Thursday, October 28, 2010

The Book of Sarah

Annie killed one of the workers at the appliance store where Bob hides. I know she did it just to get to Bob. The young man she destroyed was totally innocent. He was twenty one years old for God's Sake. A part-time college student, a volunteer driver for 'meals on wheels'. An all around good kid. And she did not use the dogs or the rats or anything like that this time. She snuck up behind him as he was walking home from work. The neighborhood where Center City blends into South Philadelphia is stitched together with lots of incredibly narrow streets, old cobbled lanes, like what the British call 'mews'. And it's dark too. Very dark. She spoke. She said - Excuse me, mister, can you help me find Bainbridge Street? When he turned to answer, and according to the akoshic records he was about to ask her why a nice, little girl like her was out all alone, she opened her mouth. She opened it extremely wide, wider than a natural human ever could. And a greenish fog issued forth from deep within her. It blanketed the young man and he froze. She reached into a coat pocket and took out a small empty plastic soda bottle filled with gasoline. Now the twenty one year old's mouth was open. He was preparing to speak after all. She stood on tip-toe, lifted the bottle to his lips and poured it in. He had a shocked, surprized look in his eyes. And when she whispered 'swallow', he swallowed. He began to tremble. His brow began to sweat. She reached into another pocket and retrieved one of those little spark wands, the kind daddies use to light gas grills. She reached up on tip-toe once again, slipped it into his mouth and back toward his throat. She looked him in the eyes and pulled the trigger, instantly incinerating him from the inside out. He never had time to so much as say a prayer. And the residents on that street? They see nothing. They say nothing. Just another suspicious bombing. Possibly tied to organized crime. If you lived there and if you heard it, what would you do? Annie just brushed some greasy ashes off her coat and walked away. But according to the akoshic records (a repository of all that was, is, or will be in the universe) she cried. I am the nameless voice. And I know things. The Pow Wow Woman knows. Tomas knows. Sarah knows. Bob knows. And Baylah knows...... Speaking of Baylah, things have been going fairly well for her. She still styles herself a transvestite. It simplifies things. True, she is 'just' a tall, statuesque, West African beauty. But in the piano bar industry a sharp, swank drag queen draws more custom than a two hundred and fifty plus year old, Shang-Hai-ed, Ashanti (I think Ashanti) princess ever would. I suppose the drunks 'round the piano know what to make of a cross dresser. But an actual vampire might tend to disorient them a bit. What can I tell you? Humans can be so self-limiting. And our band of Nobel vampires trembles in their tombs. What are they, but the white blood cells vanguishing disease in the afflicted body that is humanity?

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