Wednesday, April 11, 2012

LIKE A PRIMITIVE WINE PRESS MEANT FOR HUMANS.... The Elferina - Vampirina goes on...

Roland was still there hovering in the background and he went back into the kitchen to see what he could find. The skinny, raw boned housekeeper, perched on a stool at a huge granite island, that resembled nothing so much as an old, Elizabethan crypt cover, put down her pilfered copy of Coastal Living Magazine, looked up and said - You that magic, vampire bastid, ain't you?......... And the juvenile, elf lord quickly executed a half bow, struck a pose, disarmed her with his beauty and grinned. She almost feel off the stool. But then she laughed - Oh, you are one cute son-of-a-bitch, you are. But what'ch you want in here? You don't eat nothin'....... No, I seek not refreshment for myself - said Roland. And please don't mess with the collar of your blouse on my account. I am not going to taste you. I promise........... She looked almost disappointed. Roland opened the double door, stainless steel, tomb  for over-priced food and took inventory. Things were quieting down back in the salon. Marianne had regained her composure. Heartbeats were slowing. But the crowd still had a certain edge and nothing sedates humans like food. He saw a big, rather vintage, Pyrex bowl filled with a huge mound of  leftover Rigatoni Bolognese . At most, it could have been two days old. It was still good. He took it out and put in on the counter....... What d'you want me  to do with that? - said the housekeeper....... You, my tobacco breathed beauty need not do a thing. Just tell me where the salad plates are. How many do you have?........... We got a whole lot a white ones. She uses them for garden parties. Why?...........Get 'em. Get 'em. Get 'em. I'm gonna serve something. You'll see. This will do the trick............So she bent down, grunted and laboriously wrestled out two stacks of classic, white, bistro plates....... I could a told you......... What did you expect?..............Roland quickly proceeded to deposit hefty dollops of savory, meat sauce covered pasta onto each. Refrigeration dried up all the runny stuff. That was good. Luncheon forks weren't hard to find. You know how many sets rich folks have. Seven minutes later he had a late night supper for twenty all ready to go....... I'm not gonna serve that. Don't look at me - said Miss Raw-Boney-Moroni. But he did much more than that. He stared into her eyes. She swallowed. He took her in his arms. She went limp. And then he kissed her. He more than kissed her. He nibbled her garlicky, generic cigarette scented neck.... A forty seven year old kitchen drudge held in the tight embrace of a well formed (and rather large for  his 'age') 'fourteen' year old elferino - vampirino. After a few moments of pleasure, she went right to work.  And within two hundred and ten heartbeats the twenty or so always hungry humans in the salon were happily slurping up the leftover bolognese. 

Roland edged over to Marianne and whispered in her ear - You want to continue?........... She gave him a look, sighed and said - I suppose............ After all, they did pay thousands for the experience. Charitable donations are easy to get, if they buy a bit of social cache. And this group needed all the cache they could buy................ So a few minutes later Roland stepped into the center of the space, clapped his hands, struck yet another theatrical pose (he was quite good at that) and said - Dear sirs, dear ladies, if we creatures have offended, permit us now to make amends. Attende vous, s'il vous plait. (excuse his French, for it is not really French, but a Frankish dialect of Walloonish Vahmpeerigo <vampire speak>) The Lady Marianne will continue........ He gestured toward her, gracefully levitated up over their heads and sailed back into the kitchen. Had to give them a good show, after all. Most broke into applause.

Marianne assumed a rather noble posture, acknowledged the crowd and began....... Have you ever seen a 'pressing'? And I speak not of olives or grapes but of bodies, living bodies. You can't even begin to imagine how much 'juice' they contain. I have not seen the like in over three hundred and forty years, but I remember. The Inquisition drew close and I remember. The Low Countries formed part of the Hapsburg patrimony then. Their fires were hungry and human kindling was everywhere. But occasionally they'd change it up a bit. Freshen up the material, so to speak. And one night, they had a 'pressing.'  I saw it all, perched upon the shoulders of the 'dominee.' No one noticed him. Please, do you think he was the only vampire present? Come on now. There were others of our band, not to mention unrelated life-eaters scattered about the crowd. But most of them were wayfarers, so we did not care. And me? Well, I was still human.

It was midnight. The town was dark. They brought him in, riding on the back of a flea-bitten ass. He was old. Was he a Jew? Was he a Protestant? I don't know. The crowd cackled and jeered so. Who could hear? Now I understand many of you go traveling and not always to islands in the West Indies, of that I am sure. Some have no doubt been to towns like this... cobbled square... stepped-roof, what you might call 'dutch' style buildings... a cathedral...a guild hall... quite picturesque now, but no more than the Levittown of its day. And he fought back tears. The condemned one, I mean. Men-at-arms (you know, breast plates, crested helmets) took up positions, lit torches, brought in the 'bed' and waited. A parchment was produced. Some supercilious official came forth to read it and the old soul, dressed in a lose, coarse knee-length tunic was man handled onto the stone. It did look rather like a bed. They bound his arms to his sides with ropes and did the same to his ankles. Then they ripped off the tunic and exposed his withered form to the shameful cat-calls of the crowd. Someone piled pillows under his head, for it hung, unsupported over the edge of the cold, hard stone. A functionary signaled. Ten brawny men, stripped to the waist and obviously part of the show, heaved a huge slab, equal in size  to the 'bed,' over to the quietly praying victim and set it down upon him. I could hear his ribs begin to crack. He gagged. He gurgled. He screamed, but nothing came out. Old ones died so soon. The audience wanted more. One of the men-at-arms held a torch to the grandfather's dry, cracked feet. He shrieked. He screamed (almost like a song). The people cheered. They danced and capered about, happy, greasy faces bathed in hellish firelight. Even the children clapped. And when they slammed down the second stone the blood began to flow. It dripped  onto the cobbles, quickly lapped up by hungry cats.. It welled up into his eyes, til they ruptured and sank back into his skull. Was he dead? I suppose. His tongue lolled about a bit. But that could have been the work of a demon puppet master. They threw  down a third stone (BOOM). After all, it was quarried. Why waste it? Then an old crone, known as 'the gray lady,' hobbled over, grabbed the martyr by his hair and lifted his head right up from the bloody pillows, for it was pinched off at the neck. And the multitude went delirious. Those who had them, fired off pistols (picture pirate guns). The rest made do with crude fireworks. The noise was deafening...... Reverent, humanity at play. Then they shuffled off to choke the pubs with their disgusting, unwashed presence......

Many have asked me...... did I mind surrendering my humanity?....... No, I did not mind. For when the same Inquisition came to martyr me, I viewed it as a deliverance........


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