Tuesday, April 30, 2013


Annie curled up on the leather sectional watching Vikings on demand. She likes that show. Says it's like the Flintstones meet Sons of Anarchy. You know, shaggy ponies instead a choppers? She wants a ask 'Papa' what them berserker bastids was like in real life. Starts pokin' him. Starts yankin' hairs out a his head. Only it don't do no good, 'cause he ain't there. Still sits in that chair. Still shuffles off to his sleepin' place at dawn. But that's just automatic pilot. 'Papa' has left the building. Or to be more precise, he ain't entered it yet. The nebulous cloud containing the essence of his being, sublimates through space somewhere on the outer fringes of the asteroid belt. For a little while he had company. A tiny, little space probe sent out from some real nerdy planet twelve light years away flew right through him. And it sensed he was there. So now they'll think we're intelligent energy fields, instead of maybe seven billion sit-com families or Price Is Right people. I don't know where the probe is now. It obviously has the ability to travel at relativistic speeds. You know, them nerds can do anything.... 'cept dance and shit. But 'Papa' don't go that fast... at least I never seen him do it...not lately anyway. Right now he got like two hundred and fifty million miles to go. But a million miles an hour ain't too bad, though. 

Edith says to Annie - Don't you know them Vikings was a bunch of cruel, blood thirsty bastids?.... Annie sips a Grey Goose on the rocks (even seven or eight year old vampirinas can metabolize alcohol) and goes - Yeah, now shut up..... She wants a see a 'blood eagle.' But I don't think they got one in this episode. Think the Screen Extras Union is touchy that way. You know, some a these shows is real realistic. 'Case you don't know what a 'blood eagle' is, I'll tell ya. It was like a Viking magic trick, only they didn't need no stinkin' cards or rabbits. I think battle axes was about it. Two warriors run up behind a guy, like a cryin' trembling monk, or somebody and grab his arms. Then, the one doin' the trick, smashes the battle axe into one side of his rib cage, crushing the bones from the clavicle on down. Before the guy goes guhk, he real fast does it to the other side. Then he reaches in, yanks out the lungs and throws 'em up over the guys shoulders. That's where the 'eagle' part comes in. You can see the pink, wet, spongy sacs fill up with air every time the 'volunteer from the audience' bastid takes a breath. At this point, the other Vikings rapin' all the people stop and clap. Then the guy trembles. His eyes roll back and he dies. The Vikings go - Awwww. 'Cause they like a good show. But show's over. What can you do?

Only another, more local production, is about to begin. You see, ghouls are not the only creatures with animal allies. Mole-folk have them too, via their lovingly cared for hoards of domesticated  (or semi-domesticated) rats. After many generations, most are piebald, raised for food in huge, rustic pens cobbled together from scraps of wood plus whatever they can find underground. They feed them special mushrooms grown in damp, dark tunnels. And conditions really are quite sanitary. No fleas or dirt. Much cleaner than butcher shop rabbits. But a particular strain, grown for defense is different, with rich, black, glossy coats and dark, red skin. Their teeth are white and razor sharp. Giant soldier ants they are, even if individually they make quite nice pets. And armies of them swarm 'round the tunnel dwellers, ready to go to work. You know, sewage pipes are rodent freeways... And the great, urban fortress of Tobias Maxwell has many, many toll booths... some, complete with bidets. Certain handlers among the mole-people open the 'gates' with large, ancient wrenches kept for just such a purpose. Some foul smelling, watery gruel runs out. But not that much. And the flesh eating swarms race in. Most inside are sleeping.... What a pity. 

Each, sleek, rather weasel-like specimen scoops out a fat, lima bean sized dollop of flesh every time they bite. Their manic jaws average at least fifteen mouthfuls per minute. And there are SO many of them. Some like tongues... Others eyes.... Genitals too, I am told.

The mole-folk will groom them after. Don't worry about that. 

And if you think these roiling multitudes will set off motion detectors, you're right. But what are the cops gonna do... run in with flame throwers? 

So Jonathon sits on the cold lead floor, leaning against an equally chilly wall, as vampire dreams begin to trickle into the clammy darkness...
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