Saturday, February 12, 2011


Papa and Annie watched from a distance. They saw the men from the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau take Jonathon away. Annie just looked. Papa mouthed a silent - Good for him. His face didn't register any emotion. But he was glad it happened. They were dressed like any other pair of well off Center Cityites. He had on one of his cashmere overcoats, the designer suit, the silk scarf, substantial shoes, the whole works. She looked like the real life baby doll of some over indulged fashionista. Everything said quality, but with a dash of taste and style. No one would ever suspect a thing. They strolled away from the police action. She raised her mittened hand. He took it . How would they entertain themselves? What manner of mayhem could they cause? Papa asked her if she wanted to terrorize a few more naive, single career girls, but she didn't want that anymore. It was too easy. Besides, this was a Saturday and none of them were home anyway. How 'bout a cop? Nah, too obvious. Some stupid, little wannabe thugs out for a night of trouble on South street? She stopped, admiring her reflection in a window. Being a vampire agreed with her. Look how thick her hair was now. She flipped it back, as she adjusted her stretchy, headband-ear-muff thingie. Then she giggled. Papa said - What, you like that idea? She shrugged. He said - You do. I can tell. Come on. It's South Street then. He hailed a cab, not too difficult when you looked like some buff, polished Richard Gere. Or was that Alec Baldwin? I don't know. This contemporary crop of players all seems so alike to me. Now ask me about the actors they had in those old 'divine' epics back in Babylonia. The lives of The Gods and all that. They were something. And the action sequences! Those guys knew how to use a sword, let me tell you. Hands flew. Heads flew. Slaves were cheap, you know? So the money men didn't care. Just so the crowds were happy..No, just so the king was happy, if you know what I mean.  And the crowds waiting just inside the Ishtar Gate (that's where they staged it all) were unbelievable. And the falafel wasn't too bad either. Aaach! Those were the days. But Zebulon digresses. Papa and his little girl had a very enjoyable time on South Street. They knew just how to troll for dinner. Some cheap, little nobodies swigging beer (probably brought from home, for they could ill afford the tarriffs on this thoroughfare) started with their usual repatoire of taunts - Yo, dude! Yo, look at the faggot and his rat faced (urppp!) piece a shit kid there...... Sure they were drunk. Sure they were bitter. But remember, this is Papa we're talking about, not Jonathon. He doesn't care. You walks the streets. You takes your chances. So he lowers his gaze and makes like he's trying to rush off. Annie acts the part of the frightened child. She looks down at her feet and holds on tight. They turn down a pitch black alley. The juvvie hall alumni follow. Papa starts to trot a little faster. Annie 'struggles' to keep up. The junior varsity mafia gives chase. Soon everybody's running. Papa slows down. The alpha-roach catches up and slams him into a brick wall. He starts shoving his hands into the cashmere pockets of the coat. Into the fine worsted wool pockets of the suit. Annie makes like she's going to scream. One of the other two slaps a greasy mitt over her mouth to keep her quiet. They pull off the watch (a knock off). They snatch the fat wallet (filled mostly with singles).  The leader makes a move. He goes to smash Papa across his chops. But the hungry vampire makes a quicker move. His strong, kid-gloved hand grabs the skinny weasel by the throat. He lifts him up off the ground and squeezes. He squeezes real hard. You know he's good at that. Blood begins to dribble out of the kid's ears. He starts to kick. Papa smashes his head against the brick wall. And that seems to make him remember his manners a little. Annie spins around like some tasmanian devil. No, I mmean it. Just like a tasmanian devil. She sucks the nearest eye right out of its socket. The former owner crumples down onto the piss-slicked concrete. Number three makes to run. She vaults into the air, locking her arms around his shoulders and her teeth into his neck. Then, like a cat, she settles down to enjoy her nightly repast. And Papa finishes his stringy morsel too. Some old crone slams open a third story window and yells - Hey! What you doin' down there,  you lousy kids???....Annie yells - Drop dead, you old bitch. Then she hurls up a rock. The prune-faced hag slams down the sash and douses the light. The two killers giggle at each other, lock hands and wander off. Annie will go back to the museum, where the guard-familiars let her fiddle with the mummies (both Egyptian and Incan), while Papa continues on for shall we say a 'more stimulating' encounter. Who knows? Perhaps tonight  he'll even let her live...... .

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