puts his hands up in surrender, fear in his eyes. “No, no, no! I'll stop, I'll stop!” I smirk, feeling a surge of triumph for finding his weakness. The guy's a fucking wimp.

But then his expression changes to one of concern. “Seriously though, what are you doing out so late?” he asks, still talking down to me. “Shouldn't you be in bed by now, dreaming about candy or superheroes, or whatever kids dream about these days?” I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes. “I already told you. I want a glass of your strongest brew!”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Not happening, kiddo.” I'm taken aback by his condescending tone, my anger rising. “And why the hell not?” I challenge, crossing my arms and trying to look intimidating. “Because we don't serve kids, that's why,” he explains, treating me like a child. “I could end up behind bars just for letting a young'un like you have a sip of the strong stuff.”

I glare at him, my anger boiling over. “Watch it,” I snap, my voice sharp and cold. “You just called me a child again.” He raises his hands in surrender, fear in his eyes, as if I've got a gun pointed at him. “Alright, alright, sorry,” he stammers, backing off like a coward. "But seriously, you've got to leave. It's way past your bedtime, kiddo."

I clutch my stomach. "Come on, man," I plead, laying on the drama. "My stomach needs this! Have some compassion, will you?"

The bartender eyes me skeptically, his forehead creasing like a crumpled candy wrapper. Then, unexpectedly, he shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a fistful of money. "Here's what we'll do," he proposes, flashing a grin.

"Take this and find something to satisfy your hunger," he says, stretching his hand over the counter.

“Listen up, old man,” I sneer, fully composed. “I don't need your fucking spare change. I could buy this whole shithole if I wanted,” I declare, crossing my arms to drive the point home. “All I want is a glass of your strongest brew. So, stop stalling and pour me a drink.”

This guy's as stubborn as they come – he just won't give in. “You're wasting my time, kid,” he growls, getting more impatient. “I think it's time for you to leave.” “Leave?” I think to myself, my mind filled with defiance. “No way. I came here for a drink, and I'm not leaving until I get it.”

So, I stare him down, my eyes burning with determination. “Not without my drink, pal,” I snarl. The man's face turns bright red, his anger rising like a storm about to break. “I told you to get out of here!” he yells, his voice bouncing off the walls.

But I'm not backing down just yet. I'm just getting started. “Would you rather make me fight you for a drink?” I challenge him, raising an eyebrow. “Because, trust me, I don't mind getting rough.”

The man's face is now a dark, dangerous red. Veins stick out of his skin like ropes. I can feel my own anger rising too.

“You bet I do!” he retorts, his anger clear as day. “You're going to regret this,” I warn him, my eyes burning with intensity. He looks scared, like he's just seen a ghost, and he flinches.

“Oh shit!” he exclaims, his voice shaking. “Get out of here!” he commands, trying to sound tough, but we both know who's really in charge. “Out!” he yells again, slamming his fist on the counter.

The fear in his eyes is like a drug – it makes me feel powerful. “Alright, alright, I'm leaving,” I say, getting off the stool with a smirk. I turn to face him one last time, my eyes shining with mischief. “But before I go...” I say, my voice sarcastic. “Could you spare some change? You offered earlier, and I could use the cash.” I'm just messing with him now.

Old Baldhead rolls his eyes at me, looking disgusted and annoyed. He pulls out some crumpled, worn-out bills from his pocket. “Here, take it,” he growls, giving them to me like they're trash. “Now get out of here, and don't let me see you around here again.”

A wicked grin spreads across my face as I look at his muscular arm. This guy thinks he's in control, but he's about to get a reality check. Quick as a snake, I grab his arm with a grip like a steel trap. Baldhead's eyes widen in shock as I pull him over the counter, his body flailing like crazy.

Before Baldhead even hits the floor, my fangs come out, ready to taste his blood. I move fast, sinking my sharp teeth into his neck. The blood rushes out, warm and metallic in my mouth.

The taste is incredible, smooth and rich like a fine wine. I drink deep, savoring the flavor. Baldhead screams in pain and fear, but to me, it's like music. His voice rises and falls like an opera singer, but all I hear is a sweet song that makes me hungrier.