Saturday, October 22, 2011


Jonathon and Sarah walked out onto the front lawn. It was already dark, naturally, and they habitually dressed in dark colors, so they were quite invisible. True, he can tolerate a bit of deep purple dusk, only it offends his vampiric nature. Darkness is the proper element. Sarah is still too new. She has no feelings one way or the other. But since any type of solar illumination has the potential to kill her, she goes along with her creator.

There's a small stand of evergreens out on the grass, three trees, each approximately twelve to eightteen feet tall. The side closest to the house throws an inky black shadow. Jonathon calls it 'the launch pad.' He steps into the darkness and motions for Sarah to join him. She does and they embrace. Close body contact is pivotal. Yes, she can sublimate on her own, though young vampires often encounter problems. And considering her recent, grievous injury in Jerusalem, who wants to take chances. So they held each other tight. She breathed in the scent of his cologne. What was it? Can't remember. I think it's that stuff Queen Victoria popularized. His 'familiars' pick it up for him at Saks in Center City. Eight hundred  dollars a bottle for that musky, sugary, piss water. But don't go by me. Disembodied spirits  (Zebulon, here) retain such a poor sense of smell. Perhaps it's pure ambrosia, rich with the oils of Shangri-La, or maybe just your grandmother's Jean Nate? What do I know?

Then he screwed up his concentration...held his breath...  squeezed his ass-cheeks together, just like a professional flamenco dancer (well, he MIGHT be Andalucian, after all) and they were off. Those magical, sub-atomic particles peculiar to the vampire race, called Prometheus Sparks (or quarks) began to vibrate. Strong pulses of energy coursed out from his body, engulfing his partner and exciting her fancy particles too. Sarah rather enjoyed that part of it. In less than a heartbeat they were sheathed in a misty invisibility. In two heartbeats they were gone, tearinng off through creation toward the urbane hunting grounds of Philadelphia's Center City. Nine ghost moans later, they were there.

The crowds down on the Avenue of the Arts were thick. Restaurants were full and the air positively crackled with the crisp, weekend charge of well-heeled suburban couples desperate to see and be seen. Our immortal twosome fit right in. Maybe ten or twenty years ago they would have stood out. She does appear to be a little older than him. But society has caught up and now they look just right. So hand in hand they strolled past The Kimmel Center, nodding and smiling to comely faces in the crowd. No rolling, brass oyster cart in any of the over-the-top dining establishments 'round here held such heady treats. What will it be? A cheating gold digger? Maybe an insincere, double-billing, attitude ridden physician? Jonathon loved them. Perhaps an ever so slightly respectable racketeer? That one over there, laughing with the couple exiting the Lexus , killed two people in his youth. Well, tits for tats. (is that how the mortals say it?) Tonight may be his night. Or, this could turn into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Evil doers, innocent, old maid school teachers, rabbis and circus clowns. Depends on their mood. You know the truth about these vampires now. So don't act surprized.

Jonathon knows someone. He has a familiar on staff at The Academy of Music. So they skip up the granite steps, past the still functioning gas street lights, waltz through the heavy glass and bronze doors and dissappear into the bright, crowded lobby. The man sees them. He quickly snakes through the human swamp and comes over. The handsome, stylish, young vampire leans close and whispers something his his ear. They smile and nod. Jonathon squeezes the man's shoulder in approval, as he and Sarah follow the loyal functionary deep into the hidden heart of this  gilt and velvet, one hundred and sixty year old house of mummery. Martin Scorsese used the place when he filmed The Age of Innocence. It is the most complete nineteenth century theatre in the country, with crystal chandeliers rivaling those in the Paris Opera House. But tonight the premises would be haunted by phantoms of another kind.

Fine, ornate, gold-leafed grill work circles each illuninated, glittering fixture. Workers can service these discreetly electrified confections via a tight crawl space running just above the ceiling. Jonathon and his mate occupied a snug, little perch up against the thick, iron hoist anchoring the main chandelier.What a perfect spot. How well suited to the task. They could gaze down at the slightly over heated audience, peering through the roccoco scroll work and make their decision. Who would it be? Who would die, victim to a romance glipsed only in their dreams. The bald man up front? What about Madam Face-Lift three rows back? Such choices. All I can say to these humans is don't go pee by yourself. Forget about exploring this dear old place. Hurry back to your seats and stay out of shadowy passageways, or you just might pee again......And then you'll die.....And then you'll disappear......A victim to The Music of the Night......

Douse the lights! Cue the overture. Let the opera begin..

And to all of you out there in lap-top-land, play something appropriate. Torandot would be nice......Yes, yes, yes, I know Nessun Dorma is a cliche. But it is that for a reason. Sink into its magic. And please come back tomorrow. For then the fun begins......


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