Monday, December 20, 2010

The Book of All Things New

So maybe The Shaky Hand Man does not need Annie now. But it is clear that he did something to her. He smeared some vestige of his presence all over her. She is bad. But was she always like that? And how long will it last? The Old Woman has an agenda of her own. Come on, you all know that. She hated Sarah. And she still hates Sarah. She got the vampire jones real bad. Not just to be around them. She wants to be one. She wants to live as one. And she wants her sweetie. She wants Tomas. I know. I know. I know. He wants to be called Jonathon now. OK, OK, OK, I will call him Jonathon..... Jonathon. Jonathon. Jonathon. There, I remember. But what do they (if they are a 'they') have against that wilkravitz? Edith tried to help him. She wants him to see a doctor. Jonathon does have a familiar, a lawyer, with a brother in the exploitation of misery business, so that part would be easy. They could set something up. Maybe he would (dare I say it?) actually benifit from the ministrations. I feel so sorry for him. Christ, what does that Annie girl have in that saliva of hers? He doesn't even play that video game anymore. Just stares at The View, blows kisses to Barbra Walters and eats cold, dried-up p'skettees (did I say it right? I pay so little attention to the vernacular of  any given time). And that Old Woman bitch just looks at him. She doesn't care. I cannot stand her. A real creep. And you want to know what else? Her brassiers (spelled it right) are all dirty. I mean like you could make soup out of 'em......Let's see, what else? Well, people are still dying in shall we say exotic manners. Actually, some of the scariest ones were not so exotic. He likes to push people down onto the subway tracks. He likes to hear the wheels screech. He likes to hear the screams. He likes to taste the slick, salty bodily fluids pressed out along the glistening rails. And being an invisible force, he tends to get away with it. The victims? Good guys. Always good guys. But something interesting did happen the other night.
Three of the Red Paint people, a fat one, a skinny one and a woman, went into a Christmastime dinner buffet in some Center City hotel. They liked the overloaded troughs of food. And they ate a lot. But on the way in they stopped to talk to one of those salvation warriors who ring the big bells and stuff money in little red pots. One of the Red Paint men says - How's business? The Red Pot Woman says - Eh, not so good. Only about half what I usually get. So there's gonna be a lot more hungry drunks and toyless, little snot-noses this year. Shame...... The Red Paint Guy stuffs a King Abraham commemorative etching into her pot. Then he goes in and tanks up. But during their feeding they begin to talk. You know, they do have a certain facile magic. And you know they do like their rituals. So they did this thing. They held hands over their second servings of strawberry cheese cake. They said a prayer. Not one that I'd ever heard, but reverent and Godly in its own way never-the-less. Then they pricked their fingers on a sharp, piece of shell left over from the king crab legs and squeezed out the blood into a greasy, little empty butter ramikin. The lady Red Paint person casually takes it up to the buffet and without even a how do you do, she dribbles it into the soup. Manhattan clam chowder, I think it was. Then she goes back and joins the other 'Reddies.' They have coffee. They have some miniature danish. And they leave. When they get out on the street, one of the Red Paint guys winks at the Red Pot woman. He slips her another King Abraham comemorative etching. She rings the bell and gives him a big thank you. The next day he happens to see her doing her thing on another corner and he asks her what the take was like last night. She brightens up, flashes a semi-toothless smile and says - Better than I expected. Things kinda picked up later on...... Who knows? Maybe it was the blood? Maybe it was the magic? But something happened. I gotta remember that.... Zebulon, signing off.

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