Malcolm Pryce had been dying in instalments for years.
Not the dramatic kind with hospital corridors and sobbing relatives, but the slower, crueller version: nicotine-stained fingertips, tinnitus that never slept, cheap coffee and the steady erosion of anything resembling optimism. He wore his age the way he wore his leather jacket—creased, scuffed, and stubbornly refusing to be replaced. His hair had given up the fight and retreated.
He’d been a rock journalist since music still pretended it didn’t care about money. Back when bands meant it, and audiences did too. He’d survived punk, endured Britpop, and watched every revolution get repackaged. Through it all he’d kept one talent polished like a blade: he could spot fraud at fifty paces, and he could write it down in a way that made frauds bleed.
Which was why he loathed The Ungrateful Dead with a devotion that bordered on religious.
They’d slithered into the world three years ago, all vintage denim, fake sincerity, and choruses designed by committee to sound “raw”. Malcolm had seen their first interview—a painfully curated “candid” chat in a reclaimed-wood café where the singer, Felix Marr, spoke about “truth” as though he’d invented it. Their debut record had sounded like somebody had used an algorithm to generate a greatest-hits album from bands who’d actually had something to say. It was an imitation of meaning and Malcolm wasn’t fooled for a second.
Malcolm had given them one star and the headline:
THE UNGRATEFUL DEAD: CORPSE-ROBBERS WITH GUITARS.
After that, it became a ritual.
Every new single, he took it apart like a mechanic with a grudge. Every tour announcement, he called it a money grab. Every “surprise” acoustic session, he described as “carefully rehearsed spontaneity”. Fans howled online, of course. The band’s PR team tried to smile through it. Felix, in interviews, played wounded: I don’t know why Malcolm hates us. I actually read his stuff. He’s, like, an icon.
Malcolm didn’t hate them because they were successful. He’d seen plenty of successful acts. He hated them because they were hollow and proud of it. Because they were rewarded for emptiness. Because their songs were ghosts wearing perfume.
And because, if he was honest in the privacy of his own mind, their success made his own life look like a cautionary tale.
On the Monday morning that ruined what little peace he had left, Malcolm arrived at the magazine offices late and damp. London had been raining with a vengeance. He shook his coat in the lobby and rode the lift up with a junior writer who smelled like citrus shampoo and ambition.
His editor, Vivienne Sloane, didn’t look up when he came in. She was on the phone, one long red nail tapping the desk in a rhythm that suggested she’d already decided what his day would be.
“Yes,” she said into the receiver, voice smooth as a knife sliding from a sheath. “We’ll have it by midnight. Of course we will. We’re not amateurs.”
She hung up, then looked at Malcolm like a headteacher catching a pupil smoking behind the bike sheds.
“You’re going tonight,” she said.
Malcolm blinked. “To what?”
Vivienne’s smile had no warmth in it. “Don’t play dumb, Malcolm. It doesn’t suit you and you’re not good at it.”
He walked to the chair opposite her desk and sat without being invited. His knees cracked like gunshots. “If this is about that dreadful new column idea—‘Revisiting the Noughties’—I’d rather eat my hamster.”
Vivienne slid a glossy promo packet across the desk. The Ungrateful Dead stared up at him from the cover: four handsome men in moody lighting, as if they’d been sculpted from cheekbones and smugness.
“You’re reviewing their gig at The Orpheum,” she said. “Tonight.”
Malcolm stared at the packet as though it might bite. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s sold out,” Vivienne continued, ignoring him. “It’s being streamed. It’s the biggest show of their tour. They want press coverage and, for reasons that defy logic, our readership still enjoys watching you set yourself on fire over them.”
“They’re a tribute band to other people’s talent.”
“They’re a band people care about,” Vivienne replied. “And you, Malcolm, are a writer people care about. Put the two together and it’s clicks, subscriptions, ad revenue, and my continued ability to pay you.”
He leaned forward. “You know I have a… history with them.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Malcolm’s mouth went dry. “Is this punishment?”
Vivienne’s eyes glittered. “It’s work. I’m not your priest, Malcolm. I don’t hand out penance. I hand out assignments.”
He pushed the packet back towards her. “Find someone else. The interns can write a nice little puff piece about how Felix Marr ‘connected with the audience’ and ‘owned the stage’.”
Vivienne’s voice softened in that dangerous way, like a cat lowering itself before pouncing. “They’ve requested you.”
Malcolm laughed once. It came out harsh. “Of course they have.”
“They’ve offered backstage access an interview, if you want. They’re making it easy. They’re being—” she paused and said the unfamiliar word slowly, “kind.”
Malcolm stood. “No.”
Vivienne’s smile vanished. “Malcolm. Sit down.”
He didn’t.
She sighed. “You can do this the hard way, or you can do it professionally.”
“Professionally would be letting me cover literally anything else. A sewage spill. A funeral. A tax seminar.”
Vivienne folded her hands. “You’re going.”
He stared at her, anger simmering, then found—beneath it—a familiar exhaustion. This was how it always went. There was always another gig, another album, another assignment. The machine never stopped. You could either keep feeding it, or it would grind you into something unrecognisable.
“What time?” he asked finally, voice like thunder.
Vivienne’s smile returned, victorious. “Doors open at seven. Don’t be late.”
He left her office with the packet under his arm like a disease.
All day, Malcolm’s vendetta sat on his shoulder like a heavy bird. He tried to write a review of a new post-punk release, but every paragraph curdled into thoughts of The Ungrateful Dead: their smug faces, their polished “authenticity”, their fans chanting lyrics like they were scripture. By late afternoon, his irritation had grown into a physical itch.
By early evening, he found himself outside The Orpheum, cigarette between his lips, watching the queue.
The place was an old theatre dressed up for modern carnage. Neon signage buzzed, casting everything in a sickly glow. Fans gathered beneath it like moths, glittering with anticipation, wearing tour shirts and battered denim, as though they were paying homage to the idea of rebellion rather than the act. Malcolm spotted a couple of teenagers taking selfies by the poster and shook his head sadly.
He inhaled and felt the cold air scrape his lungs. Someone brushed past him, laughing, and he caught the scent of perfume and beer.
Inside, the theatre was packed. The crowd’s excitement pressed against him like heat. He made his way to the press area, took out his notebook, and tried to look like a professional rather than a man attending his own execution.
The lights dropped. The room roared.
The Ungrateful Dead came onstage in silhouette, dramatic and deliberate. The opening chords hit like a well-practised punch. Felix Marr strode to the microphone, hair perfect, posture rehearsed, and raised his arms as though blessing the crowd.
“LONDON!” he shouted.
The crowd screamed back.
Malcolm tried, with an effort that made his temples throb, to listen.
To his annoyance, the band were tight. Not inspired—never that—but competent. The drummer hit with precision. The guitarist’s fingers moved with practised dexterity. The bass throbbed obediently. Felix’s voice was exactly what it always was: a smoky approximation of passion, carefully arranged to sound like the brink of collapse while never actually risking it.
Halfway through the set, Malcolm found himself writing, almost against his will: They know what they’re doing. That’s the problem.
He hated that he couldn’t dismiss them as amateurs. Hate was easier when your enemy was useless. This lot were built for this: the spectacle, the sound, the collective illusion of intimacy.
The crowd sang every word. Phone screens glowed like a field of tiny altars. Felix leaned out over the barricade and let a young woman touch his hand as though he were a saint.
Malcolm’s stomach turned.
When the encore ended, Malcolm stood to leave, already shaping the review in his mind: something about manufactured fervour, about a gig that was more product launch than performance. He’d be brutal. He’d be fair, but brutal. That was his gift.
A man in a black shirt intercepted him at the edge of the press area. He had an earpiece and the posture of someone paid to be intimidating.
“Malcolm Pryce?” the man asked.
“That depends who’s asking.”
“Band wants to see you. Backstage.”
Malcolm snorted. “Why? So they can take a photo of me looking miserable and use it as marketing?”
The man’s expression didn’t change. “Backstage. Now.”
Malcolm considered refusing. Then he imagined Vivienne’s face and the very real possibility of being replaced by someone younger, cheaper, and less complicated.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Lead on.”
Backstage was a different world: narrow corridors, peeling paint, the smell of sweat and hairspray. Crew members moved with purposeful chaos, coiling cables, shouting over one another. Somewhere deeper in the building, he heard laughter.
The man led him to a door with a strip of masking tape that read: UNGRATEFUL DEAD. The letters were written in thick marker, aggressive.
The man knocked once, opened the door, and gestured Malcolm inside.
The room was larger than Malcolm expected, lit low and warm. A mirror framed with bulbs dominated one wall, reflecting discarded jackets, empty water bottles, and a platter of grapes that looked like it had been arranged by somebody who’d never actually eaten a grape. The band were there, sprawled across the room.
Felix Marr sat in a chair like a throne, shirt open at the collar, skin glistening with stage sweat. His eyes landed on Malcolm and sharpened.
“Malcolm Pryce,” Felix said, as if tasting the name. “The man, the myth, the pain in the arse.”
One of the other band members—Malcolm thought it was the bassist, tall with hair like a funeral curtain—stood and sauntered over with a beer bottle in hand. He offered it with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Peace offering,” the bassist said. His voice was smooth, almost too smooth. “Take a seat, Malcolm.”
Malcolm hesitated. He didn’t like taking gifts from people he despised. There were always strings attached.
Still. He was tired. And the beer was cold.
He took it. “What’s this about?”
Felix spread his hands. “We wanted to meet the man who has been giving us a verbal beating for three years.”
Malcolm took a sip. The beer tasted fine. Cold, bitter, ordinary. He hated that he’d expected something else. Poison, perhaps.
Felix nodded to a chair opposite him. “Sit.”
Malcolm sat, notebook in his lap. He kept his posture stiff, like a man ready to bolt.
The guitarist—lean, pale, with eyes too bright—picked up Malcolm’s promo packet from the table and flicked through it, chuckling.
Felix reached under the table and produced a sheaf of papers. Malcolm recognised his own words instantly. Print-outs. Reviews. Headlines. Quotes highlighted in fluorescent yellow like wounds.
Felix held up the first page.
“‘The Ungrateful Dead are what happens when you teach a spreadsheet to feel.’” Felix read aloud. He looked up, smiling. “That one hurt. Creative, though.”
The drummer laughed, low and humourless. “I liked the one where he said we had ‘the emotional range of a damp sock’.”
Felix flipped another page. “‘Their lyrics are an apology for existing to an angst ridden youth.’”
The room’s laughter swelled, and Malcolm felt his skin crawl. They were enjoying this. Not offended—amused. Like a cat toying with a mouse.
“You keep these?” Malcolm asked.
Felix’s smile widened. “Of course. You’ve been a part of our story.”
Malcolm’s fingers tightened on the beer. “If this is supposed to intimidate me, it won’t.”
Felix leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes gleaming. “Intimidate? No. Malcolm, we’re not here to intimidate you.”
The bassist moved behind Malcolm’s chair. Malcolm felt him there like a shadow, too close.
“We’re here,” Felix continued, voice silky, “to thank you.”
Malcolm barked a laugh. “For what? Calling you parasites?”
“For the publicity,” Felix said. “For giving us a villain. A grizzled gatekeeper to rally against. Our fans love it. They chant your name at after-parties.”
“I doubt that.”
Felix shrugged. “They do. You’re famous in our world, Malcolm. People buy tickets to see if you’ll finally admit you enjoyed yourself.”
Malcolm felt something icy slide down his spine. He didn’t like the way Felix said our world.
Felix lifted another page. “Here’s a favourite. ‘Watching The Ungrateful Dead perform is like being mugged by nostalgia.’”
The guitarist clapped slowly. “Poetic.”
Malcolm swallowed. The beer sat heavy in his stomach, colder than it should have been.
Felix’s eyes narrowed. “You know, we tried, at first. We sent you records. Invites. We offered you interviews. We even had our manager call your editor to make peace.”
Malcolm’s gaze flicked to the mirror, where he saw his own reflection: older, harsher, eyes ringed with fatigue. He looked like a man who’d spent too long fighting things that didn’t bleed.
“You want me to apologise?” he asked.
Felix laughed. “No. No, Malcolm. We want you to understand.”
The room’s warmth seemed to dim, as if somebody had turned a dial. The bulbs around the mirror still glowed, but the shadows deepened. Malcolm noticed, suddenly, how pale the band looked under the lights. How their skin seemed almost translucent. How their smiles showed too many teeth.
The bassist’s hand settled on Malcolm’s shoulder.
It was cold. Not just cool—cold like metal left outside in winter.
Malcolm’s heart thudded. He tried to turn, but the bassist’s grip tightened, gentle and firm.
Felix tilted his head. “Do you know why we call ourselves The Ungrateful Dead?”
Malcolm’s mouth was dry. “Because you’re childish?”
Felix’s eyes flashed. “Because we don’t die, Malcolm.”
For a second, Malcolm thought it was theatre. A bit. A gimmick to mess with him. Bands did nonsense all the time—fake cult aesthetics, mock rituals, edgy imagery designed to give teenagers something to feel rebellious about.
But then the guitarist stood, and his shadow on the wall moved a fraction too slow. Like it was reluctant to follow.
The drummer smiled, and his teeth weren’t teeth any more. They were pointed, gleaming, wrong.
Felix’s mouth opened in something between a grin and a snarl, and Malcolm saw the glint of fangs, sharp as punctuation.
The bassist leaned close to Malcolm’s ear and whispered, “You should’ve been kinder.”
Malcolm’s body went rigid. He tried to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat.
“This is…” he managed. “This is ridiculous.”
Felix stood, moving with a smoothness that made Malcolm’s stomach lurch. He crossed the room without seeming to take steps, more glide than walk, and stopped in front of Malcolm.
“Is it?” Felix said softly. “You’ve made a career out of believing you can hurt people with words and walk away. You’ve fed yourself on other people’s failures. You’ve written your little autopsies and called it truth.”
Malcolm tried to stand. The bassist’s hand pushed him back down, effortlessly.
Felix’s face was close now. His eyes were unnaturally dark, like stage lights had gone out behind them.
Malcolm smelled something sweet and coppery on Felix’s breath, like pennies warmed in the mouth.
The room seemed to tilt. Malcolm’s pulse hammered against his ribs.
He did what his instincts screamed at him to do.
He panicked.
He shoved back hard, chair legs scraping, and wrenched himself free. The bassist’s grip slipped for a fraction of a second—enough. Malcolm lurched to his feet, beer bottle dropping and smashing on the floor. The sound was sharp, desperate.
He ran.
He barrelled through the door, into the corridor, nearly colliding with a stagehand carrying cables. The man shouted something, but Malcolm didn’t stop. His boots slapped the floor. His breath came in ragged bursts.
Behind him, he heard laughter.
Not chasing footsteps. Not the snarl of predators.
Laughter.
That was worse.
He sprinted down the corridor, past rooms, past posters, past a vending machine that glowed like a lighthouse in a nightmare. His mind screamed a single coherent thought: Vampires.
He burst through a fire door and into a stairwell. The air was colder here, smelling of dust and old paint. He took the steps two at a time, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.
He reached the bottom, slammed through another door, and stumbled into an alley behind the theatre. Rain hit his face like a slap. He sucked in air, choking on it, and kept moving, half-running, half-staggering into the street.
People turned to stare: a grizzled man in a leather jacket, wild-eyed, drenched in sweat and rain, looking like he’d just escaped a war.
He didn’t care.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs threatened mutiny. Only when he reached a bus stop under a flickering streetlamp did he finally stop, doubling over, hands on his knees, trying not to vomit.
A taxi rolled past, splashing water. A couple laughed nearby, oblivious.
Malcolm wiped rain from his face and tried to assemble his thoughts into something sensible.
Had he imagined it? A trick of light? Exhaustion? Something in the beer?
His hands shook. His throat tasted of fear.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out with clumsy fingers. Unknown number. He answered without thinking.
“Malcolm,” Vivienne’s voice said, bright and amused.
His stomach dropped. “Viv.”
“Oh, you left early,” she said. “I was rather looking forward to your copy.”
“Vivienne,” he rasped, “they’re—”
He stopped. He couldn’t say it. It sounded insane in the open air.
“They’re what?” Vivienne asked.
Malcolm swallowed hard. “They did something. Backstage. They… they were pretending to be vampires.”
There was a pause. Then Vivienne laughed, a warm peel of sound that made Malcolm’s blood run colder.
“Oh, Malcolm,” she said. “You really are predictable.”
His mouth went dry again. “What?”
“I told you they requested you,” Vivienne said. “They wanted you backstage. They wanted you rattled. And you’ve done exactly what they wanted.”
Malcolm stared at the wet pavement as if it might offer answers. “You knew?”
“I knew they were planning a… little stunt,” Vivienne said, carefully. “They called it performance art. Some sort of revenge for your reviews.”
“You let them?” Malcolm’s voice shook with anger now, hot enough to boil the fear. “You sent me into that?”
Vivienne’s tone sharpened. “Don’t be melodramatic. No one harmed you.”
“They restrained me!”
“Oh, please. They put a hand on your shoulder and showed you some dental prosthetics.”
Malcolm’s mind reeled. Prosthetics. That explained the teeth. The shadows. The cold hand—no, that didn’t, but fear could make anything feel cold. And the beer… maybe it had been stronger than he thought. Or he’d been primed to panic.
He remembered the laughter. How it hadn’t sounded like a hunt, but like a joke.
A gag.
A revenge gag.
Vivienne continued, “Do you know what’s happening right now?”
Malcolm’s breath hitched. “What.”
“They’ve posted a clip,” Vivienne said. “Someone filmed you bolting down the corridor. It’s already everywhere. ‘Rock Critic Loses It After Vampire Reveal’ or some nonsense.”
Malcolm felt something hollow open inside him. Humiliation, sharp and acidic. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Vivienne said. “It’s trending. And, Malcolm? It’s brilliant for us.”
He looked up at the theatre in the distance, neon buzzing through rain. A part of him wanted to go back. To march into that dressing room and punch Felix Marr’s perfect teeth out—fake or not.
Another part of him wanted to disappear.
Vivienne sighed, as if indulging him. “Write the review.”
“I can’t,” Malcolm whispered. “Not after—”
“Yes, you can,” Vivienne said. “In fact, you must. Because now you’re not just reviewing their gig. You’re reviewing your own ego. Your vendetta. Your fear.”
Malcolm’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “You set me up.”
“No,” Vivienne replied. “You set yourself up. They simply gave you a mirror.”
He stared at the puddles trembling with raindrops. His reflection warped there—older, uglier, unsteady.
Vivienne’s voice softened, just slightly. “Malcolm. They played you. They wanted you to feel small. Don’t give them the satisfaction of silence.”
He swallowed, tasting bitterness. “They’ll spin it.”
“Let them,” Vivienne said. “You spin it better. You always have.”
A beat.
“And Malcolm?” she added, almost kindly. “If you call them vampires in print, I will personally ensure you never work again.”
The line went dead.
Malcolm stood there in the rain, phone in hand, drenched and shaking, as the night carried on like nothing had happened. Cars hissed past. Somewhere, distant music thumped from the venue, the afterglow of spectacle.
He could already see the comments online. The memes. His face, contorted in fear, immortalised in low-resolution mockery. The band’s fans revelling. Felix Marr grinning somewhere, delighted with himself.
Revenge, served cold, with a side of teeth.
Malcolm walked home because he couldn’t bear to sit in a taxi with his thoughts. By the time he reached his flat, his clothes were soaked through and his anger had settled into something heavier: a grim, familiar clarity.
He sat at his desk. The room smelled of old books and stale smoke. His laptop hummed to life.
He stared at the blank document for a long time.
Then he started to type.
He didn’t write about vampires. Not directly. He wrote about theatre—the kind onstage and the kind behind it. He wrote about a band so desperate to control their narrative they’d turned their critic into part of the show. He wrote about the cruelty of it, wrapped in laughter. He wrote about how the audience loved the illusion so much they’d gladly devour reality if it got in the way of the fun.
He wrote about fear—his own, unexpected and undignified. He didn’t excuse it. He didn’t romanticise it. He nailed it to the page like an insect, pinned and twitching.
And then, because he was Malcolm Pryce and he couldn’t help himself, he wrote the last line with a razor’s calm:
The Ungrateful Dead aren’t vampires. Vampires have taste.
He read it back once, twice. His hands had stopped shaking.
Outside, London kept raining. The world kept turning. The band would laugh when they saw it. Their fans would howl. Vivienne would sigh and count the clicks.
Malcolm saved the file.
Vendettas, he thought, were like old songs you couldn’t stop humming. They didn’t make you younger. They didn’t make you happier. But sometimes they kept you moving, one bitter note at a time.
He reached for a cigarette, paused, and laughed quietly to himself.
It sounded, to his surprise, a little like relief.
[Image Credit : Photo by Evgeniy Smersh on Unsplash]
by 
He lives to tell stories that have humour and heart.
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