Tuesday, February 13, 2018

OUR VAMPIRE AGREES WITH THE GREAT, BERNIE TAUPIN 2/13/18 Mona Lisas & Mad Hatters - Elton John (Honky Chateau 9 of 10)


 

All vampires are rock stars. We whisper things and people see them. We touch deeper than a simple mortal can... and what's worse, we all believe our ramblings too.... as only twisted magic things can do... and it's cold in Philadelphia, like only Tuesday nights in February are.... not a weekend... not a Friday, or a Wednesday, which is hump night... It's a night to dine on tuna from the can and if you don't have what to drink, it's sour water from the sink. Gotta go make due with what's at hand... The streets are mostly quiet, save for souls who go to movies, 'cause it's easier to watch than just to think.... The movies in your mind, they might be true... but only if some name believes in you...

I talk to ladies on the subway, chipping polish from their nails and laughing 'bout some empty love affair that's through. They take my kisses as I tell them to be careful and look both ways. But you know them and that's not what they will do.... It's much less work to die than try, or almost die and not know why. Don't worry 'bout no body else but you.

And I've seen life play out in Istanbul. I've seen them fall in Rome and off the platform in a subway station too. I've tasted years with those well born, while other nights I felt their scorn, 'cause all they do is laugh and drive away.... You know them what has the money never pays.

Steam rises from the sewer like a ghost... a rat runs off with wet burnt toast.

The bag lady has got an egg and screams about the chick she's gonna hatch... She sits on it and cackles, as she waves to passing taxis that splash gutter water on her crusty pants...

Welcome to the February dance.

I tell my tale to everyone... from birth till mortal life was done. You'd know it all, if you would take a look. A vampire with morals is my hook... Some night they're gonna put it in a book.

And the clocks up in their towers, tell the time and toll the hours, as moms boost jars of Gerber's for their kids.

Shame there ain't no magic beans, to rectify these cold hard scenes... We kill them 'fore the stalks can even grow.

And all the world can do is mutter - So?

What paintings will we leave here when we go?

They say we're gonna reap just what we sew.

(with that Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi disappears into the fog and steals away.... tomorrow's gonna be another day)

[ the purpose of life is opportunity...]

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Saturday, February 10, 2018

HEINOUS TORTURES AND OTHER DISCOURSE 2/10/18

There's no music this time. Few people listen to it. I've just gotten up. It's raining . A winter rain is a sad, sad thing. The street glistens. Few souls are out. Our street is quiet to begin with. If I cant my head a certain way, I can see the wider street we feed into. Cars go by bearing they who labor on Saturday home, or bringing others into the city for an early dinner before a show. I will, perhaps, drink a hot vodka-tea before going out. Edith brews it for me. I think I'll haunt the museums tonight. I do so like my 'culture.' Will I feed? Well, it's my time to feed. I'll have my monthly meal and savor it. I am Jonathon... also known as Tomas... You know me.

Sarah, my consort stays in tonight. She paints miniatures now, tiny vaguely Persian things. They sell them in her bookshop. Philadelphia After Dark has a little display hung among the ticking assortment of vintage clocks mounted behind the oaken counter. I like that place... the cramped, narrow aisles.. the creaking wooden floors... the small, silk shaded pin-up lamps and sconces (some attached to the actual shelving) providing just enough light to facilitate browsing, while maintaining a proper atmosphere. The girl at the register (an old embossed, bronze affair from an 1890's occult apothecary down seven ancient steps on Sansom Street, a hidden byway set between the lofty towers) is a witch. Not a born-witch, but a witchy-woman, like our housekeeper, Edith. She came to town a few years ago, during an earlier paranormal dust up and stayed. We call her 'Morticia.' She lives in the back, passed a half-height door, in a small cozy studio. How would she escape in case of fire? Well, in the mundane world she wouldn't... but our world is far from mundane. I'll nod to her, through the partially opened curtains of the mullioned windows, as I pass by.

The museums are especially enticing. I like the dim, marble galleries. Sometimes I hear whispers coming from the still, white lips of polished effigies stretched upon their one time tombs. Is the spirit still in there, or do I hear but an echo? A tiny shadow scurries by, not a mouse, or a rat, for what would they eat in here? The galleries are so cold and organically empty. They might gnaw the backings of paintings, but how would they scale the stone veneered walls? Watchmen fall dead at their posts much to infrequently.... The tiny things are mere spiritual wisps.... particles of beings long gone. They say a few errant Van Gogh nightmares shelter here. They say a lot of things.

I am no longer in our townhouse. I am dressed in my usual trim black attire, save for the starched white shirt. My long dark hair flows poetically about my face.... ah, the bone structure... I have it in spades. I sublimate through the city till I reach this vast jewel box of ages past. The cellars are the real prize. Mussolini's tongue in an old green-glass bottle, floating in pungent alcohol..... preserved cadavers from the charnel houses of Parma, some in attitudes of prayer, others sealed in silent screams..... Vagabonds from the streets sneak in for the warmth, such as it is. They snuggle amongst the crates. Some stay but a night and leave. Others never leave and go mad. I pray for them, as they rake the skin from their flesh with long black nails. How they shrink from the Noggins (old, animated, yellowed skulls) that prowl the maze-like passageways and roll over the floors looking for food.... Yet, comes the daylight and everything shimmers back to 'normalcy,'... or so they tell me.

Tonight I search for a thief... Museums hold treasures, you know. There's a painting, a certain late medieval representation of Ezekiel Ascendant... the prophet translated to the heavenly state. I saw it displayed in Florence seven hundred years ago. A merchant of extreme wealth and renown, newly raised to the minor nobility, featured it at a reception. It was the birth of the Renaissance and Giotto was all the rage. We did not know it was the birth of the Renaissance. We knew it only as Thursday evening, even the vampires.... And now it's here in Philadelphia and this mortal means to take it... He's a contracted thief... bound to a certain old world potentate. A similar piece, The Torment of Saint Rusticus, went for eighty five million. This one should bring even more. I'm going to kill this thief. Please know he's more than a thief. He's killed too. Blew up a pleasure yacht just to get a certain hated 'enemy' on board, along with his wife, and three little children... plus the crew and a nineteen year old au pair too.... I'll tap on his shoulder just as he takes his prize. He'll flinch. It'll be quick. I'll drain him. He'll ignite with a 'cold' blue flame and disappear. Nothing else will burn. In the morning they'll find a greasy slick where that soul used to be and it will be done. Screw that 'old world potentate.

Now, let me tell you just how Saint Rusticus met his end. You see, he travelled toward the east to preach to the Tartars. At first the great chieftan found him to be a harmless dreamer, but when the holy man told him unless he bowed before the foreign god, his wives, his daughters, not to mention his sons and himself would burn in hell for all eternity, since they were all there for the banquet and heard the presentation. Now the great chieftan loved his sons and even a few of his wives and daughters. And his morals were of the first rank. Why when he sacked the City of The Silver Bells only every other soul was put to the sword. The rest were sold to a consortium of eastern slave jobbers and wholesaled to merchants from Novgorod to Tash Kent, even the young ones, who were used for archery practice. But that wasn't his fault. Such were the 'times.' Needless to say, the pronouncement of his western visitor hurt him greatly, torture being his only recourse. So they severed a horn from a certain breed of cattle known for straight, true, pointed head gear, hollowed it out, rubbed it with butter and unguents and inserted it into the body of the not yet saint Rusticus, via his anus, till the tip reached far into his innards... a quite troubling sensation, though not yet particularly tortuous (considering the age) nor  one hundred percent fatal. Then they trussed him up on a high, wooden armature so all in attendance could see. How he whimpered and prayed, as a cold wind tore passed his exposed body. The august assemblage, wrapped in quilted brocades and furs waited for what was to come, as blacksmiths carefully inserted a long, wrought iron pole (perhaps as wide as two fingers of a full grown warrior) up into the severed bull horn that occupied his innards.  The other end went into a specially made furnace ceremoniously assembled under the martyr's body. Once lit, it would reach temperatures more than twice that necessary to melt lead.... The honored invitees dined on snow goose and roasted yak and downed flagon after flagon of fermented mare's milk, as they waited for the heat to rise. Then, like a modern day thermometer, the pole began to glow red, even in the cold, raw wind.... When it approached the foreigner's fundament he gasped. All heard. Not an eye looked away. He trembled against his bonds. Steaming urine poured from his body. He went limp and whispered prayers, till he was cooked and seared from the inside out.

The banquet when on for a bit. Then they left him there for the ravens. His bones were carefully wrapped and sent back with a ceremonial guard, for he died bravely. Orthodox priests near Rostov were the first to hear his tale. They sent a missive to western Catholics in Hungary, who dispatched people to claim his bones. Thus was Saint Rusticus born.

Come back. I have so many stories.

<more next time>

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Saturday, January 27, 2018

The Vampire entity Known as 'Papa' loves this song 1/10/18The Beatles - Flying (The FH Edit)

 

The incredibly enduring, vampire personage, known as 'Papa' sits in a club chair... A slowly spinning ice cube hangs suspended in space, perhaps two or three feet beyond his eyes. He focuses on it. It stops. Then, four or five heartbeats later a solitary drop of water hangs from the side before impacting the hardwood floor below. Its small splash pattern instantly congeals into a daisy. 'Papa' exhales. We watch the eddies, swirls and flow of his breath move out to surround the ice cube, which softly vaporizes and disappears.

He makes eye contact with us, nods slightly.. smiles, then gazes down upon the white and yellow daisy head on the floor. The yellow center rises slightly. The white petals draw in around it, as the little blossom reconfigures into a tiny, white, hairless, 'human' thing with bright yellow eyeballs. It titters nervously. 'Papa' raises a well shod foot and crushes it. Then he meets our gaze and smiles, revealing his fine, sharp, small, white fangs.

He says - Life is a mystery...... Then the entity that looks like a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere (sporting a trim, charcoal suit and black, buttoned up, collarless shirt) gets up, walks 'through' us and exits.

The low lit, townhouse den is empty....

Strange things happen on Earth all the time. Unusual animals, some of them human appear out of nowhere . The differences are not always great. Perhaps they have the ability to see in the dark, or to think about two subjects at the same time. Certain strains breathe the rarified air of the heights. Others taste metals through their skin. You might have that power. Take out your keys. Close your eyes. Examine each one with your fingers. Do the 'brass' colored ones 'taste' different than the silvery ones? Can you hear footsteps approaching your door before the dog does? Do streetlights go dark when you pass by? 'Magic' or something very like it happens all the time. Sometimes it's pleasant. Sometimes it isn't.

(and this is still 'Papa' speaking) Tell me, what is it you think I have not seen?....My 'vampire' descendants are many, as are their various philosophies. But you know that, for no longer record of night-folk life exists on line. [ click wander through the wonderland ... and hit SUBSCRIBE when you get there to access it all]... Though more brutality drips from the fangs of men than comes from us. It never stops. Shocking head-severings pepper the web like sprinkles on ice cream. Atrocities get attention and if the holy innocents are little children, even more so..

Have you ever seen living souls lowered into a noxious, fermenting brew of blood, bone meal, suet, offal and flesh eating bacteria? There is no fire, yet it bubbles and steams with foul intent.. The doomed flail about, trying to keep their mouths above the caustic, hellish stew. After a bit they grow tired. By then, the flesh eating microbes have already turned much of their muscle mass into a translucent, fishy mess. No one survives. Trucks pull up to these remote 'treatment plants' 'round the clock... Look for gray, stone 'castles' off in the distance, upon a snow covered plain, or underground installations beneath teeming city streets.

They say, some spray the bacteria from the sky via contrails. Whole regions of Eurasia have been 'subdued.'... For what reason?.... Can't you guess?.... Inconvenient populations always have to go....

And they call us ghouls...

Pay attention to your skin...

<more to come>

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Friday, January 5, 2018

Main Theme From Jurassic Park HD has meaning to the Vampires 1/4/18



Annie went missing. That's why posts have been few and far between. She just dissolved into the crowd waiting to see Santa Claus one night at the King of Prussia Mall. Sarah took her. She wanted to go. So they dressed her up as a normal little Caucasian mortal child. They put her in jeans and sneakers, a turtle neck and sweatshirt. They brushed her fine, soft, sandy-blond hair, anointed her with a powdery scent meant for little girls and that was it.... Annie loves mortal rituals. She joins in and sings 'Happy Birthday' every time the wait staff brings a little, sparkler-topped cake to some smiling simple soul at the Princess Diner they take her to for chicken soup on cold winter nights. Annie never eats the noodles, or the little carrots that swim around in it. She pushes them aside and gently drinks the rest with an oversized tablespoon. Vampires can ingest mostly clear liquids. Broth is OK.

Everyone looked for her. Jonathon went to all the dim sub-basement specimen storage warrens beneath all her favorite museums. He questioned all the dusty mummies. Many vampires instinctively comprehend dead languages. But the desiccated, old North African aristocrats didn't know anything, nor did the immense groupers
 (who could conceivably swallow a deep diving, female pearl fisher) moving through the shadowy depths of their large commodious home, in the aquarium 'cross the river....Same with the elferinas and elferinos. Same with all the night-folk. Annie was just gone. One moment she was explaining to the Mrs. Claus woman why she was wearing the wrong bra and the next she went bye-bye....

They asked 'Papa' her well formed twenty eight thousand year old progenitor, if he could detect anything.... He broke off his mid-space stare, momentarily making eye contact, before clicking on Will & Grace and settling in for his favorite show. 'Life Eaters' (the politically correct term for vampires) are such a strange breed. And the townhouse is such a strange place.

Edith, the witchy-woman housekeeper, offered to throw a hoo-doo. Jonathon told her he'd think about it... She went back to her seek and find puzzles, but proceeded to doodle old New Jersey Pine Barrens magic symbols all around the border of page sixty nine in her latest puzzle book... with a pen she took from the Citizens Bank. I think she hummed an obscure Piney reel, but I'm not sure. She might have just belched or wheezed or something....

This is where I have to supply a little background. You see, Vampire Wonderland has a minor alien problem. Once, some all powerful, off-Earth race decided to get funny with our oceans and Earth woke up surrounded by a two miles thick concentric roiling solid shell of salt water about sixty miles overhead. Not much light came through, so it was hard to see all the stranded ships and submarines and whales and fish and squid and seaweed and all just laying there upon the abysmal plane. Folks on cruise ships were real pissed, because the bottom of the sea wasn't perfectly flat and a lot of those top heavy luxury boats keeled right over, resulting in a whole mess of people who were gonna be dead before they got to the all you can eat buffet. True, there were some disoriented survivors stumbling around on the damp dark sand. Considering the horror of it all, they thought they were dead. People prayed. They called out for loved ones. You know families with little children take cruises too and Bic lighters only last so long. Biologists among you might know that certain marine crabs can survive for quite a while on dry land. Pickings were usually slim down there, but now, especially 'round the tipped over cruise ships (some naval and commercial vessels too, I guess) meat was all over. Close your eyes and think. You can imagine the rest....

Now Annie was snatched by some aliens, but not the ocean-moving ones. Ocean-moving ones are real bastards. And Earth did manage to reverse that strange interlude via hidden extraterrestrial info. World leaders thought it best we all forgot about it real fast. As you know, world leaders can do anything, because you all didn't know about it and that's proof.... Annie's aliens were from a more mellow, meditative race... like Mortimer Snerds with octopus tentacles instead of what we got. They had a different take on physical pain too.

So when they sent her back with a big old, multi-colored, swirly all day sucker, but minus one arm torn out from the socket, they had no idea what her (or anyone else's) reaction would be....

<more next time... and since this is a new year and 2018 and all, our aim is to make those 'next times' happen a lot more often>

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Tuesday, December 19, 2017

WITCHES ARE A KIND OF CHIMERA 12/19/17 Exotic & Mysterious Spanish Guitar Music: CHIMERA - Al Marconi

 

Many of our posts speak of vampires. We mention other forms of biologic rarities in passing. Tonight we highlight witches... born witches. These are not successful students of the arcane. Their efforts have no real part in it. Such human confections are simply born that way. In most instances, the trait comes down from one parent. Statistically it can devolve from both, but, existing cases are very, very few in number. Please understand that there was no way to positively identify a 'born witch,' at least there was no scientifically recognized method. With the advent of genetic testing, the same mail-away, cheek swab, or spit-in-a-vial investigative procedure can reveal 'magic blood.'

Everything we are starts with our genes. Think of them as hard wired 'spells.' Genes control our physical form, our abilities, or lack of abilities in all spheres of life. Most humans possess the usual combination... an equal distribution of tiny chemical cocktails from each parent. But sometimes an interloper comes into the mix. Such complications happen very early in a pregnancy when two zygotes (potential fetuses) develop. Normally, they'd continue to grow as twins, either identical or fraternal. Under certain conditions the twins unite, continuing development, but as one organism, resulting in one person with more than the normal allotment of genes. Few such people are handicapped by this outcome. Most live average lives. But some are not average. We don't yet understand how extra genetic stores actually 'change' an organism, yet clearly various things can result.

Some tests indicate that various 'talents' we call 'magic' are just enhanced electrical  emanations . The magic happens when we're sensitive to those forces, or able to control them.
Controlled forces can manifest as the ability to move or alter matter. Heightened sensitivity can enable the bearer to 'read' minds. Certain very powerful adepts can control their own atoms to such a thorough degree they can change shape, or transport themselves from one physical location to another . Some are so attuned to the emanations of  others they can discern thoughts regardless of distance... and they can send thoughts too. A very few are able to control atoms with such precision they can conjure objects out of the ether.

One such unusual example was Abner of  Crete, an eighth century physician and alchemist who according to many unrelated accounts had the ability draw the blood out of a living body through the pores and capillaries. Victims were covered by countless tiny, thin arcs of red liquid bursting forth from every part of their bodies, even the corneas of their eyes. It's said that same Abner was able to transport the heads and necks of unfortunate subjects up from their shoulders and to his presence with a clean cut precision not seen till the advent of the guillotine one thousand years later.

A daring woman, the Dowager WarWife of  Loch Negan used to denude a whole great hall of drunken guests with an arthritic clap of her old, liver spotted hands. Needless to say, she caused many clan wars and illegitimate births among the chieftans and land lords of the Highlands. After a while, her visitors had to know what they were getting into. Maybe that was the attraction? Bards of the day sang songs for years.

The practitioner known as Ubis of Ebis (gender unknown) tuned into the Papal Confessional in Rome via remote viewing, thus privy to every foible of every pope during the reigns of all the Frankish Pippins, till eventually being caught and forced to take a molten lead bath in a large vat of what was essentially a nine hundred degree cauldron of viscous heavy mud. Attendants forced the unhappy bather down into the hellish porridge with long, sharp poles most often used to impale the juvenile dependents of heretics and other non conformist types.

Some born witches use magic for good. Some do not.
 Oh, one more thing... What does 'chimera' mean?... It means two differing animals in one body. For instance griffins are chimeras, as are merfolk and squid-puppies.

Utilization of 'the craft' can be a very nasty business...

But look, don't let that stop you. Take one of those tests. Find out. You might be one of the good ones...

<till next time>

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Sunday, December 17, 2017

Our Vampire Jonathon loves this song-LeAnn Rimes - Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) - Billy Joel cover

 

The nearly immortal being known as 'Jonathon speaks -

I've done this every year at this time for centuries. I hope you are a regular visitor. Then you'll know. The house is locked up. Sarah is in her cubicle. Annie sleeps. Conrad, Edith, all of them are snug in their places. I sit in the 'little' library. The draperies are drawn. By the low warm light of a small, Chinese, porcelain lamp I count out coins, large, heavy, yellow, golden coins, Venetian ducats.... a 'vampire' tradition. I measure them out upon a lap desk... five to a sack...(sighs)... A 'familiar' (mortal helper) makes them up for me... small, dark blue velvet, drawstring sacks trimmed with thin golden rope around the top. In other lands, at other times, others made them, but the form has not changed in more than three hundred and fifty years... I'm told, in this time and in this city a gold, Venetian ducat brings more than two thousand American dollars. What's that come to, twelve thousand for each sack...

When ten are filled, I shall go out on the streets and in the wee hours before the light, I shall distribute them where they will accomplish good things...  Our little boy ghost watches me. He came with the house. We've only been here for a few years. Oh, there were other townhouses and a manor up in Chestnut Hill once or twice, but the poor, tiny, polio victim has been here since the nineteen thirties. He likes the 'little' library too. Plays with a set of old, painted, pot metal soldiers on the rug, a hand drawn deck of Hungarian cards and an etched brass top . Sometimes he manipulates them quite well. Death cured his polio, thank God. Other nights he just looks at them. Abilities are not always constant in the supernatural world, especially during the first few decades. Powers lapse, tea cups break. Parakeets talk Romanian. Old Ladies whistle the Barcarole. You know how it is.

Now I am off... a thousand year old soul (well, a thousand years old on Earth) with a young man's body. Most take me for anywhere from eighteen to twenty eight, depending on how they view things. There's a two nights' old icy glaze on the streets. I dress warm and go out, the gold coins, in their velvet sacks, snug in the deep, zippered pockets of my black puffy coat... A vampire with a black, zip-up, puffy coat. They'd drum me out of the union..... Ah, the songs I hear in my head... The Tales Of Hoffman... Rhymes of a Quayside Bawd. Bet you don't know that one... from Paris in the 14 30's.

(he leaves, locks the door behind him and silently hops down the steps... a gray, tiger stripped tabby falls in behind. they turn the corned and are off)

Mortals fear these long nights. It's instinctive and stamped upon the breed. Imagine how dark it was before all the tick-tock niceties we have now. Utter blackness. Maybe moonlit nights were a bit different, but then you'd see the shadows. Then you'd know what was out there... not exactly what it is, but you'd know it was coming.... That's why we have festivals now, parties to lure back the sun and then celebrate when it returns. No more slow, creeping death, but new birth and ever increasing life.

Soon I will slip 'life' into the pockets of desperate people. There's a handwritten note tucked into each drawstring sack --- Please contact Leverett & Reed for instructions and advice in the redemption of these coins..... I've dealt with them since seventeen fifty one, a most reputable counting house. Now they call themselves 'investment counselors.' There's an old gentleman who handles antiques. In the New World, Philadelphia is the mother lode. I'm sure they'll do well. That twelve thousand dollars per sack mentioned earlier was just gold value. Genuine Venetian ducats are highly collectible. Ask the Buccaneers of Hispanola ...

Now please forgive me. I have lives to change and people to see. Well, most of them will be sleeping. That makes it more special. I know some of you heard about the night that started all this... I trot it out every year 'round this time.

Google  --- Indulge me a bit... Vampire Wonderland... it'll be there...

To think if I went up in flames right now, my tale... all, well, by now close to one million words of it would go on for centuries, suspended in this ether they call 'the cloud.'...

That, my friends, is immortality too...

<hasta la proxima>

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Sunday, December 10, 2017

Vampires LOVE it When there's a Blizzard in Philadelphia (4k) 12/10/17

 

Vampires love the winter. They love the dark and the cold. Sarah, Jonathon's understanding consort, walks the streets for hours all bundled up in her black puffy coat and thick (also black) wool hat. She stops and gives homeless people gift cards to fast food places. Sure the food's not the healthiest, but other places chase them. In a fast food joint they can, at least, duck into the toilet for a fast fix up and eat their meal in peace. There's always a corner somewhere... maybe a discarded newspaper or magazine. The heat feels good. They can decompress a little. And you know she loads the cards up to about two hundred and fifty dollars. Figures that'll last them between ten days and two weeks. Sometimes she gives out six packs of tightie-whities and t-shirts too... sometimes six packs of white gym socks. It makes a difference. She used to give out jeans and sweat shirts too and enough money so they could slip into a Laundromat and wash their stuff every once in a while. But few had the will power for that. They'd buy alcohol.

Carries a big plastic shopping bag from Target. She doesn't do this every night, but often enough. Look, she knows a few of them sell the gift cards for maybe a few bucks (how much can another homeless guy have?). But at least second guy keeps it and WANTS the food.

One guy, Jim had cancer. Lost a whole lot of weight. Looked like that deep gravelly voiced singer who sings about life on the street. Told her his name was 'Bob.' Sarah got friendly with Bob. Gave him money. Gave him a lot of stuff. Arranged for a room in a clean but plain hotel twice a week, so he could get cleaned up and sleep and all. She would have arranged for the place full time. Bob didn't want that..... Tom Waite! That's the name. The singer is Tom Waite. They'd talk over coffee or tea. Sit there for hours. The waitresses never said anything. Who else was gonna come in that late... even in the city.

Sarah never said she was a vampire, but he knew. He never said anything, never had to. Neither did she. One night she passed him a vial of her blood. She said - Here, drink this... What's it gonna do? - he asked... Sarah said - Just drink it. You want to be well, don't you?... Bob just looked at her. She nodded... He took it. He drank it.... A few nights later he was all better. Then he disappeared. Not right in front of her or anything. It wasn't like that. He just stopped showing up at that hotel. No one saw him on the street. He just left. She kept thinking about him though. If she was a vampire before Jonathon, if he didn't bring her over, she might have started something with Bob... Maybe he could have been her consort? Sarah never found out why he was on the streets... His crowd (homeless types often have a small group, maybe three or four) never knew. That's how it was.

Winter nights were like that. People talked more. Maybe the dark made them seek each other out?

So she wandered the streets and did her thing.... 'culled' the wicked... saved the worthy. Never made a big thing out of it. Most never knew she was there. Just sublimated into some high rise bedroom and did it. Jonathon liked his little confrontations. He liked his passion plays. Not Sarah. She liked the cold. She liked the snow. She liked the dark. Look, they all like winter... the vampires, I mean. But she had a deep appreciation for it... a reverence. Odd, considering Jonathon was the spiritual one. Even for a vampire he was spiritual. No two were alike.... 'alone in the dark' they called it.

Before she went back to the townhouse, Sarah went into a CVS store and bought a couple magazines... all kinds... Jonathon liked magazines... He bought them too. But most nights he stayed out till the last minute and had to rush back before the dawn, so he never had time.... Sarah was responsible. She had time.

I guess she's the Wendy to his Peter Pan.

Look, no one ever bothers vampires when they roam the city late at night. It's like a 'thing' they have, an aura.

But if you have a couple friends, go out some time, in the wee hours before dawn. Be quiet. Be discreet. Look around...

It's a whole other world and most people never even realize it's there.

<more next time>

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