The Book of Sarah

What language are they speaking? - asked Sarah. An old one. I think the Cro Magnons started it. Why? - said Edith. No - whispered Sarah - but how will the message get out? Do you all speak it? Do all the 'Reddies' speak it? Hell no. They don't even talk English right. They sound like a bunch of Jerry Springer people. They ain't never  been to school.- snorted the Pow Wow Woman. And then we just stood there watching the show. Soon there was nothing left inside the crystaline bull but a pile of gummy bones sloshing around in a pink-red, bubbly broth. Someone screwed out an unseen quartz peg corresponding to the navel of the beast, and released the sickening contents into a copper caldron. Two dwarfs were lowered into the death chamber through the saddle opening. They collected the bones in burlap sacks. Then a few of the young men helped them clamber out..They dumped the bones at the feet of the blind shaman. The pile was quite large. Some woman came over and carried the bones to a small spring flowing out of a crack hidden in the shadows, where the reverently washed them. Then they carried the bones back to the blind shaman and dumped them down onto the stone floor. He screamed. That was all. He just screamed. And everyone there  rushed forward. I hadn't noticed, but they were all clutching rocks, which they used to smash the ivory-like remains to bits. Shards flew all about us. People were injured. Smashed fingers were quite common. One young woman lost the sight in her left eye. And then they were through. Acolytes swept the sharp bits into piles, which they scooped up and deposited in a series of small, oaken casks. Everyone appeared to relax. I asked Edith what it all meant? What would be done with the remains? She said that the 'blessed' bones would be used to fashion magical spear points and arrow heads for use in the coming battle.. I said - You mean that Red Paint man was serious? There really is going to be a battle? And it's going to be in Philadelphia? She just cackled and nodded. Sarah, Baylah and I just looked at each other. And then all the people tore off their clothes and had an orgy. But not the children. Not the little ones. Some old folks shepherded them into an adjoining chamber where they sang songs and ate popcorn. I think they drank a little cider too. But it might have been something else....... Supposedly, everyone will 'know' the meaning of the sacred ramblings when they regain consciousness in the morning. I wonder what they're going to do with that oilly, gummy mess in the copper caldron.

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas... And Sarah too. They're having a 'throwin''... That's a term they use now, but it originally stems from an ancient Red Paint dialect. It sounded something like this---- A trovin ova bon, and even the surviving 'Reddies' (a nickname) don't know what it means. About twohundred and fifty of us are winding our way through the pines. Each holds a small, flickering candle. Not more than twentyfive or thirty are true R.P.'s by blood. The rest are Piney neighbors who have lived right by them too long and absorbed a lot of Red Paint ways. Edith says they got 'a taint o the paint.' It's cold. The humans are wrapped in well-worn woolen layers. The Reddies too. They are, after all still human. We 'blood folk' as they call us are similarly attired. It is not that we have anything to fear from old Jack Frost. But rather a desire to fit in. And I have to agree, it is comfortable. Sarah looks like a fetching, turn of the twentieth century immigrant. Baylah has her head wrapped Erika Badu style. I look like a cold-campus college kid straight out of Penn State or Michigan  or some place like that. Our feet crunch on a thin layer of snow and ice. Some of the others softly chant an old song. And some do not. We approach the partially hidden entrance to a cavern. There are not many such places in the Jersey flatlands, but apparently they have found one. And from what I am told, have been using it for centuries. We file insside. Orange candlelight dances around the rocky outcrops. The passage is narrow. It snakes down into the earth. No one sings anymore. A ghostly scattering of gruesome pictographs decorate the cold, hard walls. Ours is not the greatest colony of Reddies. Most are found far to the north along the Canadian, Newfoundland coast. That is where the first migrants apparently  made land fall all those milleniuum ago. But ours maintain a strict orthodoxy. And it seems they have attracted a certain number of converts from among the ranks of the Pineys. Edith whispers to me -----Tomas? You seen a few of those human bonfires they used to light up back in the day, right?..... I assume she means Inquisitional Spain and answer in the affirmative,..... Well, this is gonna be a little bit like that, but with a taste of say a rustic Mardi Gras and a reality TV show thrown in to spark things up a little....We hear an angry 'shush' from up ahead. Everyone files into a large-ish, roughly circular chamber. Some of the Leaders use their candles to light torches affixed to the walls. Various gradations of shadows dance all about us. And in the center rests one of the most unusual objects that I have ever seen. It is large, at least as large as a small bus. Like the ten passenger jitney buses they use to ferry people around airports or along Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City. But this thing has a threatening ancient menace. It is a coarse rendering of a huge bull, almost prehistoric, probably an aurochs. It stands twelve feet tall and measures about twenty feet long. But it is not solid. The monstrous carving (probably from a single quartz boulder) is hollow. A matching 'saddle' seals a small opening along the back. A stone fire pit occupies the ground between its legs. The congregants (for that is what we are) move about, forming a circle around this centerpiece. Drums sound. A shuffling dance begins to wind counter-clockwise 'round the idol. A 'Caller' takes his place under the head of the beast. He is blind. A white haze covers his useless corneas. He begins a chant and rhythmically shifts his weight from foot to foot. Every so often his claw of a hand shoots out and he grabs someone. Those chosen join him under the bovine head. And then the dancing stops. Each of the 'grabbed ones' is given a razor sharp, silver knife, which they use to silently saw off a little finger. No one says a word. A woman gathers the severed digits in a metal bowl and drowns them in what appears to be a strong acid. The contents fizz. A froth is formed. She pours everything onto the stone floor. The blind one gets down on his hands and knees and examines the bones. The newly mutilated are given draughts of something to numb their pain and rags to staunch the blood. And then the blind one begins to call out names... four names... two men and two women. Those called step forward. Two young men wrestle the cloudy, crystaline saddle from its resting place. The bull is opened. The four 'Ridders' remove their clothing and climb inside. They tenderly assist each other. We can see them through the foggy, semi-precious surface. The interior chamber is small. They can move around, but just a little. A few buckets of water are thrown in with them. The saddle is jammed back into place. The bull is closed. Some of the people have been carrying kindling. Others retrieve armloads of wood from alcoves. They deposit their flamable burdens into the pit and return to their places in the circle. Another woman comes forward. She ignites the crisp, dry fuel. It begins to burn. The smoke is drawn up and disappears through cracks and fissures of the arching roof. The rest of the celebrants fall back.  They reverently watch their encapsulated brethren contort and writhe, as they futily attempt to escape the searing heat. And we witness the spectacle of human  beings roasting and boiling and charring in their own juice. No one so much as coughs. The screams of the victims issued forth through small openings drilled into the nostrils, mouth, ears and rectum of the beast, blending into a hellish song. Shamans quickly called out interpreting the 'music..'  Baylah and Sarah and I stood close together with our arms about each other, waiting for it to end. And the 'singing' went on for a very long time..........

The Book of Sarah

I am beginning to recall the events of my past. I think this has happened to me before. I remember things for a time and then I lose them. Maybe I want to lose them. I do not know. Am I simply a disembodied spirit, or am I the remnant of lifetimes gone before? Once I told you that I remembered the orange-gold reflection of sunlight upon the sacred Ganges. I remember the ghats. I remember the families releasing beloved corpses into the current. I can smell the colors and see the aromas meandering through the air.I can see the river. I can see the flow of time. There is one seated beside me. At times he speaks .. At times he refrains from speaking.Some know him as the wayward son of a king, a ruler rich in the temperate lands to the north. He reclines upon the red, sandstone paving lining the quayside. And he studies the grand parade. Listen to the tambourines. Hear the tiny chirping of the finger cymbals. Oh how perfectly measured are the rhythmic chants. How precise the steps of the dancers. There must be dozens of professional mourners. Such incense! What colors! Look! Look! Look! I have captured a silken handkerchief swimming through the breeze! A gift to keep. A souvenir of this special moment. Who is it? Who sets off for The Bardo? Who will stand before the divinities ? Who will learn his fate? A powerful nawab, a leader of armies. One beloved of Krishna. That is what they are saying. But the One seated beside me says other things. The one some call Siddhartha speaks different words. Who sets off on the eternal voyage? Is it truly a prince? No, says my neighbor. It is each of us. Death is but a rest-stop, a chance to void the bowels before setting off once more upon the river of enlightenment. But Teacher...Great Teacher... what fate befalls those who miss the boat? What fate befalls those who tarry in the land of death? What fate befalls those who do not venture on? And he said --- They fail to complete themselves. Their spiritual boils contimue to fester. And the rancid poisons of their misdeeds grow until they drown in a cesspool of human corruption...... I watched them complete the elaborate funerary rites for the rich one from the north. And I took three coppers from my alms bowl and passed them on to one who had even less than I. Such is a memory of this Disembodied Spirit, who now wants to tell you about more contemporary things...... The Shaky Hand Man is positively giddy with distruction. He has used his little girl. He has used Annie and her animals to kill many random, unfortunate humans. The hounds are fat. They doze in the shadows. The rats are sleek and warm. They all grow lazy. But that is the way. Their hunger will return. And in those odd,misplaced forests that hide between the Gotham and Quaker metropolises, along the trails through the lonesome pines, interested parties begin to gather. Preparations are made for a powerful rite. The world is being readied for 'a throwing of the bones.'

The Book of Sarah

It is I, Tomas. There will always be evil---- That is what he communicated. That is what the Red Paint gentleman 'said.' I heard him in my mind. No, deeper than my mind. I heard him in my soul. And I learned other things as well. His people sailed to our shores in ships much like those of the Vikings, or the American Indians of the Pacific Northwest. Some mixed with native tribes and some did not. They stayed hidden. The woodland sprites of the New World, if you will. And they claim descent from an even older human line. Their stories detail an ancient lineage wrought from those who witnessed the Ice Age. Formed from a people as old as the moon. Fashioned from those whom 'others' term Neanderthals. Yet the resemblance is tenuous at best. If you saw them pricing sneakers in Target you would never suspect a thing.  And if their brow ridges are now more refined and their chins a bit more pronounced, that is only normal. People change. Evolution. Get with the program. But somethings do not change. Certain abilities resist transformation. And that can be a good thing. For there are talents which when lost, can never be reborn. And the Red Paint People never lost the 'thought magic.' They never lost the ability to communicate without words. Not like we do. Not even like the cherubs. These individuals converse in a rich and nuanced manner. And they share other remarkable powers as well. The gentleman predicts the coming of a big show down. Is it an apocalypse? --- I ask. He shrugs. He does not know that term. He does not trouble himself with such things. I ask ----- Is it the end of the world? He smiles and we know what  he knows. We know that the world will endure for a baby eternity. We know it is foolish to ask such questions. He knows that there will be a confrontation. On one side stand the forces of good. And on the other side, the forces of evil. It has happened before. And it will happen again. But it will happen soon... on the streets of Philadelphia..... on the streets of The City of Brotherly Love. Then he falls back, or rather his mind does. He closes his eyes. Edith and I sit there for a few moments. And then the woman comes in, the one who looks like world-famous-skier, Peekaboo Street, only thinner. She drapes an intricately woven blanket over the gentleman's body. Then she gestures for us to follow her to the door. We do. The portal silently swings open. We hear the slow, final song of late autumn crickets. She asks if we have learned anything. We nod. She tells us she is sure we will be invited back. We shake hands. She slips each of us a tiny, wrapped tid-bit. We descend the steps and retreat back into the woods. She turns and goes back inside. The heavy door closes. We open our palms to examine our gifts. Edith has a small, wax paper wrapped Tootsie Roll and so do I. I laugh and say --- You want mine? I'm kind of allergic. She smiles and takes it. On the way back 'home' I say prayers for Bob. And maybe some prayers for the rest of us too. God knows what is coming.

The Book of Sarah

We met, or should I say encountered one of the Red Paint People. It was a man, the one who resembles Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprize. He resides in a small, stone cottage deep in the woods. Hans Christian Anderson could not conjure up a more fitting site. Edith took me. Sarah was not invited. Maybe next time, but not now. Two huge black newfoundland hounds stand guard on either side of the heavy, oaken door. They possess the bluest eyes. I do not know iif that is natural to the breed or not. We stepped up onto the porch. They dogs examined us carefully. Screeners at an airport could not have done a better job. Edith pushed open the massive door. We entered. A welcoming orange blaze crackled in the large, river stone fireplace.The furnishings were storybook-cozy, in a turn of the twentieth century, country-English fashion. But the wood finishes seemed a bit heavier, rougher and more massive. The 'Man' sat in a throne-like winged chair. Edith and I took our places upon an old settee. No one spoke. But We could sense his mind. And we began to communicate.Now I cannot share much withyou today. My familiar, my wilkravitz is unable to devote much time to this task. I hope you understand. Please go to the vampirewonderland discussion at  the Billy Kravitz hasgtag site. Google it... It's all there...... Have a joyous day of thanks and a happy start to the holiday season.

The Book of Sarah

More from wilkravitz among the elves and cherubs...... They did not actually teach me how to levitate. They levitated me. I was like a big old beach ball and they sent me slowly sailing back and forth. I think they were playing ping pong with me. It was as if every tiny, point in the universe was a little hand softly cradling my body  and carefully supporting my weight. Like a giant, Swedish Temper Foam mattress. Like bubbles floating up from the mermaid's chest at the bottom of a fish tank. Like three dimensional figure skating but without all the sequins and tight, binding spandex. All in all, a very memorable experience. Albion slips out to get me food, but I don't think he has much experience providing for actual living humans. Yesterday it was two bags of Cheetos, a pint of Maalox, a container of liverwurst, one gallon of milk and a seven month old box of matzoh. And it ain't even Passover. Figures. Where does that boy do his shopping? Ooh, that reminds me. I have to tell him to get some toilet paper next time he goes out. You should see. The very idea of toilet paper, not to mention the bodily function it's used for, completely baffles them. They hover outside the door to the scuzzy bathroom like frantic puppies. I don't have any privacy at all. And then, after I vacate the premises, they swoop in to investigate. God only knows what it does for them. Personally, I think they use it like cat-nip. Everything about living humans intrigues them. Marianne, the eldest elf girl, likes to sqeeze through crowded subway cars inhaling the five p.m. putrid exhalations of tired office workers. You know how dogs sniff butts? Well, then you know what I mean. But at least I'm safe from Annie in here. And they do bring me little gifts. Last night one of them brought me a single, solid gold, lady's earring. The night before that it was a moldering human finger with a platinum wedding band. Hey, look, it's the thought that counts.

The Book of Sarah

My skin itches. It's me, wilkravitz. I'm here with the elves and cherubs. The little ones, the cherubs flit all around me taking sharp, tiny blood kisses with their pointy tongues. Just a bit. Just an almost microscopic drop. I think that's how they communicate. But I'm actually breaking out in hives from it.They're nice, little babies and I don't want to upset them, but I need some relief. This place used to be an old storage building or garage. There's a dried up, filthy restroom in the back. I found an old bottle of calamine lotion in the rusty medicine cabinet. But it's so out of date (Oct/99) that I'm afraid to use it. Oh God, I hope this goes away. They have a real nice flat screen TV here, but all it seems to run is a continuous loop of Mary Martin in Peter Pan. I think the 'There is a Land Where Dreams Are Born' song is kind of a national anthem around here. Albion and the older ones, the elves, are all right. At least they talk more. But it's still like being locked up with a middle school cast of Pippin or something. Oh, and they pick up things. So I'm pretty sure something big is going on with the others, the ones in the Pines. And they told me what I did with my old car keys. But if it wasn't for the extensive collection of legos they have here, I would go completely crazy. Right now I'm half way through a detailed, lego rendering of Hearst Castle in San Simeon, California. So I can't talk anymore. Shhh, don't bother me. I'm looking for a few of the skinny, little red ones. Hey, how are you getting this, 'cause I don't have any keyboard? Gee this is all new to me. I mean I'm used to being a channel for the others, but this is real MAGIC! Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Two of the girl elves are asking me if I want to learn how to levitate.... Hell yeah, I want to learn how to friggin levitate. Wouldn't you. Look, I'll talk to you later. I think they're telling me I have to take my shoes off.

The Book of Sarah

I can see you, but you can't see me. It is I, the disembodied spirit. I don't mean to play with you, but I can see you, all of you. So tell that bartender in Singapore to take his hand out of the till. And that sixth grade hotsie-totsie better keep her eyes on her own paper, 'cause Missus Buttwasher is closin' in for the kill. That's the hotsie-totsie in Aukland I'm talking about. There's a wild party full of drunk, barfing seventeen year olds in Flosmoor, Illinois and no, that vomit stain on the new, Henerdon couch will not come out. So some soon to be busted, little mister big stuff is gonna have to do without his new k'nect, or whatever the hell they call it this year. Look, I am just trying to put off the inevitable. I do not enjoy being the bearer of bad news. But the Jersey Klan got Bob. Oh, come on, you knew it was Bob. What? Did you think it was gonna be Baylah? She already told you she would not be the first one down. And you better get in the habit of believing what she says, because Baylah don't play like that. But Bob is gone. And it was not pretty. The Jersey Klan saw that posting on the web, the one that shows him launching Barbra's sloppy, old head up into the air, just like it was a bottle rocket. You remember Barbra, Bob's eighty something year old Big-Mama-Nazi wife? Well she had some runnin' buddies over the bridge in Jersey and some of them, the old ones, the great grand daddies of the current bunch of head bangers, recognised Bob from way back when. They downloaded the picture and sent it out to all their fellow travelers. Now he would have been safe if he'd listened to Edith and the other Pineys. They told him to stay inside. But he was restless. That's how Bob gets. He just can't spend the night tucked inside with all the others watching Jimmy Kimmel and eating potato chips (everybody but the vampires that is). No, he has to go roaming around out in the woods. True, he didn't have to worry too much about the rattlers, or the bob-cats, or the bone crunching snappy turtles, or the occasional black bear, or even the half dozen or so fully grown Jersey Devils they got gyrating around in these parts. But he never banked on stumbling into a pack of shit-faced Jersey Klansmen doing their best to maintain an investment in a brand new, shiny copper, state of the art still. Bob didn't know. He thought he'd discovered a passel of South Philly wise guys planting some of the competition. But them Klan guys got fast reflexes. One of them had a copy of that web picture stuffed in his back pocket. He sees Bob. He pulls it out, eyeballs it and starts yelling - It's him! It's him! It's that no good puzzlingly young race trader what killed 'Mother' Barbra!! Well, they grab brands from the fire and give chase. Now you know Bob gets rattled real easy. And you know he ain't got much brains for a supposedly, immortal, omnipotent, supernatural guy and all. So he does what he did back in Rittenhouse Square Park when Annie and the hounds was after him. He shimmies up a tree. A dry tree. An autumn tree. A November tree. Do I have to tell you the rest? Them J.K.M.'s (Jersey Klansmen) use their flaming brands to set fire to that tree. And a couple of the new guys go running back to their truck for a big, old container of high octane gasoline. Yes siree, high octane, only the good stuff for our Bob. So they lobbed the volitile fluid right into that over-sized burning bush and whoosh!!! We got a human (or formerly human) sacrifice going on right here in Burlington County! They was whooping and jumping like a regular bunch of wild Indians, gettin' all sweaty and poppy-eyed and spittin' and dancin. And you know it is dangerous to get so over heated out in the deep woods on a cold November night. Those boys could have caught pnemonia. As it was, one of them smashed a foot right into the den of a fixin' to hibernate rattler and got hisself bit real bad. And Bob tried to run down that tree and sublimate through the flames. But the only thing is some of his atoms got mixed up with some of the  aerasol (did I spell it right?) fire-oil atoms that were bouncing around in the air, so when he commenced to solidifying poor Bob found out that he was sorta made of fire. Looked a little bit like Flame from the comic books. Oh, you could smell him burning. And you could hear him shrieking and hollerin' and all. I guess one of the worst parts was when his eyeballs exploded. But seeing as I ain't got no physical body, I can't rightly tell which part smarts the most. Damn, I like this country livin'. I think it kinda suits me. Think I'm gonna look up the ghost of Hank Williams and Patsy Cline and have a hoe-down or something. The other vampires heard the noise. They ran out and saw it all from a little ways off. It's sad. It's not like they truly liked Bob, but they felt the loss. And for the last forty, fifty years or so he was doing his best to make up for past transgressions. But now he is gone to the Great Beyond. And the way I hear it, he is trying his darndest to set things right with them little toddlers (and their teacher-wimmen) he originally exploded all those years ago.

The Book of Sarah

Sorry, we cannot communicate with you this night. One of our number was destroyed. Still in the Pines. wilkravitz is with the elves and cherubs in their place in the park. Please...Please... We have to stop

The Book of Sarah

Hello? Hello? Can you see me? Can you hear me? It's Edith. I'm the one they call the Pow Wow Woman. Shit, you'd think after two months of living together and being in each others business they'd refer to me by my name a little more often. I know they do sometimes, but between you and me, I'm Edith. Call me Edith. Enough with that Pow Wow crap. It's stupid. It don't make no sense. It's like if I was talking about the Pope and I said - The Big Chief Catholic Boss instead. OK? Are we good? You got it? But, hey, who the hell is typing this? I ain't got no God damned computer. I ain't even got a good toaster-over, so it sure as hell can't be me. But yet I am positive somebody is tapping it all out. It's like some disembodied spirit is letting its fingers (if it has fingers) dance over a giant, universal keyboard and tattooing this story right onto the actual skin of your brains. But we're all here now. We're all deep, deep into the Pines. Regular folks would hardly think there'd be places like this stuck down between all that Philadelphia and New York nonsense. But we been here as long as they have. And some of them as lives in the Pines have been planted out here a lot longer. I'm teaching the 'blood folks,' the vampires all about them. I'm learnin' them about The Red Paint People. That's what all them scientific egg heads call 'em. Listen how I talk when I get back home, as if I ain't knowed the difference. Well, I know the difference. But this way's more comfortable on my mouth. And if you want to know the truth, for my brain too. Who are The Red Paint People? Just people. Just old people. Not them. I am speaking about their culture. How old is it? Real old. From back before all them 'henges.' You know, Stonehenge, artificial brick henge, asbestos siding henge... all of 'em. It's older than the Barrow Builders. For folks who ain't got no old culture smarts, them was folks who piled up humongous hills of dirt, like mud pies for the biggest Godzillas you ever saw. And they burried all their boss-men in 'em. Some say they are the great grandfathers of the henge builders. But The Red Paint folks are older than that.. Some say they go back more than seven thousand years, because they've been dancin' around over here for at least that long. And they did not trek over from Siberia, you know, near Sarah Palin's house? They cruised over from Europe, but this was way before Rick Steves discovered it and it got all fancified. A group of science guys found a few specks of dried up ocher colored paint on some of the trash in their old garbage dumps. That's how they got the name. Funny thing is they don't hardly care what a bunch of fast talkin' folks with too much school stickin' to 'em calls 'em. You wanna know what they look like? What do you think!? Like God damned teletubbies, you ass holes! No they don't. I'm sorry. I realize you do not know too much about our ways and we are not Red Paint folks. We just happen to live right by 'em. One of 'em I'm a little bit friendly with seems  to favor Captain Jean-Luc Picard, you know, of the starship Enterprize? And his lady friend sorta looks like a skinnier Peek-a-boo Street, that  world famous Olympic skier woman? Just gimme a little time. You'll meet 'em.

The Boob of Sarah

Where is everybody? I'm talking now. It's me, wilkravitz. I've been sitting in this Starbucks for two hours waiting for him, Tomas, to take over, but nothing. I feel empty. I feel none of them.  But I'm afraid to go outside. There's a little girl pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. I think it's Annie. She seems nervous. It's funny how nobody pays her any mind. She's about six years old for Christ's sake. Doesn't anyone think it's strange for a tiny, little thing to be parading around this late? But I know different. I know how strong she is, or rather how strong her controller is. I can't afford to lose any toes. I'm not that good a dancer as it is. I don't want to wind up like that nurse. And to be truthful, the idea of being torn to shreds  by frenzied, hell hounds doesn't do much for me either. Maybe she's clouding the perception of people on the street. Maybe that's why no one sees her. But she sees me. Oh God, oh God, please help me. Please get me out of this....... STOP, STOP, STOP, I can't let him suffer like this. It is I, the disembodied spirit. Let that wilkravitz fellow take his fingers off the keyboard. Let him see the allies I have sent him. Look, he does...he does see them. The other humans chattering away over their hot water and bean bullion see nothing. Good, that is how I want it. A little toddler crawls out from behind the counter. I must say that adorable, warm, layered outfit suits him. Sarah has good taste. The chubby, little fellow gurgles with delight. He chugs over to wilkravitz,, who stares tranfixed. Then the smiling, rosy checked cherub (for that is what he is) levitates up from the floor. He stops when he reaches eye level. He stretches out his sweet, little baby hand and caresses wilkravitz' cheek. Our 'typist' gets up and follows the tiny 'angel' as he floats toward a rear exit. They leave the aromatic coffee den and proceed along a narrow alley meant for deliveries, as well as the nocturnal wanderings of selfsufficent cats. Pay attention. Can you see them? There, in the shadows. It's Albion, the 'elf prince,' and his equally comely tootsie, what's her name. The miraculous children surround wilkravitz. Each elf takes an arm, as they rise up into the darkness and spirit him to safety. No one notices. It must be wonderful to be an enchanted, pre-pubescent vampire. It must be wonderful to possess a physical body. I envy them the sensations. Some day I will explore that reality. Annie sees them ascend into the void. She (or her master) is angry. She screams, clenches her fists and stamps her feet.... a real six year old's tantrum. She lashes out, tearing an expensive, stylish weave or extension or whatever the fashionistas call it out by the tight, artificial roots. Her innocent,  twenty-something victim screams.. She hauls back and bitch slaps Annie right across her face.  But you have to know better than to mess with a devil child, because Annie instantly grabs her by the wrist and bites off a couple fingers, rings and all. Serves her right. Look at her bawling and crying. What's she complaing for? She's got eight others. Besides that God damned wig thing didn't do much for her anyway. Look, I'm going over to Jersey. I gotta see what that 'throwing of the bones' thing is...

The Book of Sarah

Everything has been arranged. We will go into the pines. Familiars will take care of our house, our assets and anything else here. Baylah is still a bit skeptical. But she is willing to cooperate. The Pow Wow Woman went on ahead. She's driving an SUV loaded with our things. It's amazing how much pointless junk supposedly miraculous creatures like us 'need' to survive. Tomas tells tales about rustic, Nobel hermits who hid in a different shadow every morning and clothed themselves in rags, veritable John the Baptists of the vampire world, or Elijahs. He claims that some of the 'crazies' ranting away on nighttime urban corners in cities throughout the globe are souls such as these.... Itinerent travelers out to save the world. I asked him, if this is so, why those God intoxicated souls never managed to cull many of the truly wicked characters, dictators and satanic killers plaguing humanity. He reminded me, for we speak of this often, that the most evil among us explore the occult and recognize the element of magic in our world.  True they tend to follow it down poisoned tributaries. But they learn useful secrets none the less. Most of the high ranking members of Germany's government during the nineteen thirties and early forties were quite adept in the black arts. Lord Voldemort??? Do not make me laugh. There were hundreds of thousands like him back then. In many nations. In many groups. That is why the world needs us. We do our best to cull those within our reach. What about Bob? He refuses to go with us. It's like a fate thing with him. He wants to stay here and wander the starlit streets  alone. If misfortune finds him, it must have been ordained. That's what he says. That's how he feels. Like a fatalist monk administering to the countless sufferers left dying on cold cathedral floors during the worst of The Plaugue. Well, the rest of us do not agree. If remedies are offered we will take them. For it is also said that God helps those who help themselves. Oh, and that nurse who woke only to find that she'd apparently misplaced all of her toes?  She died. Sepsis set in and the high priced posturing shamans working above her could do nothing.... Nothing but accept their extortionist fees. Some were sincere. Some tried. But not enough. Now Baylah remembers much about the arcane sciences from her time spent in Old World African courts back before her transformation. And the crazy, French bitch that brought her over knew a lot too. But she still doesn't have much faith. The throwing of the bones? What could it achieve? If truly as powerful as Edith claims, why are so many Piney's (by no means all, but many) still crowding 'round poverty's edge? Inquiring minds would like to know. Perhaps soon we will. The three of us, Tomas, Baylah and myself intend to travel via sublimation. It can be done. As you know, we have been practicing. And we can zip through woodlands in the park very easily. Look out for us if you happen to be traveling along some of the lesser routes through the South Jersey  and Central Jersey forests. Attend to that fleeting bit of night mist passing stage right. It may just be 'friends' winding through the night.

The Book of Sarah

Morticia saw Annie. She was sleeping on one of those cushy reclining chairs they have in some of the better pedicure salons. You know the type. They look like those over-sized gray leather seats the airlines have in first class. No one paid her any attention. The Vietnamese girls staffing the place went about their business as if she wasn't there. But she looked OK (according to Morticia). Her hair was combed. Her clothes were neat. A warm looking little girl's coat hung from a nearby hook with all the necessary coordinated accessories. She called me and told me about it. I was 'sleeping.' Tomas and I had a new flower petal lined subbasement pit installed in our new townhouse. It's exactly like the first one and extremely comfortable. HGTV should do a special --- the top ten vampire cryps in North America. Ours would be one of them. But I told Morticia to be careful. Don't interfere. Just observe things. There was no sign of the Shaky Hand Man. I know he's basically a spirit. But he has materialized before. I don't know. Maybe he hasn't. It could be that we (and the Pow Wow Woman) are just able to sense him. There was another strange occurence last night. Not a killing. But troubling never the less. A young nurse specializing in obstetrics and abortions woke up from her nap in the break room  at U of P 
Hospital only to discover that someone had removed her shoes and stockings. But that wasn't all. They had also bitten off her toes. The complete set, all ten, gone. And before she could scream, she saw a little girl  standing at the foot of the cot with blood smeared all over her mouth. By the time help arrived (you know how hard it is to grab one of those dedicated, altruistic doctors) the little girl had disappeared. It was on the news. The hospital refused to answer any questions. Some journalists thought it was a hoax. But we knew better, because Nursie No-Toes gave a description of her macabre visitor. She described Annie. Why did it happen? Who knows? But the Annie that Morticia saw was all clean. No blood around her mouth. No toe gristle between her teeth. And she was laying there sleeping just like a little angel. Did the Enemy make her do it? Was it her own idea? Was is a cry for help? The Shaky Hand Man can't possibly want that kind of attention. He does like to achieve his goals, but in a discreet and dignified manner. Anyway, Morticia and her two assistant Morticias are keeping an eye on things. We've all been practicing our sublimation in preparation for our retreat into the pines. Everyone is curious. We all want to know what takes place at a throwing of the bones. But Edith, the Pow Wow Woman, won't say. She just grins and grins and laughs. Baylah says being a vampire makes no difference at all. Those back-woods white folks scare the beJesus out of her. And considering her life style, she ain't exactly sure how much beJesus she can affort to lose. Tomas is concerned too. He's starting to feel guilty about the heathenness  of it all. He chants the Hebrew Tenents of the Creed, The Articles of Belief,  over and over and over. Every line begins - I believe with a most perfect faith.... And Bob just sits there rocking back and forth with his hands pressed over his ears. I'm telling you, if gushy young girls knew how vampires really lived they'd foget about all that 'romance' nonsense and go back to being fashion designers, nuns and princesses like The Good Lord intended.

The Book of Sarah

Sarah reminded me that Annie was not born in Philadelphia. She was born in California. That's where the Shaky Hand Man incarnated. So why was it so important for him to come here? Were there not enough appetizing targets out there? I find that hard to believe. I am aware of what goes on. I see TMZ. I watch Entourage. What is it about our city that brought him here? The Pow Wow Woman says he's probably here to prevent a birth. He needs to get to us, among his other targets, because we're doing something to bring that birth about. So I am thinking... who are we helping? Who has been receiving the little blood kisses? Who drinks the 'elixir' filled vials? We each have our favorites. Am I assisting the woman who is to bear this child? The father who will provide for it? Some other interested party? And is it one of my clients? Maybe it is someone connected to Baylah, or Sarah, or Bob? It is a mystery. We must think. We must talk. What is it that the enemy desires? He hates progress. He hates progress of all kinds. He has targeted activists in the past, usually those who would be termed liberal or progressive and even those conservatives who believe in an equitable leveling of the playing field. I will think of it. I will find it. What would change if we were not here? Would he still devour (not him actually, but the dogs, or occasionally the rats) the random strumpet. I don't know. I do not think his heart is really in that. No, we are the meat upon his platter. The others are merely the potatoes or perhaps  those insipid little garnishes they drop onto the rims of over-sized plates in jumped-up, sit-down, fast-food restaurants. I know they killed a lot of vampires during the renaissance. The enemy tried everything back then to stop the reawakening. Nobel vampires were included in all the best after dark autos da fe. The flames showed up so much better then. And the anguished shrieks  seemed  to echo better in the still, night air. Imagine a twelve year old girl condemned to the stake. Me? Well, I do not have to imagine it. I witnessed it. And when I went after the greasy, hate-ridden, superstitious minded simpletons who implicated her I did so with relish. It was one of the few times I culled those not sent to me in visions. And I liked it. I enjoyed it. Their screams were as music. Their tortured cries a lark-song. Little cuts. Tiny bites. Trickles of acid. Nibbling rats. Hungry lepers. Rabid cats. The 'dance' went on throughout the night. And by the morn the wrong was right. And best of all, I did not have to do the clean up. My familiars took care of that.... I am not proud of such transgresions. But what is it they say? Everyone falls off the waggon now and then. Anyone can suffer a crisis of faith. ..... The Pow Wow Woman wants us all to quit the city for a time and retreat with her back to the deepest part of the dense, pine forests. She wants us to take part in a 'throwing of the bones,' a most potent Piney tool that reveals the future in all its countless, onion skin layers. I don't know. I think that we should go. A crisis of faith is one thing. But this is major unrepentent paganism...... Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

The Book of Sarah

This is our plan. We all agree. We must kill Annie. No one likes it. But it has to be done. At least it will give us some breathing time. And who can say that our enemy will reappear in a human vessel in Philadelphia? He may reincarnate through some poor soul in Jakarta, or Lisbon or on some other world altogether. I'm sure the prey we provide here is not unique. We are not so special. There must be bigger fish to fry. Yet we are charged with frying a little fish, a six year old girl with stringy hair and painfully skinny legs. I have never killed or taken part in the killing of a child. And believe me, the brutal conditions in medieval, supposedly 'God fearing' Europe produced countless numbers of murderous, feral ragamuffins. But I never harmed them. They could not help it. Such was their culture. Father forgive them. They know not what they do. There are many occasions for that prayer, especially in our own time. So who will do the deed? I think it will be Bob. It is strange. I now know that his true name is Lyle, but I cannot call him that, any more than the others can call me Jonathan. I guess we are just creatures of habit and so I am Tomas. Sarah has purchased the most cunning of gifts for the cherubs (and for the elves too). They zip through the air decked out like carriage trade yuppie babies with superpowers. But according to those yuppie braggarts, all their babies have superpowers. Yet I am partial to our own. Yes, our own. We have come to view them as our children. They are orphans with none to protect them. We are men and woman with none to protect. The connection is completely understandable and quite natural to all parties concerned. For the time being we've set them up in an abandoned storage building deep in the forests of Fairmount Park. Sarah, Baylah and their other mothers both magical and human  have transformed the space into a veritable vampire wonderland. But for juvenile vampires, little vampires, not for such as we. They have bright, upholstered chests (their beds) fit for a legion of teletubbies. Warm, thick, comfy carpets grace the cold, slick concrete floor. And viniettes of the finest in nursery furnishings find their places amidst the storybook splendor. The whole is liberally peppered with enough toys and games to satisfy the wants and desires of even the most spoiled mortal spawn. The cost? Do not worry. Our coffers are deep. True we only feed but once a month.And just how far will a purloined Rolex or wallet filled with hundreds go. But remember, we also share our blood with the worthy. We preserve the lives of those souls meant to live. Not all of them are poor. Some are quite rich. Money is not necessarily a bar to goodness. And very often one of our wealthy recipients graciously provides us with a portion of their earthy treasure. Well, I don't mind telling you that I am very easy to shop for. Treasure always works for me. And for the others too I might  add. It's not as if we keep it all for ourselves. Many are those who have benefited from our largesse. And hopefully, if we are able to foil our Enemy and survive we will be able to help many, many more.

The Book of Sarah

Baylah's place closes at two in the morning, so it's just us now. We're holding our meeting here. A few drunks see the light leaking out from between the window curtains and try to come in. But Edith, the Pow Wow Woman cracks open the door and slips them one of those little airline bottles. Then she sends them on their way. She's a good person. I'm pretty sure I have eleven or twelve thousand dollars in my purse and if I'm right a six carat, square cut emerald that looks pretty nice. I must remember to give it all to her before we leave. Oh, and Morticia too. She and her friends are real sweethearts. You should see how she blew out my hair. Just like what's her name from the CMA awards. I'm afraid to go to the hairdresser's. They touch you and get all intimate and all and tell you about their no-good, dead beat, baby daddy and they stink from cigarettes. Plus, a lot of them belive in all this magic crap. They think they're witches. I don't know, maybe a few of them are. That's what scares me. I don't like a bunch of living people all up inside my business. They might 'type' me and I can't deal with that. I am nervous enough as it is. Why am I talking this way? Sarah never talks this way? Well Tomas and I got here early. We've been sitting at a little table back in the corner for about three hours. Tonight was jazz night. And you know how it is. That kind of music just gets to you. But now it's just us, the vampires and Edith. Some of the elves are hear too, Albion and two of his girlfriends. Morticia and two of her BFF's. They look more 'living dead' than we do. Oh, and there's an adoreable little cherub flitting about with a dust rag cleaning up around all the ceiling light fixtures. Chubby little thing. I'm going to buy them some nice, little outfits at BabyGap, the cherubs I mean. I don't care how immune they are to the cold. Winter time is winter time. And a mostly naked little baby buzzing along over the El tracks just don't look right. Annie is apparently active again. The killings have started. A crazy hooker and an intern hooker up on Spring Garden Street. Two Gypsy fortune tellers on North Ninth Street. I suppose their powers of precognition were not what they were meant to be. Bob isn't here. He thinks he's going to be next. But Baylah tells him considering his past, they (our enemy) probably don't want to kill him. They want to recruit him. This makes him even worse. So he does what he always does when he's nervous. He runs to the casino. Tomas gave him twentyfive thousand in cash. And now he's in Atlantic City blowing it all in the high-roller video poker parlor at The Borgata. Bob can never remember what he does with his own stash. One time, last March, some cleaning woman at the cosmetic surgery center of Jefferson Hospital  found threehundred and twelve thousand dollars under the bed of a sixtyfour year old sun damaged bitch in for an ass lift. She told her family a leprechan gave it to her. Don't ask how it got there. But let's just say that the wrinkled hag's doctor, or the surviving partner, I should say, is doing a lot more charitable pro bono work these days. Sometimes when he wants to be, Bob can be all right. I'll let you know what we decide to do. But I have to switch my seat. My little cherub boyfriend is letting the dust fall right onto my new hairdo. Ooooh! Look at his little face. See? He knows he did wrong. How could anybody stay mad at a huggable little bundle like that?

The Book of Sarah

I am quite aware that Baylah wants to share more of her melodramatic life. But what  do I care? I am the disembodied spirit, the universal narrator. I break in whenever I want to and  the hell with everyone else. If they don't appreciate my commentary and clarification then take this show to video. But no, I stand corrected. For even those supposedly desperate house fraus make with a lot of voice-overs. So get used to it. I'm no different than that voice at the supermarket that tells you when  tomatoes are on sale or they need some part-time kid to mop up toddler piss on aisle six. You get it?.... Good, because little do you know what I'm whispering in other people's ears about you!......Now, back to the real world. Annie still languishes in her mummy closet prison. She's developed a lot of strength in her wrists from unscrewing all those Snapple bottles. See? Even something as tragic as this has a bright side. And due to the contimuous stream of quiet, mumbled conversations between she and the dessicated Egyptians, her knowledge of ancient Coptic has increased exponentially. She even calls one of the grotesque corpses 'mom-mom.' But look, someone is fiddling with the lock. Someone is trying to open the door. Annie garps. She puts down her tough as shoe leather dollar menu burger and waits. Even the mummies stop their barely audible jibber jabber. The door finally opens. It's the Shaky Hand Man. He gestures with his palsied mitt and says - Come. Annie slowly uncurls her cramped, stiff body and struggles to stand up. Oh, jeez! She bumped the slop bucket. Look at her little legs. I can't take it anymore. She steadies herself and exits this chamber of horrors. Her former 'roomies' whisper heartfelt good-byes and best wishes. The ancient Kemeti (true name for ancient Egyptians) had such fine manners. She looks up into the face of her puppet master. It is hard to see the details in a dark and shadowy basement passage. But she knows what he's like. She's seen him before. He rests his hand on the back of her frail and vulnerable neck and guides her along.  She asks - Are we going out? He answers - Yes. They progress through the low, weak somber illumination of a museum at rest, weaving their way through the pagan treasures and gruesome idols of long gone (we hope) murderous dieties. As they come to the large and formal entrance hall, the heavy bronze portals leading out to freedom slowly open. They step out into the cold, nighttime air. She takes a clean,pure breath and exhales a nimbus of warm, moist vapor. They descend  the granite steps and proceed along the deserted thoroughfare.  A huge black hound trots out of an alley and approaches, carrying  a warm coat clenched tightly in its iron jaws. Annie takes the coat. She says - Thank you. She puts it on. It feels good to be warm. She finds gloves and a scarf in the pockets. She puts them on too. And she and the hound and the puppet master continue on their way. But  if you were following them and watching this progression, your eyes would detect  only Annie and the hound for the puppet master is nowhere to be seen.

The Book of Sarah

This is Baylah talking. I don't think I've spoken to you directly that much. But tonight I feel chatty. And there are things I am compelled to say. First of all, I want you to know who I am. I want you to know me as a discreet personality and not merely 'the black girl in the cast.' This isn't a Star Trek movie or episode. I won't be the first one killed, not if I can help it. Sometimes I just keep my mouth shut because I'm thinking. I am studying the situation. No need to be haisty. I learned that during my time as a slave. It was only for a few years. But memories like that tend to stick with a girl. My father was a prince. Some say he was a king, but no, my grandfather, the high-king, the asantehene was still living. And as my father's mother was not most-favored-queen, I do not think he would ever have received the sacred vessels. But I enjoyed a charmed existence never-the-less. Our smooth, cool stucco palace had many courtyards. We drew our water (actually, our slaves did) from the most god-blessed of the wells. Our garments were made of the richest Ming Dynasty silks brought overland from the Somali coast, not to mention our own much coveted kente cloth. Gold was as silver to us. And silver was as brass. What did we lack? Nothing. Kumasi, our capital, was world famous for its vast marketplace. Every type of possession from the basest clay pot to the finest human was readily available. Schlars from all points under The Great Carver's gaze made their way to our accademies where they studied our poetic, Akan tongue. Timbuctu? What was that dusty place, but the dry abode of arid minded people? Elizabethan London? I think not. Hampton Court holds little charm to a resident of The Palace of Thirty Perfumes. Maybe the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan could have given us a run for the money. But they knew nothing of us. And we knew nothing of them. Sultry dry season evenings spent on the royal barge upon The River Niger. Exquisite, intoxicating beverages rendered from the sweetest mangoes. My life was rich. But there was a spider in the bananas and she was one of my 'aunt' mothers, another royal wife burdened with a daughter much less accomplished and comely than I. Now my grandfather intended to marry me to a Tuareg prince, inorder to forge a dynastic union between our two peoples.  I was to be the link in the chain. But 'auntie'  dispaired of such a match. She was jealous and wanted her own plain as yam paste girl child to take my place in the tents of the dashing desert heir. So what was I, but another Joseph in yet another tale of hatred and betrayal? Coins changed hands. Promises wre made. Servants were subverted. And I was spirited away from my perfect home to be sold as a slave in the brutal markets of the Ivory Coast. It would have been a hard, punishing experience for any young girl. For a princess, it was absolute torture. Perhaps I will find it in me to whisper the details some other time. But for now, just know that I endured the 'middle passage,' only to emerge as the coseted pet of a spoilt French- Creole in Old New Orleans. And after a time I learned she was more than French... more than a Creole... and more than a human... Indeed, she made me into the creature I am today. Forgive me, but I must stop now. The patrons down in the piano bar are calling for me. They want me to join them in a song... Who can sing in times such as these?... I can... I have to. Come back tomorrow and I will tell you more.

The Book of Sarah

We are seated around a small coffee table in the front parlor of our new townhouse, Tomas, Albion and I. Yes, Albion. I know him now, at least officially I do. He was dressed as a lithe, young Christmas Elf. The outfit was quite adorable. Even 'Buddy' had none better. And he was smiling and capering about before a stout, old woman attempting to raise money for The Salvation Army. I think it was the music of her bell that initially attracted  him. But he does have a heart and so he stayed to help the woman achieve her task. Bundled pedestrians thought he was part of the show and after a bit that little red kettle was filled with one dollar bills, some larger denominations and a few leftover Halloween coupons for junior frosties at Wendy's. Tomas and I watched his inspired performance from a distance, sheltering in the entrance alcove of a massive high-rise. Tomas said - Look... The little one... He is one of us.You've seen them. You've seen the like before around the city, no? Now I did recall him mentioning them, the elves and cherubs I mean, from time to time, but I really did not know too much about them.Tomas said - Watch. He changed his stance, tilting his head just a bit. He cleared his throat. The elf-princling heard. He noticed and he looked up. Tomas took my arm. We walked forward. The woman with the bell paid us no mind, staying focused on her purpose. The pedestrians ? Well those Center City magnates were far too important to bother with the likes of us. Tomas was not wearing standard, accepted business attire and I was a little too free spirit sporty for them as well. You know the type, like Regis and Joy (both of whom I truly quite like) rushing off to nibble at some three hundred and fifty dollar dinner presented amidst the latest in sang froid elegance. Well screw them. We've nibbled on far more expensive fare. Fresher too. Anyway, the fine featured young one did notice us. He stopped his cavorting and came forward to meet us. We shook hands, a bit warily, but sincere just the same. I think I know you - said Tomas.. But before he could contimue the juvenile responded - Albion. I am Albion, sir. Yes, yes, I remember. And this is my dear consort, Sarah ......I nodded. Albion bowed deeply.. I offered my hand and he kissed it. I said - Please walk with us. Come, we are returning to a warm, cozy hearth. Join us. Savor a spiced candle. I'm sure we have a scent you would like..... And so we strolled back to the townhouse. Two stylish, young 'townies' and their yuletide attired  son. Perhaps he is in a play? ........ Perhaps we all are. And now we sit here talking, making plans, plotting intrigue and hopefully forging an alliance to see us through these trying times. What could this flesh and blood Peter Pan do for us? What weapons would he and his siblings bring to the battle? And is it truly fair of us to ask?

The Book of Sarah

Poor, little Annie. Her true, human psyche will need a lot of work. There, there, don't cry little girl. It will not help you. So don't even bother. Close your eyes and imagine happy things... if you can remember any. It is I, the will -o-the-wisp, the disembodied spirit. I feel for the tiny bundle of meat and bones.  That second rate puny spirit holding her hostage has her locked in a seldom used storage closet tucked away in a dark corridor down in the second basement of University Museum on thirty fourth street. Her only company a quartet of partially unwrapped, low status, dusty Egyptian mummies. And as we all know, some of those preserved, dead Egyptians can be very, very dull. The pathetic ragamuffin has managed to push them back a bit in order to carve out a beach head for herself. She sits curled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth in the darkness, as salty tears roll down her cheeks. Once every day or two the door opens and someone (I don't know who) throws in a sack of horrible, flat, dried up 'burgers' from some dollar menu. The mummies would make a better meal. There's also a case of Snapple juice drinks that gets replenished from time to time. At least that's made from the good stuff. Her toilet? A bucket. I haven't seen the like since  death trains ferried martyrs to the test  in the Europe of the nineteen thirties and forties. He's holding her. He's keeping her stored away. Oh, he will use her again. And she will be grateful for even that illusion of freedom. But for now she waits, chained to a rock just outside the entrance to the caverns of hell. Tomas and Sarah moved. They have a new place now, another tiny, secluded, jewel-box of a townhouse set up by one of his lawyer familiars. The lawyer's wife decorated it. She got a fat commission check too. Thinks it's for a 'dedicated' relocating pediatric surgeon from France. Since it was a rush job, everything had to be bought right off the floor. No special orders. So it looks a little like a high priced suite in some faux Federalist boutique hotel. But Tomas says he's willing  to put up with that, since he (and Sarah too, I guess) can always make things right in the future. Tomas culled a victim (some brutal pimp) behind one of the massive, gray stone towers supporting the Ben Franklin  Bridge. I'm telling you, the name and image of old Ben is all over this place. He's like Snow White in Disneyland. I guess that's what Donald Trump will be like for New York. Sarah has been running into some of the elves and cherubs. I think Albion has a thing for her. She doesn't know that much about them, but they seem to be drawn to her. I don't remember. Did Tomas ever take her to meet them or did he just talk about it? Perhaps I will search the asashic records. But right now I feel lazy. Maybe I'll drift into The Forrest Theatre and take in a performance of Jersey Boys, or slip under the security gates at the municipal prison (you know... where L'il Kim lived) and watch the dumb thugs in the holding pens knife each other. Either way, it should be quite a good show.

The Book of Sarah

I think my favorite late night talk show is Jimmy Fallon. I like the way they dress him. There must be a vampire on his staff somewhere. The whole production just has that look. It has that effortless sincere wit. That is how it is when we all sit and talk. Of course we have our concerns, our problems, but existence still goes on. Listen to me. It has not been that long and I'm already beginning to sound like a veteran. At least they named me right. Sarah is a good name for a vampire. It has a poetic pull to it. Much better than Debbie or Tina. I'm glad I don't have one of those names. Maybe we're growing complacent. There has not been any Shaky Hand Man business for a while. The streets appear to be safe again. I've become somewhat friendly with one of the goth girls. Her name is Morticia. Yes, Morticia. Her grandmother was a fan of The Addams' Family back in the nineteen sixties. And her mother spends too much money on Silvia Browne books. She says what she really wants to be is a background singer for Pink. That and a vampire. She tried to major in it at the community college back around her way. But they refered her to the student health center and recommended she consult a therapist. The therapist told her to become a registered nurse. At least she would get the opportunity to play around with blood. She doesn't know I'm a true life-eater. To her I'm just an astute, spiritual, worldly type and the fact that I treat her to coffee, sandwiches and hamburgers doesn't hurt either. She was cold. So I took her into H+M, or H+W, or some place like that and bought her some winter clothes (all black and gray of course). I think she really appreciated it. A few more 'genuine' vampire videos showed up on the internet. None of us were in them. Probably fakes made by some inventive film student. Bob is scared though. He's afraid to go out on the street, because the neo nazi types might try to do something. What could they do? - I tell him. You're a vampire. - I say. But he says they could always do something low tech like douse him in gasoline and light a match. If the fire 'takes' and burns strong enough, he may have a point. Still, you can't recognize him in that recording. His face is all distorted. He's so terribly angry it does not even look like him. I don't know. Maybe it's just his guilt. Not about killing Barbra. But about how he lived and what he did in the past. I like the gifts  Tomas brought me. I'm learning to appreciate quality. The Pow Wow Woman says that maybe we should think about leaving our refuge under the synagogue and find a real place again. She and Baylah are still going strong in their little nest over the piano bar. Bob sleeps all over the place, sometimes he goes back down to the mole people. They don't really care what he is or what he was, just so long as he keeps coming forth with the blood gifts. I do not understand it. Why do they want to live so long? Their lives are not so great. Yet who am I to judge? Some tortoise live to see onne hundred and fifty years. A whale was found with a two hundred year old bullet imbedded in its hide. Methuzalah lived nine hundred years. And that was back before the bronze age. Things couldn't have been so interesting back then. Morticia says she'll help us find Annie. She says it's the least she could do since I got her the winter clothes and all.Two of her friends are also willing to help. I don't know. How could she not spot me as a vampire? Maybe she does. Maybe she's just playing me. I can't get a good read on her. The Pow Wow Woman wants me to stay away from all those goth kids. She says they're crazy. Yeah... crazy. Then what are we? When I culled my last victim, I gouged one of his eyes out at the last minute. I suppose I just wanted him to suffer. Oooh! The fire-jugglers are out on Head House Square again. I simply adore them. Listen. Can you hear the drums? Forgive me as I dash outside to watch. Here, tip the waitress for me. Who knows? Tonight I may just join them in their dance.

The Boob of Sarah

I stroll along the boulevards eying the flocks of toy blood drinkers descending on this town. Look at them in their pathetic black nylon rags. They must be cold. But a coat would surely ruin the look and so they shiver. True vampires never shiver. A few of them did not shiver. But they were not  members of the tribe. Their stillness came from drugs. I bought some extremely flattering garments for myself. The black, leather trench coat is a good look for me. It's true. My favorite saleswoman said so. I also purchased a few items for Sarah, a finely styled handbag, some matching kid skin gloves. Such luxuries would be lost on Baylah. It is not that she fails to  favor such  goods. But she prefers an edgier shop on South Street and I do not go  there for I sense  the proprietor is a reincarnated vampire (now human) and she seems  to know things. Baylah says she just appears that way due to a case of full-body, alabaster, I cannot recall the term. Michael Jackson's disease I will call it.  But I avoid that enticing portal never-the-less. Who knows what she truly  is. There are stranger things than us. I thought I caught the scent of the Old Woman somewhere around Washington Square Park. But it may just have been a few errant molecules percolating up from the  corpses of Revolutionary War dead moldering away down below the carefully maintained sod. There was a homeless man, curled up and shivering upon a stream grate. I took off my Rolex (there are others), kneeled down and snapped it onto his dirty wrist. As I walked away, he said - Hey, asshole!  What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Where the hell can I fence this? Who the hell's gonna believe me?..... I went back and slipped him a few Benjamins. That seemed to rectify things. I am sure Doctor Franklin would approve. Oh! Do you know that Doctor Franklin  was actually much better looking than those horrid images we have of him today? His features were more finely drawn. His jawline firm and sharp. Larry David. Yes, that's it! Larry David! If  you watch that show you see old Ben as he truly was. Blame  it on the Old Philadelphia artists, a stiff-backed, totally anal sort. If George Washington thought he really looked like that, he'd have run out onto Market Street and thrown himself under the wheels of Wright's Omnibus. We all knew how vain he was. Sarah has a plan. She wants to deputize some of these Halloween costumed vampires. She wants to use them to help track down Annie during the day. Maybe they can discover where she sleeps? Maybe they can provide some information. Who knows? Look at the winter stars. You can't see too many of them in the city, only the brightest ones. I hear they discovered some rather complicated organic atomic configurations on one of the moons of Saturn, or was it Jupiter? Perhaps there's someone up there like me too? Hopefully I will still be here when they find out. Take care. Do not die. Humanity is on the cusp of greatness. I can feel it ... in my blood.

The Book of Sarah

I bought some nice things last night. The woman at Boyd's who measured me remarked about the coolness of my skin. I told her I did yoga, whatever that's supposed to mean. But she bought it. And I bought everything else. Oh, and Sarah got a luxurious triple ply cashmere scarf. I can't shop for Baylah there. She says it is not her style. She prefers this little place on South Street. And the last time I gave the Pow Wow Woman, the last time I gave Edith something special from this place, she just rolled her eyes and whistled. But she never wore it. She dresses like a rich bag lady. I could not help but notice all the ingenuine vampires on the streets. What possers! The last time I witnessed anything like that was during the Black Death when they used to ape the grim reaper. And there are obscure death cults in Hind that do something similar. I know I got looks from some of the toy night stalkers. But I don't know if it was because they suspected the truth or because they thought I resembled that actor on Entourage. Remember? I think I told you about him. I think I might have picked up the scent of the Old Woman  somewhere near Washington Square Park. But it could have been the lingering aroma from the thousands of moldering bones planted there after the American Revolution. I am not sure. There was a shivering homeless mass curled up on a steam grate. I took off my Rolex (I have others), kneeled down and snapped it onto his wrist. As I walked away he said - Hey, Asshole! How am I gonna be able to sell this?

The Book of Sarah

This is what I'm thinking. He lets her sleep during the day, the Shaky Hand Man I mean. That's when she has her own, independent dreams. That's when she sees her family. That's when she talks. So maybe he can't control her then, or maybe he goes off to do his own business. I'm not exactly sure. But I did research her family in California. Not what you'd label prime cut. She (Annie) has her own opinion. But what else would you expect a child in her position to say? Do you want to know how I did it? I  focused in on that disembodied spirit. It was easy. He (it, she?) was quite open to the whole thing. Well.... at first he did not want to talk to me, because he doesn't  like the cadence of my speech. He said that vampires are enchanted and poetic creatures who owe it to their public to express themselves in a more artistic manner. I told him I agree. But old habits die hard. He told me he could arrange for me to have a run-in with a truly fine diction coach practicing here in Philadelphia. I thanked him and told him I'd think about it. Honestly? I can work on that myself. All I have to do is watch a bit more Masterpiece Theatre. Really, I learn fast. In a few weeks I'll be a regular Helena Bonham Carter. I told Tomas, but he said that then he'd miss the Jill Clayburgh part of me. That's easy for him to say. He never loses his 'Antonio Banderas' thing. You should hear him do that Nasonex commercial. What? Oh, yes, my plan. This is it. We follow Annie and abduct her when she's spiritually 'alone.'  It'll be rough, since that only tends to happen during the day. And you know how the brightness tends to make our skin break out. But the Pow Wow Woman could do it. I'm sure she could handle it. In some ways she is more adept than we are. And Tomas does still have a few familiars. One or two of them could help. Then maybe we could do something. What if we knew what hotel she'd be sleeping in? We could come up through the underground parking garage, ride the elevator to her floor, send somebody into the room to make sure the drapes were all closed. You know they have 'blackout' draperies in all the holtels? Take her back down to the car. Maybe give her a few drops of our blood (a little from each) to drug her just a bit. Sit in the car playing Old maid and Go Fish til it got dark (I'd bring snacks and drinks from the WaWa)  and then drive her back 'home' and we'd have her. The blood would give her a little immunity to her former captor. I'm sure it would. We could wean her away from him. The disembodied spirit is always mumbling something about the elves and cherubs. I don't know that much about them, but maybe they would be willing to help since Annie  is just a little child and all? I can't picture her being reunited with her tribe out in California. After two  months on the covers of the tabloids plus a sit down or two with Barbara Walters and Oprah, she'd be just another hard-scrabble, borderline abused kid in a trailer park. And ten years later Chris Hanson would use her to fill an hour on Dateline, or whatever they call that show. No. I want more for her. I know. I know. I know. My maternal instinct and all. Look, the world can be a really bad place. I'd just like to do my best to help her avoid some of that. I have to go now. I'm supposed to meet some goth kids from Youngstown Ohio at Little Pete's Coffee Shop. They want me to tell them how to achieve true vampire allure. God, how do I get roped into these things? I don't know what I'm supposed to say. Baylah says I should stop on the way and pick up a copy of Vogue. you know 'sultry looks for chill autumn nights'? I don't know. Maybe that's what I'll do. Everyone else is out too. Thank God for U Tube. Thank God for all the media attention. At least it keeps the big bad wolf away. I mean this is the first time Tomas has been out clothes shopping in weeks and I have a distinct feeling that commisions at Boyd's are gonna skyrocket tonight!  Ooooh, maybe he'll bring me back something from the women's department?!

The Book of Sarah

S 'me again, the, hell, I don't know what I am. I'm just here. but, yeah, call me the disembodied spirit. At least we're all used to that. OK, so those of you who keep up are wondering how I can possibly download the scene where Bob goes berserker on Barbra and helps her flip her lid. Well, then you are forgetting who you're dealing with. We eternal presences can flit around Creation with the staccato speed of an Andalusian (Tomas' old 'stomping' ground) flamenco dancer. Human please... do you doubt me?So pay attention, 'cause this is how we do it. Weak seams, we squeeze through weak seams. The Infinite Known Universes are full of them. Nobody takes  pride in their work anymore. So I slip out of this salmon run and into the next and BAM, I am doing the backstroke in a parallel universe. Actually, the place is hardly any different from that kennel you all are stuck in. OK, so their Liz Taylor stayed with their Eddie Fisher until the very end. Their Colts stayed in Baltimore. And Rome never completely fell, shrunk a little, but never fell. You should see all those stylish Italians in their Prada togas zipping around the Amalfi Coast on those cool, little vespas. If I had hands and a genuine booty,  I'd get me one of those. OK, back to Bob and how I got him on U Tube. In this eternal episode of The Honeymooners, Barbra had a hook-up with Skype, I think they call it.  Her lap top was turned on and the film was rolling. I don't know who pushed all the right buttons. I figure the cat did it. And the rest, as they say, is history. Only now I have a convenient,  copy on a micro-disc or some little piece of mundane-human-gadget- shit. And after I arrange things so it instantaneously combusts into existence right by the left elbow of that wilkravitz person, he will plug it in, go tap, tap, tap and BOOM!! Presenting the first, bonifide vampire domestic murder on  the internet. Damn, it's had sevenhundred and fifty thousand hits already. SEE BOB GO NUTS!! SEE THE HIDEOUS, FERAL SNARL!!. SEE THE TINY, SHARP, LETHAL FANGS!! SEE A WRINKLED, NAZI, BITCH'S HEAD SHOOT OFF UP INTO THE AIR!! SEE THE WHOLE THING IN GLORIOUS HIGH DEFINITION!! IT'S TRUE!! IT'S TRUE!! IT'S TRUE!! (photographic and video experts have already verified that). The pay off? Goths, neo-goths, sorority girl wiccans, Trekkers, International Brides of Barnabas Collins Inc., and every other kind of crackless crack head  they got running around on this planet (and some from off it) has made a bee line to Olde Philadelphia in an effort to join the club.  Our real home-grown vampires can now go sashaying 'round the city with impunity, because they stand out about as much as a bunch of cowboys at The Calgary Stampede. Look! There goes that TV van from SyFy! Oooh, hope I get a producer's credit! But all this media attention is causing the Shaky Hand Man to keep a lid on it. And Sarah has a plan to rescue Annie. Whoa! That girl fom The Vampire Diaries just walked by. Get a load of her ass!!

The Book of Sarah

Bob slipped out. That sublimation thing has been going real good for them lately. True, I understand that the ability comes and goes. It's effected by stress, emotions and all that stuff. But for now, everything looks all right. I'll bet you can guess where Bob went? And for those of you who didn't key in on last night's episode, I'll tell you. He went to find Barbra Muller. He went to find his eighty-something year old, nazi priestess wife. And he did it. He found  her. It wasn't hard. He just popped in on that computer whiz mole kid and after a few carefully aimed clicks he had her. She was living on top of a greasy cheese steak joint somewhere under the Frankford El. Strong old bitch too. Nukes her own frozen 'meals on wheels' dinners and everything. She holds court from a big, dirty, worn out easy chair. Got a little swastika tattooed on her liver spotted, wrinkly forearm, long grimy toenails sticking out of her terry-cloth 'scuffies.' A real witch, a feamale troll. Definitely not the valkerie she once thought she was. And when Bob seemed to pop out of the air right in front of her, (a neat little sublimation trick) she never even missed a beat. She just stretched her turkey neck a little to the right (so she could see which letter Vanna was turning) and said - Jesus Christ! Where the hell did you come from!? But if you knew what to look for, you'd have seen that her left hand was trembling a little bit more than usual. From hell, you low-life virago. From hell - said Bob. His one time sweetie said - Yeah? didja have a nice trip? He did not reply, but moved a bit closer and whispered - You made me kill those kids. You made me destroy those people. She just laughed, cackled actually. She liked that one. Couldn't stop. Couldn't help it. Her upper plate almost flew out. But then her bloated features came together in a mask of evil - Shut your tatter trap you escaped convict from Hell you! Lucky I don't turn you in. And I know 'people.' I can do it. I got friends down that way. And who'd you kill, a bunch of liberal,Mount Airy Jews and Redheads? (her joke name for blacks)? Shit, this place is better off without them - she belched. Then she began to chant some occult spell the nazis all learned from a 'Madam' Blavatsky, some late nineteenth century, big-bellied, drawing room, free food guzzling phony that Wagner had the hots for. I guess she thought it'd send him back to hell. But all it did was make him angry. And he lunged toward her and tore her head off. Man, her cat was sure surprized. I've never seen any green eyed demon freeze that still and open its eyes so wide. But a heartbeat later that chizling, back alley tramp was already licking up the blood gushing out from the raggedy stump of her dirty neck. And Bob? He just spit right in her face (lucky she was looking up) and walked out. Man was that a show. Better than that planet I saw blow up the other night. Better than the party games at Caligula's sweet sixteen. It's a shame I don't have the use of anybody's fingers, or I'd have put it on U Tube. What the hell am I talking about? I am pulling the strings on that wilkravitz familiar guy. But Tomas might not like it. He's private that way. Maybe I better think about this a little bit..........Hummm........ OK, I thought.......

The Book of Sarah

The nameless voice speaks again! I like it when I get to talk. It can become quite boring just floating through Creation. Oh, I did see a planet blow up during what you would call yesterday. I think it was a comet. Wait a second. Let me plug into the akashic records....... Yep, a comet. The poor bastards living on that tar ball never even saw it coming. It's a shame. They were nice people. Not humans, but interesting just the same. Moral, God fearing folks. And since they never actually contacted any other dust motes in the void no one will ever know they were here. Somebody might pick up a radio signal or two. They had a hit show a lot like The Beverly Hillbillies, only the family looked more like hillbilly mollusk salamanders. The one who was equivalent to Mrs. Drysdale was funny though. Eight year old mollusk-salamander kids used to piss themselves out of all four polite orifices every time she'd regurgitate bile all over her adversaries. But what's the diff? They're gone now, pulverized into star dust. Gee, that must have hurt. I am telling you - better fund N.A.S.A.. Better suck up to all those 'nerdy' space geeks. You don't want to wind up a streaky cloud of yesterdays news spiraling in to an uncaring sun. Be prepared. That's my motto. Yet since I exist in a realm independent of space and time it really doesn't have much relevence to me. Oh well, back to our earth-bound soap opera..... All the vampires met in that little room under one of those human prayer places they have. Nobody said a word. Oh, the Pow Wow Woman was in there too. She was the one looking through a pile of old hymnals in the corner. But the other ones just sat there. And Bob was the quietest one of all. Tomas looked at him in disgust. Not just disgust, disappointment too. Bob said - I was a different person back then. I can't explain it. I don't know why I was like that. I don't know. I'm sorry. Tomas said - People like you once tried to burn me to death. I survived. The other innocents herded into that synagogue did not. When will people learn? Baylah added - They haven't learned yet. Some of 'em just did practically the same thing to a bunch of folks in a church in Bahgdad. Sarah said - It's like...it's like a person I once saw on The History Channel. They asked him how he could have injected acid right into the hearts of all those little Jewish children..... And he said, and he said, in this almost stage Bavarian accent - But vee are not doink dat nowwwww. Baylah said - I've been thinking of a way to stop Annie... We call the city. We call someone in the Department of Human Services and report a little homeless girl  seen wandering around all alone. She sleeps in unlocked hotel rooms, pees in public toilets, eats God knows what kind of filthy crap. You know. Make it real sad, real heartbreaking, real Little Match Girl kinda stuff. Maybe call one of the news shows too. They love stories like that, especially now with the holidays coming up. They would look for her. They would find her. And even if they didn't, all the attention would at least force her to lay low for a while and give us a little peace. But Tomas did not like that idea. He said - Are you insane?What do you want to do, smash the reality of the supernatural world right into their superficially 'enlightened' faces? Do you want them to once and for all recognize  the truth of it? That's what could happen. That's what would result if they ever got that close. Dios mio!! Do you know how helpless and afraid they truly are?. Do you know how desperate, how superstitious? Do you want to drive them running and screaming back into the middle ages? My God. They'll be burning people out on The Parkway. They'll do it in stadiums. They'll sell programs and souvenirs! No, you can't be serious. Bob said - Please, don't fight about this. I'll do something. I'll do it. I'll do it. I'll do it. Sarah said - What are you going to use..... a bomb?  No one said anything else. Bob just sat there sobbing. And Annie? Annie, the Shaky Hand Man's favorite hand puppet? She killed two more people that night. Gee, don't all the fresh, new red and green decorations look real nice?

The Book of Sarah

The dogs chased Bob into Rittenhouse Square Park, where they treed him, just like a raccoon. Now I know that the easiest, most obvious solution is the best solution. No need for any magic here. I simply took out my cell phone (untraceable, of course) and called animal control. A small truck pulled right into the park exactly four minutes later. The dogs ran off as soon as they saw it. The truck took off after them. Bob climbed down from the tree. Fortunately there weren't too many people in the park at that hour, just two seventies era stoner dudes and they weren't about to refocus  and help anybody. I said - Bob, what happened? Are you all right? Can you climb down? He said - Wait. give me a second. Let me get down first. Then he managed to inch his way down from his perch with all the grace of a shrill, middle school girl in gym class. Some vampire he is. But he was nervous. He was really worked up, so maybe that was it. We retreated to a sheltered bench behind some bushes and sat down. Then he began to talk. He started babbling. It  poured right out ..........'When they executed me, they gave my family a body. It didn't look too much like me. But they chalked that up to my recent intimate experience with a few million, jillion volts from Old Sparky.'.......... He looked me right in the eyes, a rarity for him and continued..........'I remember. I remember who I am. I know my name. And I know who I killed.'.......... I nodded, taking it all in...........' Wanna know how I did that? Wanna know how it came to me after all these years? I'll tell you. There's this mole kid. He's got this patched together computer thing rigged up in a crumbling alcove, tapped into juice and everything. I see him tap-tapping away, while the rest of the tribe was off bein' jiggy with each other or tryin' out new and exciting ways to cook rat. I don't know what they were doing. But I know this kid. We talk sometimes. You know, when we play Yahtzee or like Barbie's Dream Date (they're kinda short on good board games down there). He knows about me, so I ask him. I say - I wanna know my name. What's my name? The kid says - Sure, when did you die? When did you disappear? With you it was the same thing, right?' So I told him. I said - Can you see who got zapped in Rockview State Penitentiary (instantly my stock went up in the kid's eyes) in say like nineteen sixty seven? He don't answer. He don't lok up. He just starts tapping and he says - Four people, but you are not black, right?'.......... I say - Yeah? The kid says - Then you must be the white guy. You must be Lyle, Lyle Talbot.......... A picture comes up. The kid says - Is that you?..... I look. Jeez, it was me. I nod.......... The kid says - Bingo, we got it......... So, I'm Lyle Talbot. Age at death forty years, six months and one day. That was on May seventeenth, nineteen sixty seven. So, can you imagine? That means I was born like November the sixteenth, nineteen twenty six.... I say - Noooo!..... He says - Yep, today's my birthday....... I say - Happy birthday. who'd you kill?.......... He gulps a little and says - I killed a nursey school full of babies, toddlers actually... and the five women who were there takin' care of 'em. A bomb. I did it with a bomb........... I didn't know what to say, but he just went on.......... The Sunnydale Bomber. I'm The Sunnydale Bomber. It was big. I was in all the papers. Phil Donahue interviewed me on death row. He was just startin' out then, you know? So, I figured I'd give him a break. He was a real nice guy too. None of this prima donna crap you gotta deal with today........... I said - No, not like today.......... But he just goes on and says - I had a wife. Still got her actually. The mole kid says she's still alive. So what can she be, eighty two, eighty three?.......... I said - Oh, really? Where is she?.......... He says - Here, right here. She's living in Philadelphia.......... I said - Gee, what's her name?.......... He says - Barbra, Barbra Muller. She don't go by Talbot anymore.......... Then he just stares off into the air, but do you want to know who Barbra Muller is? She's the godmother, the 'moral' compass to a group of skin head neo-nazis.  They do a story on her and the brood every once in a while, usually during sweeps when they want to run up the ratings. Lyle Talbot..... Barbra Muller..... Can you omagine? So the two of us walked back to Baylah's Place. I bought him a nice spiced candle. We found two seats in the back and just sat there. The piano man was starting in on Send In the Clowns.

The Book of Sarah

I went out. It's me. It's Sarah. Tomas went out too. He'll be all right. He says he's going to wander around on South Street. The crowds should keep him safe. Annie, or The Shaky Hand Man, or The Enemy or the WWF or  even the God damned Republican National Committee should leave him alone around there. But I won't be out on the street for long. I'm going to Baylah's, her piano bar. It's warm. It's cozy, like a small, velvet jewel box tucked away on a cute, little corner of Sansom Street.. I can really go for some heartfelt Broadway melodies tonight. A little Cole Porter. A little George Gershwin . Her piano player is really good. He sings nice too. She picked him up off the sidewalk outside an aids clinic. Seems his money and his luck ran out at about the same time. He was pulling into that final tunnel. He was squinting into the light and everything. But that's exactly the kind of challenge we like. Baylah just scooped him up and carried him back to her place. Then, after giving him a tiny sip of a freshly made 'Bloody Baylah' (as opposed to a Bloody Mary) he was one rejuvenated Michael Feinstein wannabe. Well, he does sound exactly like him. Doesn't have the patter down quite right yet, but that''ll come. He'll get it. I'm going in right now. I love this place. It's perfect, like an urban boite right out of the holodeck of the U.S.S. Enterprise. The dark burgundy watered silk walls, the bronze sconces, the matching velvet banquettes, the warm, little table lamps, plush rugs where there should be rugs, gleaming hardwoods where there should be hardwoods, the mirror-like, ebony Steinway and an ever-so-slightly cramped feeling.... Shhh, listen. He's singing 'There's a Place For Us' from West Side Story. I like that song. Most nobile vampires like it too. I catch his eye. He winks. I go to the little bar and take my place next to Baylah and The Pow Wow Woman. Actually, her name is Edith. Some of the regulars call her Edie, but she likes Edith. I order my favorite, a small, specially spiced votive candle in a crystal shot glass. It's very subtle, perfect for the highly developed olifactory capabilities of a vampire. The mortal patrons never even notice.  Gus, the bouncer, smiles and waves. I still don't know what she needs a bouncer for. Baylah is more than able to handle most any situation herself. I suppose it's because she doesn't want to make a scene. And he does look nice in that 1930's tux and all. The table girls look nice too... little bell hop outfits, only with hot pants and high heels. Baylah's got taste. They already listed this place in the 'Ten Best Lounges' column in Philadelphia Magazine. She's got a table full of assistant D.A.'s sitting in one corner and a high-priced decorator giving a hard sell to her new-to-the-city, wide-eyed clients in the other. Shhh... He's going into 'And the Way You Look Tonight'. I love this song. But Edith nudges me and points. I look out one of the small partially draped windows. There's Bob hurrying down the strreet. And two big, menacing,  rottweilers are  padding along right behind.. So much for an evening of sophisticated music and stylish repartee.

The Book of Sarah

It's me, Bob. Those mole kids are nuts. I really do not enjoy playing games with them. They cheat and they're crazy. I guess it comes from living so close to the noise from the rumbling subways your whole life. It's starting to get to me too. I lost that Yahtzee game. I lost big time. And they play for real. Hell, I don't have any money to give them. So I had to kick in extra mouthfuls (yeah, they expect whole mouthfuls!) of my blood. Now one of them's so hype he's bouncing off the walls and driving the rats into a frenzy. And the parents? They are absolutely no help at all. If you ask me, these mole people are a little too weird. They ain't blaming me for the little hype son of a bitch. Seems he's always hype. But what the hell am I supposed to do about the other one? I can't be climbing up to pull her down from the ceiling all the time! She digs her nails (claws?) in too God damned hard. I got my own troubles. And now that prisoner guy starts moaning and banging his head against the cinderblock wall all the time, 'cause he figures I'm going to need a feeding after giving those little brats all that blood and all. I tell him - No. Relax. It ain't my time of the month. But he won't listen. Shit, look at him. He just peed hisself. Can you imagine how crap like that smells to a vampire!? But I think all this racket is starting to wake up my brain and rattle things around a little. I'm remembering stuff. Turns out I was a prisoner in Rockview State Penitentiary. That's where 'Ole Sparky' the first electric chair in the U.S. lives. I'm not proud to tell you this, but I was supposed to be one of his customers. Seems I was on death row. I can't remember what for. Maybe that will come later. Well, actually I was a customer, but a not completely satisfied one, 'cause he did not do too good of a job. I was left all singed and frazzled up all right. But there was still a bit of kick in me. But do you think the management even cared? Hell no. Some guys. I think they must have been guards or something. Turned my twitching body over to a strange fella for some money. He dumped me in the back of a Studebaker I think it was and drove out to an old drafty gray stone barn in the country. I was jibber-jabbin'. I was trying to communicate, but I coulda sang the whole friggin' score of White Christmas to him for all the good it'd do. He did not listen to a single grunt, whistle or fart noise issuing from my drooling mouth. No sir. That strange son of a bitch just threw me down on the cold, dirt floor. Then he walked out and drove away. He didn't even close the barn door. Any kind of varmint coulda crawled in and got me. And back then, I wasn't quite so used to rats as I am now. So it got dark. I still could not coordinate my movements. The best I could come up with was a sort of Saint Vitus Dance on  the floor. Must of looked like Pee Wee Herman. There was this big heavy, trapdoor a little ways off. Somebody forced it open from the other side and it crashes down on the hard-packed dirt with a real solid thud. Then I hear these scary footsteps climbing up a squeaky, creaking wooden ladder. I could not turn my head all the way around, but out of the corner of my wildly gyrating eye, I see this sinister, hulking shadow steppin' out and comin' toward me. He (it?) sees me. He looks down and grins. He just grins. He don't say a thing. Then he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. He trudges back to that trapdoor and we go down. Shit, folks must have heard me scream for miles around. Probably thought it was Big-Foot or the Windago like we called him in our area. But he didn't kill me. No, he did not do that. He transformed me. You know what he made me into. I do not have to tell you. After it was done,  he climbed up into the loft. Right near the edge.. right near this big, industrial wood chipper (which he had already turned on). The noise was deafening, 'specially to my newly minted vampire ears. I peek up. He don't say a word. He don't even look at me. He just stepps off and does a perfect feet-first dive right into the maw of that log shredding giant. He never even made a sound. And it took that thing a good seven seconds to finish him off. I heard they used that load of mulch to dress the apple trees they got growin' over by the courthouse. You ever see those trees? No, of couse you haven't. But if you did, you would know.