Saturday, January 15, 2011

God's Gift (that's what Jonathon Means) Sets Us All Straight

After he left skinny, Miss Pissy Pants on the floor of that multi-leveled vehicle stable, Jonathon condensed back out on the street. It was quiet in the way only late night city streets can be. Steam issued forth from underground caldrons, rising into the night like silent, faceless ghosts. The thoroughfare was narrow, even by the standards of an old municipality like Philadelphia. Sansom Street, that is what it is called, a place lined with quirky restaurants, somewhat theatrical clothing establishments and other unusual venues. Some are at street level, others down a flight of steps in cellars. Back doors belonging to greater emporiums fronting onto Chestnut Street or Walnut Street also commandeer niches in the aging brickwork. The 'Morticia' crowd likes the place (when they tire of South Street's varied delights), but it tends to shutter early and our contemplative prince of darkness had the pavement all to himself. He walked on, the heels of his stylish bootkins tapping out a rhythm on the natural slate below. Every so often a discreet, little feral cat would peek out of the shadows to take his measure, before humbly bowing and retreating in his wake. He liked them. He smiled at them. But his mind was crackling, as the sparks of a billion neurons warmed his brain. Visions danced before his eyes of other lands and other times. Of perfumed gardens in the sun and moonlight on the sea. And he wanted those realities. For if he was planted here on the great eastern seaboard of a vast, new land, he was never-the-less not of this place. Oh, it had its charms. It had its attractions. But he would no longer allow it to control his psyche. Jonathon/Tomas was born under another star and he felt its pull upon his being once more. What does it mean, this vampire existance?  Is he truly one of the demi-angelic host? Who makes them? Which one was the first? And how could that first one come to be if there was not yet another, even earlier one there to pass on the gift? Someone was whispering in his ear. Who was it? He could not tell. There were fewer homeless people out on the streets. The spiritual rebirth (stemming from The Jonathon and Baylah Magic Show) took care of that. True, he was confronted by two sinister cut-throats sauntering down the opposite side of the street. He stopped. They stopped. He stared. They stared. But his gaze cut hard and hot and deep. The cut-throats coughed and blinked and looked away. Crisis averted. Did they deserve to be culled? Not tonight. Not tonight. Not now. He entered a fashionable, little, warm and cosseted cocktail lounge, slid into a welcoming, upholstered booth and ordered a double scotch, the good stuff. He did not drink it, but he enjoyed savoring the aroma. The boite was almost empty. A few well heeled couples sipped nightcaps before climbing up to their bastions in the sky. None looked particularly appetizing. No, he would not kill them. But he might steal a little blood kiss or two. Come morning it would be naught but a troubling, half remembered dream. He wan't supposed to do it. There were no 'visions.' But sometimes he did. So did the other two, though they swore up and down that they did not......The whispering came back. What was it saying? Who was talking? He could not tell. Perhaps Edith or one of the Red Paint Folks would help. Still, when he glanced into the smoky mirror hung behind the bar, he thought he saw the face of his creator.........

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