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Sir Richard is the only supernatural being in the club. I cannot divulge the name. It's the finest town club in The City (London). Either you know it, or you don't. And they all know his true nature. The staff knows too. Chilled gin in the day room. An assortment of champagnes for dinner. Once in a while he can tolerate a bit of meat, sizzling hot and plump with fluids. It's rumored they keep fresh human 'tissue' on hand at all times. You know the 'burden' settles differently on each of us. Some can fly. Some manipulate matter. And others like a nice piece of ass.
I, myself, am a dead vampire, killed in the Tunguska Event, while convening with a rare clan of surviving Neanderthals deep in the Siberian forests. You know, their shamans were often vampires. This clan had a special one, named Sid. I think it was 'Sid.' But I'm not sure, for the sound of his response was lost in the roar of the white-hot, exploding comet. Did have a very strong handshake, though. That I remember.
So now I narrate these things. Sometimes I change a word here and there. Did want to write for the Moscow stage, you know. Chekov thought I had talent. Said I was possessed of a certain quietly informed ennui. The character of Doctor Ostrov in Uncle Vanya was patterned after me. And so was 'Moe' from The Three Stooges, via the musings of a certain Ukrainian emigre. Even though 'dead,' I get around. Let me tell you that.
He used to marry a different mortal woman every twenty years or so. Gave old ones handsome going away presents. Reluctant departees got banged in the head with a ballpeen hammer. Couldn't bring himself to take their blood... family. after all.
And Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi, or whoever he is, hates him. He hates him for what he did to Sylvia and to her father. Three hundred and forty years is not so long a time to night-folk. I knew two in Minsk who still came to blows over purloined tokens (ancient chits, or tickets) to the ancient premiere of Medea. A vampire never forgets. We may accommodate. We may forgive, at least on the surface. But we never forget.
Sir Richard took his vodka in the library. Tomas watched from the adjacent map room. He tried to crush his skull. Tele-kenetic abilities come easily to him. But the offending villain has powers too.And he grinned and nodded as the intended force shattered the emerald green glass eye of a quite surprised mortal invitee from New York. An extortionist, plastic surgeon on hand did his best to restore the shredded eyelid and he only charged double for it, so there. The rich can afford to pay. And the poor can do without.
Sarah tried to prevent a showdown. They attended meetings and discussions. They watched feedings in the dungeons, using their mental abilities to bring quick, warm deaths to scared, weeping cattle-people. You know, after the first few nights, the sedative does wear off. But he was adamant.
And 'King' Rafe knew. He tasted it. He wanted it. All the best Revels had them. Fang fights, I mean. Wild confrontations up on the vast, slate roof, under a bone chilling moon. No knives. No swords. No piano wire. You know, you can slice through a neck quite easily with that.
Vampire duelists fight bare. Just hands. Just teeth. Just strength. Ever see a rib cage crushed like an egg shell? Ever see bile ooze up from a sundry assortment of cranial orifices?
And the witnesses are quiet. No one cheers. No one talks. Oh, sure, telepathic communication is allowed. But that's all. Two other vampirinos already chomp at the bit. Yet I'm sure, should it come to it, the Tomas vs. Sir Richard bout will be last on the bill.
The mortals among them pretend to be nonplussed. They pretend it's all about the meetings and the discussions. They pretend we're all here to solve world problems, like hunger and intolerance and all that. But the night-folk pretend too... And wolves will be wolves.
Little Bastid Annie is quite excited by it all. To her it's just a case of my father can beat the crap outta your father....
Sir Richard looks weak...a dissolute baronet. But don't forget, he's very adept at 'sticky' magic, the dirty, loathsome sort used in graveyards and back allies. And don't even ask me what spirits he knows.
Baylah wants to contact Sylvia. She wants to talk to the long dead paramour. But Sylvia cannot be found. Perhaps she wants it that way? Edith uses her tricks too, but so far...... What is it they say?... Bupkiss.
Tomas sits 'fore a mirror, concentrating his strength. He still attends the meetings. He still contributes. but everyone knows. Jazmin worries. Lisa worries. Her husband, Brad, thinks it all great sport. Vampirinos are like that. But vampirinas can be different.
wilkravitz tries to talk him out of it. But Tomas never listens. He just throws him some money to shut him up and ponders what's to come...
What could you do with your bare hands, or even with your teeth?....
Think about it...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD.... Tweet this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD as #BLOGGER based on his stories and narratives.....thank you very much.
I, myself, am a dead vampire, killed in the Tunguska Event, while convening with a rare clan of surviving Neanderthals deep in the Siberian forests. You know, their shamans were often vampires. This clan had a special one, named Sid. I think it was 'Sid.' But I'm not sure, for the sound of his response was lost in the roar of the white-hot, exploding comet. Did have a very strong handshake, though. That I remember.
So now I narrate these things. Sometimes I change a word here and there. Did want to write for the Moscow stage, you know. Chekov thought I had talent. Said I was possessed of a certain quietly informed ennui. The character of Doctor Ostrov in Uncle Vanya was patterned after me. And so was 'Moe' from The Three Stooges, via the musings of a certain Ukrainian emigre. Even though 'dead,' I get around. Let me tell you that.
He used to marry a different mortal woman every twenty years or so. Gave old ones handsome going away presents. Reluctant departees got banged in the head with a ballpeen hammer. Couldn't bring himself to take their blood... family. after all.
And Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi, or whoever he is, hates him. He hates him for what he did to Sylvia and to her father. Three hundred and forty years is not so long a time to night-folk. I knew two in Minsk who still came to blows over purloined tokens (ancient chits, or tickets) to the ancient premiere of Medea. A vampire never forgets. We may accommodate. We may forgive, at least on the surface. But we never forget.
Sir Richard took his vodka in the library. Tomas watched from the adjacent map room. He tried to crush his skull. Tele-kenetic abilities come easily to him. But the offending villain has powers too.And he grinned and nodded as the intended force shattered the emerald green glass eye of a quite surprised mortal invitee from New York. An extortionist, plastic surgeon on hand did his best to restore the shredded eyelid and he only charged double for it, so there. The rich can afford to pay. And the poor can do without.
Sarah tried to prevent a showdown. They attended meetings and discussions. They watched feedings in the dungeons, using their mental abilities to bring quick, warm deaths to scared, weeping cattle-people. You know, after the first few nights, the sedative does wear off. But he was adamant.
And 'King' Rafe knew. He tasted it. He wanted it. All the best Revels had them. Fang fights, I mean. Wild confrontations up on the vast, slate roof, under a bone chilling moon. No knives. No swords. No piano wire. You know, you can slice through a neck quite easily with that.
Vampire duelists fight bare. Just hands. Just teeth. Just strength. Ever see a rib cage crushed like an egg shell? Ever see bile ooze up from a sundry assortment of cranial orifices?
And the witnesses are quiet. No one cheers. No one talks. Oh, sure, telepathic communication is allowed. But that's all. Two other vampirinos already chomp at the bit. Yet I'm sure, should it come to it, the Tomas vs. Sir Richard bout will be last on the bill.
The mortals among them pretend to be nonplussed. They pretend it's all about the meetings and the discussions. They pretend we're all here to solve world problems, like hunger and intolerance and all that. But the night-folk pretend too... And wolves will be wolves.
Little Bastid Annie is quite excited by it all. To her it's just a case of my father can beat the crap outta your father....
Sir Richard looks weak...a dissolute baronet. But don't forget, he's very adept at 'sticky' magic, the dirty, loathsome sort used in graveyards and back allies. And don't even ask me what spirits he knows.
Baylah wants to contact Sylvia. She wants to talk to the long dead paramour. But Sylvia cannot be found. Perhaps she wants it that way? Edith uses her tricks too, but so far...... What is it they say?... Bupkiss.
Tomas sits 'fore a mirror, concentrating his strength. He still attends the meetings. He still contributes. but everyone knows. Jazmin worries. Lisa worries. Her husband, Brad, thinks it all great sport. Vampirinos are like that. But vampirinas can be different.
wilkravitz tries to talk him out of it. But Tomas never listens. He just throws him some money to shut him up and ponders what's to come...
What could you do with your bare hands, or even with your teeth?....
Think about it...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
please nominate me for a SHORTY AWARD.... Tweet this~~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD as #BLOGGER based on his stories and narratives.....thank you very much.
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