Monday, April 16, 2018

STRANGE PEOPLE ... 4/16/18

There's no featured video tonight and no apropos music. The vampires and other night-folk I blog for are not into it. Sometimes it happens that way. They go into a stupor. Usually it starts with one of the old ones. In our case, that would be Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea. He's known by both names. A long life will do that. 'Papa' doesn't count. He's so incredibly ancient. Different laws apply.

Little Bastid Annie, our twelve year old vampirina in six a year old body, plays Barbie's Dungeon for hours and hours. I think it started as a nice, doll house castle, but she got bored with it and painted in all black and gray... the floors... everything. Then she found a place on line that sold genuine hand forged scale model torture devices. They were already made for eleven inch fashion dolls and twelve inch army-guy figures, so she bought the whole sixteen piece, Ivan the Terrible deluxe set.... with pieces of coordinating dark, heavy medieval looking furniture to go along with it. Edith, the Jersey Pines, witchy-woman housekeeper let her put in on one of the household credit cards. Old established vampire households have lots of cards. Nobody cares. Now half of her sleeping cubicle is taken over by the five and a half foot tall 'castle of death.' That's what she calls it. The dolls all have these goth outfits. Actually, they're the Maleficent Line from Disney. The army-guy dolls are the 'torture guys,' another Annie term and she dresses them in Thor outfits, only they don't have Thor hair... She pretends it got cut off in a war... Annie sets up these elaborate tableaux spanning four stories of the castle. Then she sits there and stares at it by the light of a dollar l.e.d. flashlight Edith got from Boscov's. The rest of her sleeping cubicle is dark. Edith gets her lots of batteries too.

But Tomas doesn't say much. He still goes out roaming the city every night... Just walks... in his black jeans, white shirt and leather coat. He has all kinds of leather coats and jackets... big warm ones... trim quilted 'space cadet' types... scarves... knit hats. He has all that. The cold can't hurt him. He just likes to feel warm and secure.

Edith says all 'hoo-doo' types get like this. 'Hoo-doo' is a Piney term. It means them what's tetched by magic. Not just vampires. They got a whole menagerie. Tends to manifest when seasons change. Been going on a long time already here, 'cause seasons don't know which way they want to go. Sometimes he'll sit in an all-night coffee shop nursing a hot tea, pretending to read one of those free Center City papers they have by the register. Waitresses all know him. They come over and say - Yo, are you all right?... He don't even pick his head up. Just flips them a twenty, or like a couple of twenties if there's two of them. In waitress-land, when you give out a twenty or two, that means you're all right, so they top off his hot water and give him another tea bag and leave him alone..... He rides around in taxis too. Has a few regular drivers. Knows their numbers. Flags them down. Gets in the back. Pulls his knit cap down low over his eyes. Rests his head on the top of the seat and just stares out the window. When he's had enough an hour or two later, he says - Stop here... Pays and gets out. Drivers think he's a nut. Oh, some people around town know he's a vampire, but not everybody.

Once spring really hits they'll all snap out of it. Leo just sits there looking at the TV and chuckling like a maniac. Doesn't make a difference what the screen shows. He's not 'seeing' that anyway. Just laughs and shakes his knee up and down a mile a minute. Looks like that actor Sam Rockwell does when he plays mental cases....

And that's it... Sarah does her thing. Baylah mostly stays down the shore and Conrad just acts like a regular, pudgy school teacher guy who happens to be a vampire. Wears Docker pants and everything.

Real cold and dark and rainy out there tonight.... Two guys found a severed head under a bench in Fittler Square, but it was still talkin' so they left it alone. Scrunched a newspaper around it to keep it warm, but that was it.

Drunk guy says - Don't you say 'thank you?'..... Head says - Go to hell.....

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Friday, March 30, 2018

The Honeycombs-Have I The Right (Shindig) 1964 inspire a new cable vampire series



OK, OK.... here it is.... The early 1960's.... a grungy pub somewhere in Manchester... a cross section of working class youth downs pints and socializes. The place goes dark.. BOOM! The lights snap back... and in that instant an intriguing rock quartet appears on the little stage, tearing into the song featured above.... Guys feign disinterest. Girls watch mesmerized, stomping their feet to the beat.

Meet THE SPIDERS, Britain's newest sensation... Peter, Tom, Luke and Billy (I always put a 'Billy' in my stories)... four slick dudes, just a little bit too irresistible and a little too bit self-assured.

After the set, the guys do nothing.  The girls scream, rake their fingers through their hair and jump around like ... well, the local press calls it 'the Manchester Mania.'

One bush league Judy Geeson   climbs over the bouncers and fights her way onto stage... The girls go absolutely wild. Frontman, Peter, grabs her, leans over and plants a deep hard kiss right on her neck. She swoons... The windows rattle from the pandemonium.

Two bouncers take her limp body and carry her away.... The guys are having none of it... I suppose, as this is Britain, they're actually 'the blokes,' but this is just a quick visualization.

Out on the sidewalk, cops fight to keep a sea of TO SIR WITH LOVE extras rejects from stampeding into the already packed establishment...

More screaming... More window rattling.... Every light bulb in the place shatters throwing all into blackness....

Then an instant later the garish security lights take over. The stage is empty. The Spiders are gone...

Off to the side and wedged into a tiny booth, the Judy Geeson reject fights to breathe, as a girlfriend mops perspiration from her face, throat and arms, plus a little bit of blood from her neck.


THE SPIDERS..... Britain's first mega boy band.... and how they conquered the entertainment world... and how a globe spanning industry kept 'the vampire part' secret

Besides that 'vampire' part, everything else is played straight... battles with managers.... groupies.... record companies... all of it.... A high quality reproduction of the early '60's... the clothes... the cars... the glossy fun house crass of it all...

and the foot stomping, ground shaking beat goes on...

In a sense, the story of every group that shoulda woulda coulda been The Beatles, but was a little too 'bad boy' for the times....

<got to work on this one>

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Thursday, March 22, 2018

Our Vampire JONATHON loves this music -- Erich Wolfgang Korngold - Kings Row (1941): Suite of 1968

 

In the later part of the 1800's, I'd climb into a crawl space up above the ceiling of The Academy of Music and stare down at the audience, while losing myself in the wondrous sounds, through the intricate open naturalistic design surrounding the huge, magnificent chandelier. The small, swirly holes were designed into the motif so workmen could see down into the orchestra seats when they lowered the elegant crystal structure. The lights were originally candles. Later they went to gas. The chandelier didn't move then, but the crawl space was still there.

I'd gaze down at the formally attired patrons... ladies in off the shoulder gowns... gentleman in white tie and tails. When they lowered the lights (to my vampire eyes) the dazzling collars and shirt fronts seemed to glow.... so did the ladies... at least the parts that showed. Sometimes I'd pick a couple. I'd lock on.... Night-folk can do that. Everyone has a vibration. Each is unique and coupled with their scent, very easy to remember.

When the music stopped and the applause was over, I exited that crawl space and climbed down. Those in the know instructed their coachmen to drive around all night and return at the proper time. Can you imagine how long it takes carriages to exit a livery stable? And before you feel bad for the coachmen condemned to wander icy streets on cold winter evenings, please know that most left their conveyance in an alley somewhere behind their favorite taproom, while they sought shelter, plus beer and oysters, inside....

Then I tracked my special couple to their home. Some lived in the newly popular Rittenhouse district to the west. Others in the huge brownstones flanking North Broad Street, or the environs of Washington Square.... You know I like Washington Square. The streets and houses are thick with ghosts.... Maybe for some paranormal reason they're just easier to detect. Adepts claim underground granite 'shelves' reflect ectoplasmic emanations. One such 'shelf' runs under that part of the city. Who knows? But I ran through the shadows of the city, keeping up with their closed brougham, and saw the couple as they ascended the steps and entered a new (for those times) brownstone on a street just south of Rittenhouse Square... A few heartbeats later I sublimated through a cellar window and waited for the house to grow quiet.... Just me and a dressmaker's dummy with a painted on face and a wide brimmed bonnet, plus a neat, little bullet hole just to the inside of her left breast... right where a heart would be...

OH! Did I ever tell you I never ate chocolate?... Not once... by the time they brought it back from the Aztec Empire, I'd already been night-folk for like five hundred years.... So that's another experience down the drain. I did once get a victim all liquored up on some kind of chocolate cordial drink before I had her... Sort of got the essence of it, but it's not the same thing. Funny what pops into my brain.... If I still have a brain. Do I need one, or does my spirit simply keep everything going... (sinks into a silent trance)

(sighs and wakes up) Forty minutes later the house was quiet. She had a mild laudanum concoction He had a big glass of madeira. The new maid girl turned down the lights, pilfered a few bits of truffle from the kitchen and settled in for the night in her maid-bed. I slipped her three ounces of twenty four carat gold. I always give the most put upon servant something. Just how I am.

The husband was who I wanted. His people had rice plantations in the low country (coastal South Carolinas). Kept them after The War too. Ran them on a share-cropping system. Slaves kept right on going... Same cabins. They filled in the chinks, hung little curtains... patched most of the leaks.... put in a few outhouses instead of just a latrine ditch... And nobody made enough to get out of there, or get themselves doctored up when the yellow fever comes through. But the big house folks got theirs... And Mister Upstairs with his madeira got this brand new Townhouse on Rittenhouse Square in Old Philadelphia plus a whole drawer full of equities in northern plains railroads and a seaside 'cottage' mansion on Belleview Avenue in Newport. Please know, he was only the second son. Used to pester all the field girls when he was a young buck. Still does all the housemaids now that his daddy got him all set up as a 'gentleman' lawyer in the city. Folks still dying from Yellow Fever back home. Big Daddy  says it gets rid of the trouble makers... 'Cept some of those trouble makers only nine years old. And nobody even thinks about it.

I went upstairs, silently passing through errant moonbeams sneaking in through slits in the draperies. Vampires dance so quickly upon the stairs. Dancers in the dark, we are. A small Pomeranian dog woke from its slumber and saw me on a landing.. I went 'shhh.' The dog just stared. Animals know magic when they see it.

The mister and missus had separate rooms. Many did in those times. Besides, dalliances with servants felt so much naughtier. His door was locked. The custom was for ladies to have double doors. Gentlemen made do with one. But I tracked by scent and vibrations and sublimated into the right chamber regardless of the doors.

Shall I tell you about jaws ripped off, eyes sucked out, or hands stripped of flesh? These things and worse are common. Some gnaw through the belly, bite through the diaphragm and drain the beating heart. Such pure indulgence. Nothing richer. Stuffed with oxygen and nutrients. Tapping the jugular is nothing compared to that. Just know that I am quite the gourmet.... and the 'meat' certainly deserves it. Do they scream?... No... They tremble and twitch. The eyes open wide. Sweat pours from every surface. When it's done. When they die. The 'cool' blue fire ignites till all is consumed and only the ashes, plus perhaps a grease slick remains.... When I pull out my hair, my face, my ears, neck, my shoulders are slick with blood. That's when I fly away and hide, waiting for the blood to dry. After it does (and that happens rather quickly) a vigorous shake (like dogs do) sends thousands of scab-like particles flying everywhere, till my hair, my skin and clothing are completely clean... Then, I might continue the evening or return to my domicile. That's how it happened one night during the pentultimate decade of the nineteenth century..

Strange, but I was listening to a favorite piece of music. The one featured at the top of this tale... and I wanted you all to know... I've experienced many things, though the flavor and texture of chocolate is not one of them...

<more to come>

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Thursday, March 8, 2018

VAMPIRES REMEMBER SO MANY THINGS 2/26/18

I, Jonathon speak these things -

We who you call 'vampires' witness so much. Long lives allow us to absorb all manner of things. Some dissolve into welcome memories. Others are as undigested pits and bones. And it's odd, but they rise up to confront us when we least expect it.... I walk the streets at night. You know that, for I share so much. God bless you all for being there. No other life-eater has, or ever had such sympathetic friends. No real life eaters anyway.

I saw THE BLACK PANTHER and I liked it. ... possibilities made real. That which we imagine can be achieved. All that's required is sincere dedication. I also saw a group of young people exit the theatre giddy and transfixed by the magic of it all. They laughed and danced about reliving scenes as they rapidly traded dreams. Few on the street noticed, but I did. Mortal emotion means so much to me. I saw the car round the corner and run right through them. It kept going, as if the city and all the people in it were invisible. One young man died instantly, crushed against the curb. I snatched another and sublimated up to the rooftops, so he might live. Did I transform him?... No, but I gave him a few drops and he lived... I redeemed him. His surviving friends from that night never realised what happened. But he went home healed and a week later, recieved an official document from a bank notifying him of a one hundred thousand dollar account, set up, tax free,  in his name. He and his family were quite pleased.  I, even more so...

This season does that to me. Friends of my tale know this. Few life-eaters, what most call 'vampires' forget their mortal faith. Indeed, we hold it all the more dear. For what else gives reason to this?... After all... we are only human... but (quietly) more than mortal.... So I do my job. I guard the sheep and tend the flock... Not the shepherd, but the sheepdog. That's why The Passover is so important to me... And I know there are people who 'tune out' when I don't give them recollections of bloody vampiric gore, or ancient, fiendish tortures. I have to accept that. Yet if people think vampire existence is all lurid killing and smoldering stares, they are wrong. In these postings I tell things how they are. I hope you all believe that. Those familiar with La Ciencia Vampirismo, the centuries old tome of vampire 'magic' and lore know the truth. God knows, I've referenced it here many times. Just go and do 'good things.'....

When vampires sleep during the light-time, we have visions... not dreams, as you do, but something much more precise and immediate. You see, it's even wrong for me to call it 'sleep,' for we are not just slumbering in our shelters. We are, in the spirit sense, somewhere else. You will know, when you die. In that state we see the face and feel the essence of the soul to be culled.... Who picks them? Well, one more spiritually adept than us. We behold the voice of angels... and they hear someone else. I believe that. All 'noble' vampires do. Thankfully, most are 'noble.'

So, once a month, I have my pre-ordained meal... I cull the soul and it sustains me. Those who don't know claim it's the blood. Granted, that fluid provides a certain heft, mouth sense and satisfaction, but the job well done gives even more.
and on those other nights, the nights when I don't feed, I save people, as I saved the boy, Michael, (that is his name) at the beginning of this episode. Or I gift my blood in subtle, quiet ways too. Sometimes I provide containers of hot coffee to homeless souls on the street, but I spike it first with you know what and they live. Most also find a banded 'flat' of hundred dollar bills in their pocket. Fifty to a stack. Five thousand dollars in all, with a note that says - take this to ( such and such) bank and deposit it... I give them one hundred dollar bills because I know few places will take them. The bank, a small private affair, belongs to a 'familiar' of mine. It's all arranged... They get a debit card  with a fifty dollar a day limit... and another note that says - To get off the street contact (another familiar). Let me just say that my success rate is higher than most other programs in the city. True, fifty dollars a day can buy quite a bender. But after a few days most learn. Oh, and if I didn't tell you, my blood can cure alcohol toxicity too.

I remember, as a newly made vampire, experimenting. I tried healing sick stray dogs... It worked... Alley cats mangled in fights were restored too... A near dead, juvenile Barbary Ape torn and dropped by a hawk was made whole. It seems the 'magic' works on all warm blooded creatures.... And in the candlelit gloom of medieval cellars I healed children from charnel houses, snatched just north of death and they came back too. We had to be careful to place them with families a few villages away, lest they'd be recognized and thrown down a well due to 'witchcraft.' Sadly, death cured everything in that culture and those days.... Death, death, death, death, death... They couldn't get enough of it, while I, as a vampire (0ther than my monthly 'meal') fought against it....

I've been in Philadelphia since its inception, coming over with The Lord Protector himself in the good ship Welcome. Notice I say 'in' and not 'on.' They had me locked in a large wooden chest down in the hold... I don't think they knew what I was... But the land was not empty. Native settlements were everywhere...There were Dutch and Swedish towns in the area too. And in three hundred and thirty six years I have saved tens of thousands... maybe more. I don't keep track... Counting natural increase via descendants and all only God knows how many.....

At this special time of the spiritual year, holy for Trinitarians and Unitarians both, I go out among the living and do my best to keep them that way... I protect the sheep. It's what I do...

Please know that decent people never have to fear us... Well, rarely have to fear us... Some night-folk do have strange spells every few centuries or so. But for the most part, you're all right.

Now permit me to continue my rounds....

(our hero, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, silently walks off, disappearing into the wee hour shadows of the city.... an 'eighteen' year old youth on the town.... I'm sure you locals have seen him from time to time... or, who knows?... maybe he's seen you?)

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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.

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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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