The Book of Sarah

It is me this time. It is Tomas, I am deeply depressed. Even those new pairs of spectacularly fitting jeans I purchased on Walnut Street failed to raise my spirits. The girl said it made me look like one of the dancers on Dancing With The Stars. But I do not look at that program, so I do not know what she was talking about. If they want to see dancing, real dancing, they should watch some dervishes, or maybe a belly dancer, the good ones like they had (and I suppose still have) in Istanbul. My Uncle Hanan always had belly dancers at his dinners. They were wonderful. I cannot remember their names. One of them ran away with the Gypsies. That is all I can recall. I ramble. But it is only because I morn for my copy of La Ciencia Vampirismo. At first I thought we took it when we fled our crumbling tower. However I was wrong. We do not have it. The Old Woman has it. I can imagine the poetic secrets inscribed within whispered into the ears of demons. Will they learn of The Reign of Pan? Will they laugh at the vampiric betrothal rites of Chin Dynasty Cathay? May the night wind dry them like dead, November leaves. We do go out, but always in a group. Sarah and I meet Baylah and the three of us go to the Mutter Museum to get Bob. We stroll about the byways of Center City. No one notices. They have other outlandish specimens to gawk at. There is the levitating, toothless crone of Head House Square. The twelve fingered fandango dancer of South Street (quite the virtuoso on the castanets). And the greasy dwarf of Pig Alley, who ignites his powerful farts for five dollars a pop. I hear he is quite wealthy. Annie took another victim. The Pow Wow Woman knew. I did too. Sarah is still oblivious to such things. She picks up certain simple nuances, but there is still much work to do. Annie's victim was an important personage, a political leader in town for a certain award ceremony. He was to receive the Franklin Crystal, a large bowl (meant to recall Benjamin Franklin's famous musical armonica) given to those people who work to bring 'harmony' to humanity. Annie did not use the dogs this time. I told you. she has apparently developed a taste for the unusual, a taste for variety. She used her latest weapon. The victim was dreaming between the eighthundred count sheets of his sixtyfive hundred dollar a night suite, when a magical, minute 'conga line' made its way up from the tiny, shadowy depths. Thousands (or maybe it was millions?) of loathsome redish-brown  creepy-crawlies, the size of boiled rice grains, marched into a random assortment of his bodily orafices. Others satisfied themselves with a bite of his skin and deeper layers as well. By the time he awoke, he was blind,tongueless and deaf. Other important pieces of equipment were mangled to the point of unrecognizability. They had to scrape what was left of him off the sheets. Fortunately for the housekeeping staff, the down topper saved the mattress. I wonder who is sleeping there tonight. It was all kept quiet. Few individuals even know. But we know and Annie knows. That is the important thing. I think they wound up presenting the bowl to former President, James Carter. He seems like such a nice man. We've been catching glimpses of the elves and cherubs. Have I told you about them? I do not remember. Anyway, they are an especially enchanted breed of vampire, made from juvenile humans brought over just shy of puberty. Others are even more exotic than that. We will discuss their uniqueness some other time. Baylah is afraid the Enemy will trip us up with simple tactics. Nothing extravagant. Maybe just a good, old fashioned 'drive by'. She could bewitch her own strain of familiars into doing it for her. They could 'stitch us up real good'. It would have to be in a public area. What could we do, lay down on the sidewalk and pretend to be dead? The ordeal would be painful, but it would not kill us. Should we just continue walking? Don't make eye contact and just keep going? Either way, we would be 'outted'. Poeple would see. Society would notice. The government would swope down. We would wind up hidden away deep beneath the Pentagon, unexplainable specimens, exploited for military purposes. Quite like my maker, who lies deep within the Vatican Archives in Rome. No, no, no, no... that is a reality I would not like to experience. We're strolling by the coffee bar right now. The one where my wilkravitz familiar types this all up. He knows I'm close by. See? He's nervous. Look how he scratches at his ear. Oooh! He almost spilled his coffee. We had better hurry on our way before he ruins that new lap top.