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Sarah and Jonathon toyed with the idea of goinng into Torino. He wanted to visit the museums. She wanted to look in at the silk vendors. But they decided not to. The museums there are not the same as those in Rome or Florence, or even Milan. And this was Italy, after all. She could see fine fabrics anywhere. So they stuck to the cozy, alpine valleys, sleeping in deep, narrow caves, or deserted, crumbling ruins. It was all very relaxing. Once, during his time of the month, he culled some heartless bastard in a stolen Ferarri. Grabbed the guy when he stepped out to take a piss in the mouldering courtyard of Il Palazzo Riggatore. A would-be mafioso was all he was. And here in a part of Italy that really didn't have much of that. Boy, was he pathetic. Still, the ratty, little , fuck-face had a reputaion as an acid-splasher. And three people suffered from his disfiguring souvenirs.
So Jonathon came up behind him as he was enjoying the urination break. Man, the sticky weasel had a bladder like a beachball, though minus all the bright, colored longitudinal sections, I would guess.But...you never know. The guy's standing there, waiting for that thin stream of 'after piss' to come dribble out and serve as an epilogue to all this, when he hears a whisper.......'God knows your sins.'......That did it. Show's over. Piss stops. Beachball bladder is closed for the night. He zips up and spins around. But nobody's there. Silvery moonbeams drip into the shadows, rinsing the well-worn pavinng with a ghostly luster. Some of the remaining statues appeared almost alive. Still, the stolen Ferarri was close. The rusting, old gate was only ten meters away. Night can play tricks. And the Italian starlight has magic to spare.The would-be mafioso began a tense turket trot back to his purloined chariot. After two tight, little steps he saw a flicker in the darkness. And he heard the voice again......OK, Punchinello, time to leave the stage........Who's there!? - said the main course..........I am - answered our Spanish vampirino, as he stepped out from behind some not-quite-national gallery-worthy Neptune or another. The sneak thief smiled. Sure the adversary, whoever he was, looked trim and fit. But Mister Stolen Ferarri had a pistola in his pocket. And he chuckled, as he slowly went for it. Jonathon indulged him, maybe a bit too much. For the bush league Sonny Corleone (no, not Sonny. definitely not Sonny...more like Frodo...Frodo Corleone) leveled the gun at his chest and squeezed off a shot.....The small calibre projectile pierced right through Jonathon's aristocratic, Andalician sternum, coming to rest in the left ventricle of his still beating heart.. Did it hurt? Nooo, cheese cake for brains, it tickled. Sure it hurt. But pain is only pain and a minor distraction to a noble vampire. The man looked on in amazement. Jonathon held his ground. He calmly unbuttoned the shirt. Blood pulsed from the neat wound. He dipped his index finger into the unnatural opening, pulled it out and licked off the red-black, viscous coating. The pistol clattered down onto the fourhundred year old granite as the skinny bastard collapsed onto his knees. Jonathon smiled. The moonlight knew the script. It knew just what to do, highlighting each sharp, canine with a vivid dot of cruel, white brilliance. And the man began to cry. Jonathon got down next to him. He cradled him. He comforted him.....Then he bit into the clammy skin and drank the life away........Oh, he is moral. Yes, he is quite moral...But not altogether helpless...even when confronted by a 'noxious' sort of beast.......He scootched over a bit, as the empty corpse ignited and disappeared, burnt up by the cold, blue flames.....Sarah stepped out from the shadows. And they both watched, as a Mediterranean breeze picked up the glowing embers and carried them, dancing up into the sky.........Lorenzo and that she-bitch will have their hands full.............................................
So Jonathon came up behind him as he was enjoying the urination break. Man, the sticky weasel had a bladder like a beachball, though minus all the bright, colored longitudinal sections, I would guess.But...you never know. The guy's standing there, waiting for that thin stream of 'after piss' to come dribble out and serve as an epilogue to all this, when he hears a whisper.......'God knows your sins.'......That did it. Show's over. Piss stops. Beachball bladder is closed for the night. He zips up and spins around. But nobody's there. Silvery moonbeams drip into the shadows, rinsing the well-worn pavinng with a ghostly luster. Some of the remaining statues appeared almost alive. Still, the stolen Ferarri was close. The rusting, old gate was only ten meters away. Night can play tricks. And the Italian starlight has magic to spare.The would-be mafioso began a tense turket trot back to his purloined chariot. After two tight, little steps he saw a flicker in the darkness. And he heard the voice again......OK, Punchinello, time to leave the stage........Who's there!? - said the main course..........I am - answered our Spanish vampirino, as he stepped out from behind some not-quite-national gallery-worthy Neptune or another. The sneak thief smiled. Sure the adversary, whoever he was, looked trim and fit. But Mister Stolen Ferarri had a pistola in his pocket. And he chuckled, as he slowly went for it. Jonathon indulged him, maybe a bit too much. For the bush league Sonny Corleone (no, not Sonny. definitely not Sonny...more like Frodo...Frodo Corleone) leveled the gun at his chest and squeezed off a shot.....The small calibre projectile pierced right through Jonathon's aristocratic, Andalician sternum, coming to rest in the left ventricle of his still beating heart.. Did it hurt? Nooo, cheese cake for brains, it tickled. Sure it hurt. But pain is only pain and a minor distraction to a noble vampire. The man looked on in amazement. Jonathon held his ground. He calmly unbuttoned the shirt. Blood pulsed from the neat wound. He dipped his index finger into the unnatural opening, pulled it out and licked off the red-black, viscous coating. The pistol clattered down onto the fourhundred year old granite as the skinny bastard collapsed onto his knees. Jonathon smiled. The moonlight knew the script. It knew just what to do, highlighting each sharp, canine with a vivid dot of cruel, white brilliance. And the man began to cry. Jonathon got down next to him. He cradled him. He comforted him.....Then he bit into the clammy skin and drank the life away........Oh, he is moral. Yes, he is quite moral...But not altogether helpless...even when confronted by a 'noxious' sort of beast.......He scootched over a bit, as the empty corpse ignited and disappeared, burnt up by the cold, blue flames.....Sarah stepped out from the shadows. And they both watched, as a Mediterranean breeze picked up the glowing embers and carried them, dancing up into the sky.........Lorenzo and that she-bitch will have their hands full.............................................
