Friday, November 22, 2013

A TWENTY EIGHT THOUSAND YEAR OLD UBER VAMPIRE TEACHES A GHOUL A LESSON... 11/22/13

Now to get back to the dusty, buried remains of the old Santa's Toyland, hidden in the bowels of the long forgotten Gimbels Department Store....

The vampire known as Tomas lay on the floor and retched all over a tumbled display of Weevles (they wobble, but they won't fall down). And a thin, rather iridescent, sticky 'gruel' dribbled from his mouth with each gnawing contraction. A roach or too scurried over to taste it, but soon realized the exotic nature of this soup and ran back to their secret dens. 

'Papa' stopped, looked down at his stricken 'son' and the pain immediately lessened. This twenty eight thousand year old presence has great power. No showy hand gestures or Elizabethan verse spells for him. He thinks, therefore it is. Then he turned his gaze to the strange, almost physical ghost and walked on. 

Now ghouls are a rare breed...' survivors' of premature burial. Oh the actual bones rest moldering in a crypt somewhere, but the essence, the spirit, of the soul so tortured, races from the unbelievable horror of the situation, erupting from the earth like a rocket. And the tight, hard knot of terror draws power (the ether is always willing to release a little of that). And the power condenses into something dense and 'real' and cold. Cannibals they are... cravers of human flesh... dead flesh 'cause it's easy... live flesh 'cause it's hot. Makes them feel all real. In that way they share a bit of the magic with vampires. But those noble princes of the night despise them.

Not every soul gone live to the grave becomes such. Most lost darlings gasp, cry, scream, thrash, scrape their fingers to nubs (true, the bones pierce through the flesh), smash their noggins 'gainst the lid (noggins get bloody too), gasp some more, wheeze a little, whisper prayers and die. Them's the pious ones. Some what ain't pious end like this... like Johnny Jump Up, over there... He's scared. Would shit hisself, if he could, but the energy what moves him is strong, immediately burning up each gobbet of meat, leaving him empty, always empty. He smiled at 'Papa,' showing that silvery, shark toothed grin. Maybe he meant to scare him. I don't know. But what a fool he is. Can't put no fear in one like this. 

'Papa' moves closer. The fiend lurches back and crab walks up a Christmas tree shaped display of Great Garloos . Thirty six inch tall green, plastic, robot geniis tumble to the floor. Some of them still talk. They croak - Your wish is my command... Your wish is my command.... 'Papa' points at the ghoul... The terrified thing yells - No! No! No!.. as his body rapidly shrinks to the size of a small, manikin-like doll... Not Barbie... Not Ken... More like Skipper (we disembodied spirit narrators know many things). And the uber vampire scoops him up like a runaway ferret. He holds him. He strokes him. The thing cries. It whines and pleads for mercy. But there will be none of that tonight, for the twenty eight thousand year old avenger presses down hard and crushes him, breaking every 'imaginary' (though to the ghoul, quite real) bone in his body..... The crying stops... 'Papa' cleans his hands on Strawberry Shortcake's dress. Then he drops her to the floor. Two heartbeats later the roaches come out to dine. Maybe the feast seems real to them? Perhaps they're ghost things too?

And whether the thing known as Johnny Jump Up is gone for good, I do not know. Events are quite fluid in the night world. Magic is so hard to pin down.

Then the powerful being picks up his injured 'son' and departs, leaving only frightened child ghosts peering from the corners of this ruined, dusty space lit by dozens and dozens of false, plastic, lithium fueled candles. Heartbeats pass and even the ghosts dissolve, as abandoned toys alone in the feeble, glow look on...

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1 comment:

John L. Harmon said...

Weevles (they wobble, but they won't fall down-----color me curious orange, Billy, but that name sounds like a nasty humanoid creature from TORCHWOOD. Was this your inspiration, or is there some other malicious force at work here?