PAPA'S DINNER DATE

Papa caught his reflection in the eightteenth century gilt mirror. Thick steel colored waves, soulfully handsome face, he still had it. But he's a vampire. He's had it for thousands of years. If you think he's gonna lose it, you're nuts. Still, that don't mean our Richard Gere look-alike never worries. Emotions play a part too. Mood can enter into it. And life with the uber-vampire-bitch, Luna, plus their (what would you call her?) 'problem child' affectionately known as Little Bastard Annie does take a certain toll. Still, things had been quiet lately. Nosey Evelyn, from across the lawn responded wonderfully  to her under-the-table, vampire blood droplet regimine. Her face looked a little less monkey-fied, less upper lip hair, smoother skin, didn't fart so much. Sure, it made her love Papa even more. Now she was completely devoted to him. And that butt-insky didn't even know the reason why. God bless that pizza kid. No, really. God BLESS the pizza kid. No more shitty pizza for that house. Whiney  big mouth kids spread stories fast. So she got shamed into it. Now Friday nights are a lot happier at her place. That slob kid a hers puts away more than half a pie. But (and here's the important part) the kid won't eat no anchovies. Evelyn loves anchovies. She smells like one too. But that might just be early menopause. So, Dougie, I think his name is, comes  'round the back of our place first, sneaks into the kitchen and opens the boxes. Papa comes in, bites into his finger and dribbles a little bit of red 'Papa juice' onto the fishy part. The salty anchovies  hide it real good. You'd never know it was there. But it does it's job. Evelyn is a bit more copasetic. And the cops ain't called as often. OK, so she makes these nauseating cow eyes at Papa now whenever she sees him. But she been doing that all alonng anyway. Edith, our Piney 'seer' woman, says we oughta feed vampire juice (just from the good ones) to all them hard to handle political leaders they got dancin' around  in them 'goofy countries over there.'  Might make 'em more friendly-like. Papa laughs. He says that would only work if the president was a vampire, or maybe the secretary of state. And, according to him, they tried it centuries ago back in Italy. What do you think Lucretia Borgia had in that ring a hers? She didn't go around killing everybody. Some of 'em just got 'juiced up' a little. We asked Papa if he knew the vampire responsible for those dosages, but he just smiled and looked away.

Oh, yeah, what was I talking about? Wait, I know. That gilt mirror. Papa lookin' in that old French object d'art. You see, he was havin' 'dinner' with Doctor Franklin in the former patriot's palatial quarters over at the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau. The threehundred year old plus, jowly human tucked into them premium, all-lump-broiled-crabmeat cakes with extreme relish. A little sickening, if you ask me. Papa tried to ignore the greasy spittle runnin' down the stringy haired bastid's chin. Thank God he had a nice green apple aroma candle (his favorite) in front a him. They was talkin' bout Jonathon's progress over in the Old World. Papa could pick up such things. The old man wanted to know his views on their Pilgrimage and the spiritual efficatiousness of it all. But our twentyeight thousand year old patriarch (in a thirty two or three year old body) said he did not know. Franklin just chuckled. He didn't believe him. But he WAS SURE the world wouldn't end at six pee-em tomorrow, because the old almanac writer had his friends UP ABOVE too. And they ain't never told  him  no such thing.................