Friday, January 30, 2015


A being of flesh, with no spirit, would be a sea squirt, or perhaps a mushroom. While a being of spirit, minus flesh, would be naught but an on-going dream. A combination of the two is necessary, at least in our material world and spirits have sought out flesh since the beginning. 

Jonathon has attracted such an entity. Some call them hungry ghosts. Indeed, Johnny Jump Up, our resident ghoul, was one such manifestation. But he is gone, or as gone as disembodied souls can be. While the other one is not.

Imagine life with no sensation. Well, there is sight, or something like it. But even hearing is compromised. What comes through is more a knowledge of the sound in question, rather than the actual frequency. Would you like to have vivid, detailed dreams about char-broiled steaks without ever eating one?

Spirits are everywhere. Most are departed human souls desperate to come back. Others are something else. Beings get lost. There are rips in the fabric of creation. And if they quickly disappear, there's still that instant when they're there. That's when things fall through. Often they pass from one spiritual realm to another. But sometimes they wind up here... and then we have to deal with them.

Let me share a story from the past. A noble family from Normandy, or Brittany, or some such place, possessed of three stout castles, each on its own rich barony, had a son. And when he was of an age to learn the knightly arts they placed him with a neighboring landholder, who gave him, as squire, to a truly chivalrous knight, so that he might learn. Things went well for the first three fortnights. The boy had a good grasp of armory and how to care for it. And he was quite adept at mucking out stalls. Horse turds are not merely discarded, but must be carefully gathered and set aside to feed all manner of vegetables and corn (medieval word for 'grain'). The noble youth had a special talent for doing that. But one day, as he greased his mentor's broadsword, he was cut... a rather deep wound right by the second knuckle of his second finger, on the side where it meets the first. Please know I speak of the left hand. And as he'd earlier been shit sorting, his hands were none to sweet. Therein lies the rub, for it is well known that shit and blood don't mix. The former comes from God, while the later belongs to Satan. Four nights hence the youth was dead. Well the fleshly parts were dead, but the spirit part lived on. Indeed, it beat the meaty parts home by two days. 

One night, as the baron tarried with his concubines (there was no accepted term for them, but that's what they were) a shade appeared by the bed. The plump, naked girl eeked like a mouse and cowered beneath the coarse, rough sheets. But her master knew the ghost-thing standing there and sat up. He blinked. He stammered. He said - Geoffrey, is that you?..... For nine heartbeats there was nothing. Remember, this was a new ghost and new ghosts take time to draw themselves up... though, finally, the ghost said - Aye, father. I am dead. Laid low by Shit-In-Blood disease.... Then the ghost just stood there..... His father shuttered, and whispered - I will make you whole..... Within minutes, a serf was brought forth... a second son, for even the lowly deserve an heir. The castle alchemist quickly dispatched him with three deft thrusts... one to the groin... one to the spleen... one to the neck. And as he lay dying, the father said - Make haste, Geoff. Inhabit the wretch!... So the ghostly youth, familiar with this country remedy, slipped into the bloody innards. And even for a spirit, divorced from actual sensation, that which came through, by whatever means was far from pleasant.

The alchemist sprinkled the ninety nine percent dead serf boy (maybe one hundred percent... who knew?) with a vial of the finest aquavite (Scots whiskey) brought all the way from Cawdor, as he mumbled old, Pictish incantations. All the while, the father screamed - MOVE, boy! DO SOMETHING! Show us YOUR PRESENCE!... They all waited... the father... the plump, naked concubine... the alchemist... plus a few nervous men-at-arms. Maybe there was a wench (servant girl) or two moving among them. That, I do not know.

But presently the ruined corpse began to move... not much, though subtle differences were detected. The quiver of a lip... A trembling foot... A soft, oily fart.

The father rose from the bed, wrapped in its sheets, the better to preserve his baronial dignity (though leaving the naked concubine quite exposed) and knelt by the mess on the floor. The alchemist cleared his throat and said - Master, we must get on..... The baron nodded. Then the in-house 'scientist' yelled - Bring in 'the host!'..... Eight heartbeats later another terrified serf was produced (I suppose he'd been waiting all this time). They tore off his rags and threw him down on the cold, stone floor.....

The incarnation would go on.....

< this passage was included to illustrate the rich lore of spirits and what might be done to 're-house' them... more next time>


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Thursday, January 29, 2015

Jonathon Sees Horrific Sights ... 1/29/15

Sarah spent her nights in the bookshop. She liked Philadelphia After Dark. Why not? She created it. Oh, don't think she leave and wander about. But she always goes back. Helps straighten up the place. Dusts what has to be dusted and all that. 

She visits the hospitals around 11PM. They change shifts then. It's easier to slip in and slip out. You know how they dim the lights after visiting hours. Staff retreats to the nurses' stations. Docs pretend to be so engrossed in paperwork. Some are. Others play act. God forbid some concerned family member tries to ask them a question. I mean... how do they bill for that?

Sarah silently glides into darkened rooms leaving droplets of her healing blood upon the lips of drugged and dying people. She bites into a fingertip and lets the magic drip down. Most so blessed get better. Their people thank the doctors.

Should a nurse come in and catch her there, she sublimates. Sarah's good at that. She 'disappears' through a wall, usually an exterior wall, and floats down toward the pavement, or perhaps a tiny, landscaped garden. Sometimes her victims, the souls she culls, never know she was there. Female vampires, vampirinas, are often like that. They come upon the victim while they sleep. Evil people rest too, you know. It doesn't take long. She drinks the life, waits for the 'cool' blue flame and leaves. Did you think vampires drag victims around and leave them in dumpsters? Only in stories... not in real life. The blue flame doesn't leave much. Sometimes a bit of bone... a left over toe... some greasy residue..... If you've been with us for a while, you know. 'Spontaneous Human Combustion'-- that's what they call it.... But there's no such thing as that. Night-folk made it up. Makes things so much easier. 

Well, that's how Sarah does it. She's neat, clean and discreet. Actually, most vampires are like that. Gory, dripping, lurid fangs and snarling lips are just in stories too. God, what they say about vampires.

Tomas lives a fairly regular existence too. Though occasionally things happen. This night he went into an old hotel... a shuttered building waiting to be demolished. A decrepit flop house actually... creaking, sagging floors... cracked plaster... barren, empty rooms.... and darker than you can ever imagine. People go in looking for shelter. Most stay near a door, or window. Fast escapes are pivotal. Tomas distributes silver dollars. I mean real silver dollars. They're easy to sell. Most go for fifteen or sixteen times face value. And no one bothers him. They don't even talk. People know him. Not that they know what he is. They just know he's different. Hell, the place is sticky with ghosts. But the homeless have their own demons. There's 'Orange Eyes.'..... Two reflective, wide open, expressionless eyes that just peer out from pitch black rooms. 'Laughing Man' is another one.... Low sinister, manic sounds. No one's ever seen him, but some have felt the bites. Vampires are intrigued with spirits and ghosts of all types. Not that they run after them. But they're curious. The night has many secrets. 

Tomas makes his way down a narrow interior passage. A bit of light fans out from an open door. There are no window shades on this floor. People take them for the plastic. They spread what blankets they have and bed down on it. Keeps out the cold. He stops and looks in the room. The light is ambient light... city light... from everywhere and nowhere... A dull, grey, winter wash from the sky.

He sees a small dead body in the corner. It has to be dead. No living thing could lay broken and twisted like that... A child perhaps? Homeless children suffer terribly. Then he hears scuffing against the floor, as the feet begin to move. The arms stiffen. He hears bone grind against bone. The think sits up. Is it staring at him? Hard to tell. Then it rises to its feet, as if pulled by strings. Indeed, it walks much like a marionette... stumbling... trembling.... The mouth hangs slack and open. Tomas knows he can get away. He knows he can sublimate through the place, out into the open air, but yet he doesn't.... The thing points at him.... a withered, almost fleshless arm... Lank hair hangs from the skull.... A voice, not a child's voice, but a voice, emanates from just behind the corpse... It says - Kiss me. Moisten my lips. Share the blood... Share the blood... Share the blood.... then it lunges toward him. He recoils and pulls away, backing out into the passageway. The thing bobs, bounces and jerks after him, passing from blackest shadow to somewhat less gradations of darkness. Tomas rises up, his black, leather bootkins inches from the floor and glides back down the hall. The thing trips and falls, but keeps racing toward him, as if scraped along the floorboards by a giant hand....He still hears the words - Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me..... Then he slams against the wall, desperately trying to keep his feet from the dead things grasp. He screams. Seconds later, his body instinctively sublimates through the plaster and masonry, exiting six stories up over the street. For a moment he hangs suspended, then crashes down upon the roof of a Nissan Altima, killing the driver before scrambling off and disappearing down an alley.

But the thing knew him now. It had his scent and felt his resonance.

'Laughing Man' begins to cackle....


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Tuesday, January 27, 2015

I AM CURIOUS ..... an ENTITY 'Speaks' ... 1/27/15

I am eternal, at least as far as I can tell. Perhaps I was floating through this space when your star system appeared? Maybe the light caught my attention? Maybe the swirling shapes, or charged particles? It's difficult to say. I had no language then. Everything was nebulous and visceral and fleeting. I remained in place as the various physical forms condensed around me. 

And think not that you were the first worthy minds to inhabit the place. There were others and they were proud too. The second world, the one you call 'Venus' had some beings that intrigued me. I'd snake through that civilization and witness things. Did I have sight? I don't know... but I saw and I heard and I tasted. 

Death puzzled me. Where did the 'Venus' folk go? One moment they were here, beings brought forth from the ether and then they were gone. I was undone. How can things change so fast? Does not the rock last for eons? And is the water flowing now but continuous manifestations of the first water ever to be? Why is life different? What happens when it ends? What manner of 'regime' ordains such a thing?

Permit me to move on. The loss of my 'Venus' friends pains me.

And then we come to you, descendants of a strange, sea worm swimming six hundred million planetary revolutions ago. Such elastic creatures you are, throwing off old forms like worn clothing.... Water breathers... Air breathers... Notochords ... backbones.... Egg layers... Live births... Mousy things... Monkeys and You. Such variety. I must admit you keep me entertained.

I play and I learn. Believe me, I learn. But this time I'll be more disciplined. Not like with the 'Venus' people. I'd make them do things...At first little things, like dip grandma in molten lead. I have an hypnotic way with material beings. I plant things in their minds. Like puppets they are... No offense. First twenty five percent of them exposed themselves on town squares. Just like that. They went 'wheee!'  The cops didn't know who to grab first. But twenty five percent of them were doing it too. ... Oh, I laughed and laughed, or as much as anyone without a physical diaphragm can laugh. Then (this was a few of their years later) I had them crush the heads of whoever happened to be right next to them. Let me tell you, buses were not the place to be, especially if some nut up front decided to crush the driver.

But one time I went too far. I never thought they'd do it, but they did. I said - Everybody swallow a child... They had big mouths... more like the lids on your step-on, stainless steel waste baskets... but with little shark style teeth around the top and the bottom. So they could really do it... and they did...

That was the end. Look, I'd fix it so the next day, within one planetary rotation, they'd forget... And they always did. But this time was different. I don't think they remembered all the details. Still, they must have wondered who all the kiddie clothes belonged to and whose pictures were on top of the piano. I don't know. After that they just didn't care. 

See, the thing is (and I'm talking about entities like myself) we have to remember they're living creatures.... That's why I want to be one too.... A living flesh and blood creature I mean.

I've been watching that 'Jonathon.'  In truth, I first noticed him after his visit to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn House in London. Never paid attention to vampires before. I don't know why. I just never did. 

But now I see him as a bridge... a conduit between the physical and whatever it is I am. Maybe vampires are embryonic 'entities?'... Maybe the one they call 'Papa' is just farther along? Perhaps I was a vampire? That must have been billions of years ago. I should have been farther along than this. Maybe I've regressed? Maybe I was not a vampire? Maybe I'm wrong.

You see, I question. I probe. I experiment. And I've never come across another such as I.

Do you know what that's like?

<more next time>


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Monday, January 26, 2015

YOU WILL NOTICE ME..... The Vampire, Jonathon, Takes The Floor... 1/26/15

Steam rises from my body. A 'gift' from 'Papa.' Mysteries of the blood and all. Now I can generate heat. Well, to be more precise, I can channel heat. If I am cold, I access it. Please don't ask me to explain. I still don't understand all the technicalities. So I make my rounds. The snow doesn't bother me. Perhaps a tiny bit of the sun I cannot see burns within me? I can do many things. But you already know that. I am Jonathon, also known as Tomas and I am vampirino.

I am also reborn, brought back from what I assume is a world beyond this one and robed in a different body. Thankfully, he looks like me. After approximately nine hundred and forty years... (I like to say a thousand) I'm rather set in my ways. Lucky for me, Doctor Franklin understands that. 

The streets bear an icy glaze. Automobiles are off somewhere sleeping. I study my image in store windows. Sometimes a manikin looks back. Certain ones acquire souls, or something very like souls. I nod and they acknowledge me..... Good evening, Sir Night - says a composite and resin little girl in apre ski wear.... She thinks it, but I hear thoughts too..... Who have you killed, this dark time? - she asks..... I say - None but the evil.... Then the figure goes quiet. Manikins are so easily distracted. A taxi stops for the light. I hear Dance Of The Toreadors vibrating out from the vehicle. An opera fan the driver is. I hum a few bars, 'round the corner and continue my nightly constitutional. In years gone by, I'd rest in a telephone booth, waiting for my dinner to approach. Some were dark. The booths, I mean. Burnt out bulbs, you know. Perfect spots for night-folk to hide. I'd sing to my 'feast' and draw them forth. No indiscriminate murderer, I. ... A reverent beast, I am, culling only those needing death. Their faces come to me in visions. An angel says - This soul needs renewal. End the fleshly life and send it back... So I do. I am glad to be of service. Once each month I take this holy 'wine.' But every night I give some back.

Sarah walks the hospitals. I keep to the streets. Tonight I preserved the life of a runaway... a fifteen year old boy. Strange how readily young people accept us now. Why not? In this time of scientific wonderment our far more ancient form of alchemy fits right in. 

I bite into my finger tips. Bright, red droplets well up. I say - Chose life and live, boy. Take what I offer... and he does. Then I give him a check card with two thousand dollars on it. The bank makes them up for us.  They know. The branch manager is a 'familiar.' Saved his wife from morbid obesity once. The blood does that. Seeks balance, health and all that. 'Bank cards,' it's what we do now.

But the boy will live and twelve years hence humanity will have a new Bruce Springsteen.

I go into an all night convenience store. Edith likes Double Stuffed Oreos. They sell Double Stuffed Oreos. I buy some. Vampires do that too. 

It's getting colder. I feel it... even though it doesn't bother me. My sharp leather jacket and water proof fedora take care of that... not to mention the 'internal heating' I told you about. Wonder if I can go all icy in the summer time?

I begin to whistle my 'night song'--- If you go out on the streets tonight, you're in for a big surprise.... Teddy Bears ain't the only ones.

Streets are almost empty. A few strange types are out. Some people love the cold. It numbs them.

Stay safe. Stay warm...


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Sunday, January 25, 2015

THE GUY WHO BLOGS for THE VAMPIRES, Billy Kravitz, TALKS .. 1/25/15

OK, I'm happy he's back and it all worked out. I'm glad he has his 'purpose' again. But he has to recognize that I want certain things too. Blogging for vampires isn't all I do. I write other things too. Some of them are (dare I say it?) screenplays. And I'm fairly sure I can write. I mean I know the difference between a first draft and a polished manuscript. But even my first drafts 'read' well. People who write know these things. We see other people's material, often professionally presented as either novel, or screenplay. We read it...and re read it to the point where we can see the writing instead of the story. Sometimes its special and sometimes its not. And we look at our stuff and think --- Why not  us?... Or more accurately - Why not me?

Well, that's how I feel. I want Jonathon to help me. I want him to sublimate into some agent's bedroom, like Marley's Ghost and scare the smoked ricotta right out of them. I want him to leave one of my screenplays on their Williams Sonoma night table. Maybe he could give them a drop or two of his blood, so we'd be friends and all... 

Is this probable?... No.... But the trouble is, I know it's possible. He helped a certain Philadelphia director break through, but that was before I got involved in all this. And something happened they never talk about. Every time I ask him he makes a face and looks away.

Their out back now, in the little kitchen garden. It's freezing.... all glazed in ice and slush. Sarah cleaned off this little wrought iron settee they have. Now their bundled up and wrapped in blankets... but they're out there. Vampires love the outdoors, even the truncated spaces we have in the city. Funny, since they don't need oxygen. I think early vampires lived out in nature. In fact, I know they did. 'Papa' did. He led moonlit hunts and everything.  Rode on the back of a woolly rhino. I don't know what they were after. That's not important. Could have been baby mammoths, or cocktail franks. He wasn't gonna eat it. Liked the drama of it all... Great Shaman of the lake-front tribe.

Edith made them some hot bullion. They can tolerate clear soups and beverages. Sarah likes clam juice. Jonathon tells her it's pure crap. Lord Byron's night fiends, they are not.

Sarah might help me. Am I crazy for wanting it like this? Well, tell me. Tell me why I'm crazy? My stuff is good. I could smash my skull against the doors of some production company and never get in. While some guy who went to camp with what's his names son makes movies. Look, I know it's not always like that. But that's just it. You use the tools life gives you. I got a powerful, moral, altruistic vampire and his more or less like minded 'wife.' Am I supposed to feel guilty about asking them to help me? 

If they won't, Edith will. She's not adverse to throwing a spell or two. She likes me. Buys the cold cuts I like.... Hawaiian Pastrami and all. I know a few simple Red Paint spells. They're not really spells. More like Zen contemplations. But they make things happen.. You know... visualization is realization... Once, in The Pines, I found a gold watch in the mud after I did it. Didn't work, but guy at the we-buy-gold place gave me two thousand dollars for it.

Look, the vampires have plenty. God knows how much they have. And they share with me. I can't complain. But I want my own and not just 'stuff,' but recognition too. I don't mean red carpets. Red carpets are fun, but red carpets are just rugs. I want to be acknowledged by other creative people. I want them to believe in MY abilities. And if it takes some vampire voo doo to make it happen, who the hell cares?

Wait a minute. Does that sound right?

Well, you tell me. You bounce around on line . You know how hard it is. What am I supposed to do?

I'm gonna try one of those Red Paint 'spell' things again. Not for a gold watch. I don't want no gold watch.

Just gonna do it and see what happens. 

Look at them out there. He hugs her. They watch the stars... all honorable and altruistic and 'good' vampire and all. But they got their 'familiars.' They control them. They juice them up with the blood and all.

I'll tell you another thing. I think that GOTHAM show has it all wrong. Batman, Bruce Wayne, I mean, was born sometime around nineteen ten. He was thirty years old when the first comics came out. That was about nineteen thirty nine... nineteen forty. So shouldn't GOTHAM look like World War 1 era New York?.. Horse drawn ice trucks... Old ladies in long dresses... Celluloid shirt collars... Them semi-open chauffeur driven limousines... Old time stuff. Not like that 'I don't know what time it is' easy to reproduce 'Manhattan.' There should be the essence of a whole new time being born. But they just don't see it... or see the need for it, 'cause 'you' buy what they sell anyway. 

I'm gone upstairs. I got a book... a Red Paint book. They don't write books. Some guy, some anthropologist wrote it fifty years ago. That's where I get the spells. I know a little from The Pines first hand. But a lot comes from the book.

Gotta try something. 


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Wednesday, January 21, 2015


Be honest --- haven't you always wanted to guest host Saturday Night Live? Well, if Lorne Michaels won't hire you. Hire yourself. 

Read this post. We've been doing this for two months. The feedback is positive and everybody has a good time 

Are you wanting FAME? Do you want to be well known? ... Be with us on this big funny promotional (and it's simple, easy and free) thing we have. 

This SATURDAY NIGHT many people are gathering under a hashtag --- #realSNLtalk <~~~ you can click on it. Some are already 'verified'... all are creative and talented. 

All you have to do is get your best lines together and TWEET them to #realSNLtalk.... Get together with a partner & Tweet an ongoing sketch if you want. Just DON'T FORGET to end each tweet with that hashtag~~~> #realSNLtalk .... 

If you're good with photos & graphics, especially humorous ones... Tweet them... But PLEASE remember to end (or begin) every tweet with #realSNLtalk... Sounds crazy for me to repeat this so much but we've been running for two months and people claim to be joining in BUT they don't tag their material. Unless we tag everything and group it all together under the same umbrella there's no impact. So THAT'S WHY I bang the #realSNLtalk drum so much...

It started as an alternative to the #SNL site, which mostly either gushes over or trashes Saturday Night LIVE and its cast members. We were different. We discussed things... not just empty quotes of somebody else's material over and over and over and over.

Then we realized... HEY! We got personalities too! Let's put on a show... So now, even if Lorne Michaels won't let us guest host, we can grab the SPOTLIGHT on our own.

Join us. Be there at 11:30PMest . We run concurrent with the real SNL show. Give us a funny 'take' (or funnier take) on their  material. Go off on a rant of your own. Tell a joke. Relate a weird, humorous story. Post pics. Dance around on a video. Use your cute little dumpling of a baby as a ventruliquist's 'dummy' (wish I could spell... if I make money in showbiz, that'll be my first big thing--- hire a well known, high profile, fancy, Hollywood spelling tutor... oh, I want that SO bad)... Did I say the part about exploiting your babies? You could also hold them up under the arms and make 'em dance.

That's all I can think of now. Wanna watch Carson Daly.. BLAKE SHELTON's gonna be SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE host this week. And music guest too. We're gonna feature the 'verified' and well known #BluesRock sound of @wilybo and @karenak <~~~ yeah, they're clickable.

Oh, if you know your way around @cryptTV ... tweet a '6 SECOND SCARE and ad our #realSNLtalk hashtag too. Comedy and Horror overlap... sometimes unintentionally.

That's all. Tell your friends. 

Have fun... Get famous...

Join us...

Did I mention to always use the 
#realSNLtalk hashtag?

And for impact, all people taking part are going to post the SAME TWEET at 11:30PMest. They're going to say ---
LIVE! from this screen, it's #realSNLtalk! .... Then, for the next 90 minutes, EVERY TIME they post the #realSNLtalk hashtag goes with it.

OK OK OK, I'm done.


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And It Was Done... JONATHON IS RESTORED.. A Vampire Returns ... 1/21/15

And it was done. We don't have to run through the details. After four years of this (although essentially no one visited during year one and year two) you know how to make a vampire. You've seen it... a simple give and take. The essence of one flows into the other and then goes back... Repeat a few times... collapse in rapture... stare poetically at a moonbeam, while a poignant aria or duet plays softly in the distance.... a few deep breathes and there you have it... a vampire.

Jonathon sits on the floor, his back against the stones, staring at his outstretched legs. Sarah sits on the bed. She wants to go to him. But 'Papa' hanging in space like a suspended marionette, stops her --- No. Let him be. He has to shed. Itches and burns less when people aren't hanging all over him. 

She looks at Jonathon and says - How do you float like that? Sublimating, once you learn, is easy. Flying is too. But floating is hard. How do you keep all the air molecules from slicing through your body?..... 'Papa' just shrugs.... Sarah rests her hands on her lap. Jonathon begins to fidget. The peeling... the shedding of the skin has begun.

'Papa tries to distract them... He goes - I used to love Vienna.... Before the war, I mean.... The Second World War? - asks Sarah..... No, The Thirty Years War - says 'Papa.' That one might have liked it, my Jewish son, the one sweating and peeling by the wall...... W-what do you m-mean? - mumbled Jonathon, who'd stripped off his clothes, the better to roll off thick, heavy strips of wet oozing skin. Don't think of sunburn peeling. This is not like that. Sunburned mortals merely shed their epidermis, the thin, filmy, topmost layer of the skin. Newborn vampires lose the whole thing... the epidermis and the dermis entire, down to where hair follicles and sweat glands live. Though it would be wrong to picture Jonathon as a flayed mortal. For as soon as the old hide left, a new, smooth, fresh replacement came forth to take its place. Oh, he was bald for a few hundred heartbeats and completely hairless. But only for a little while. And the new growth was powerful better than what went before. 

But what 'Papa' referred to was the position of Jews after The Thirty Years War. You see, Christians had shredded each other to bits. Steak tartare was more spot on. Then, for added amusement, they burned witches. And please don't think that magic appellation meant only women. Men took fire-baths too. So did pubescent children. Elferinos and elferinas (pubescent vampires) suffered greatly. Populations were halved. In some places it was worse. Towns and villages reeked of death and only the crows were glad. But oddly enough Jews were left largely unmolested. Confined in damp, rotting, creaking ghettos, locked away from truly reverent people, they somehow survived (in this instance anyway). Electors, grand dukes, margraves and princes went begging for subjects. So Jews, in exchange for paying unconscionable taxes, were raised up from their former 'full time' martyr status to new positions as 'replacement' subjects. Commerce flourished. Towns were rebuilt and 'civilization' went on.

Jonathon (rolling the last of his old skin from his groin, scrotum and penis in a careful, delicate manner) looked up and said - Wasn't there. Not in Vienna, I mean. Prague... I was in Prague. Served as 'Golem' when they came to burn the ghetto..... What for? - asked 'Papa.' Though he very well knew..... For surviving - said Jonathon..... 

And they all laughed at the irony of the human and more-than-human (vampire) condition..... Soon after, Jonathon was restored. 'Papa' gave him a new suit of clothes, more or less like the jeans, bootkins, white shirts and leather jackets he'd worn before.

Sarah said - What do we do now?

Go home......- 'Papa' said

They stood there in that raw stone tower and held hands. 'Papa' closed his eyes and so it was... or rather once was.

The enchanted place was gone. The highlands were no more, nor any small part of it. 

Everything fades away. That's just how it is.

But three people approached the townhouse on a dark, cold, misty night and Edith (the housekeeper) opened the door to let them in.


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