Monday, April 1, 2013

NOW THE MEDIA TAKES NOTICE ...4/01/13

Carson Daly was the first to run with it. Some DJ friend in Philly tipped him off. Two days later he came out with a crew. Not a full crew. Figured he'd get some 'fill ins' once he got here. Met with Marianne. We talk about her. She's one of the elferinas, a female, pubescent vampire with pointy ears and a certain gamine charm. Interviewed her in a bar, the one in THE HOTEL MONACO. And he never, ever knew there were other vampires in the building. That's how discrete they can be when they want to. 

She gave him the whole treatment. Showed him the fangs. Offered to bite him. Nothing major. Just a tiny, little nip on his forearm. But he demurred, 'cause he's got kids and all. She told him how old she was and about The Inquisition and all (Google MARIANNE IN BRITCHES by Billy Kravitz for more). Levitated a spoon up off the table. Whispered some stuff in Old Vahmperigo. Made him blush. Showed her pointy ears and said yeah, she knows how much she looks like Cosett (I think that's the right name) that little French girl from the Les Mis juggernaut. Think she said Maroon Five is her favorite group. But that's just because Adam looks so much like Jonathon, only with a haircut. And you know how loyal they all are to him.

He's gonna 'cull' someone tonight. Jonathon, I mean. It's his time of the month. He had a dream. He had a vision. He feels the hunger. It's gotta be done. And this always brings up the old vampiric dilemma. Do they actually have a physical hunger. Do they actually have a physical need, or are they just fulfilling a spiritual purpose? No one knows. Some vampires have survived centuries of captivity without so much as a drop,  while others go berserk and die after weeks. Apparently, every soul is unique and the 'burden' rests differently on each and every one of them. 

'Cull the wicked. Save the worthy.' That's what they do. So he sits on the roof of a venerable, old South Philadelphia restaurant. Victor Cafe, I think it's called. And he listens to the opera within. Each and every  cameriere and cameriera is also a classically trained singer, able to burst into song at a moment's notice. A man in the corner plays arias upon an old, much polished Steinway. The crowd waits for the biggies. Naturally Carmen, or Nessun Dorma brings the house down. Once in a while they sneak in something from West Side Story or Candide, but that's almost opera.... almost. 

A man toward the front is almost human too. He's a promoter... a producer, or an executive, or some kind of Hollywood big wig. In town with his daughter. She wants to go to Penn. This is their 'look see.' But she's a bitch and he's a creep and that's why he ain't human. Sits there playing with his osso buco. What a shame some little calf had to get itself all slaughtered so this bastard can eat dinner. You know a twenty four year old girl killed herself over him. nice girl too. Had a script. Real good. Tight story. Everything. Didn't have an agent. Didn't have no 'uncles.' Just sent it to him. And you know that means she's got about as much chance as a ballerina in a gas chamber. Only some kid, an intern, sees it. And he likes it. And he passes it on. Mister Beefy-Tan sees it too. Thumbs through and keeps it. Two weeks later the decorator comes to change the retro grass cloth in his office. His people clean up the place in preparation. Script gets stuffed in an envelope and sent back with one of them 'oh, not without a lawyer, an uncle and an agent you don't' papers. Girl gets it, feels sad for a while, but life goes on.

Yet six months later, some new script is all the rage in West L.A.. Script mags cover it. Web's all over it. Pod cast talks about it. And the twenty four year old sees it. She listens. She recognizes it. She knows it. It's her work. Goes into production. Makes eighty mill. Beefy-Tan guy's nephew wins some kind of award. She tries to get a lawyer. They try to do something. But something ain't enough. They laughed at her. They ridiculed her... patronized her and even her cut-rate lawyer too..... That's it. All done. She's toast... a showbiz joke. 

Goes back to substituting. Get's a middle school class. Eighth grade girl 'rapes' a sixth grade boy in the coat room. Boy's mom wants a new Lexus outta all this. Judge gives her one. Girl gets prosecuted for willful neglect. Serves four months house arrest. Reads about upcoming sequel. Pees all over the seat at a seven o'clock showing  of Hangover I. Nineteen year old manager kicks her out. All the semi-humans in the lobby see her wet blue jeans and laugh as only semi-humans can. She bursts through the doors, tears through the parking lot, stumbles into the busy  street and gets hit by a bus.

Her basically sweet, though culturally baffled parents cry for weeks and one month later her father dies. Two weeks after that, the government puts her mother in a dirty, sour, abusive  'home.' 

Beefy-Tan guy's nephew reads about it all in the papers. Writes another script and wins an Oscar. Uncle laughs and laughs and laughs.

But twenty minutes from now, he's gonna leave that restaurant. He's gonna get up from the crisp, white table cloths and the old opera prints on the wall.  He's gonna give his daughter five one hundred dollar bills, so she can catch up with a friend and go gambling, with her perfectly undetectable, rich-girl-fake-cards at THE SUGAR HOUSE (a Center City casino on the Delaware) and step outside to meet his fate.

Jonathon feels it all, up atop the roof of this late Victorian townhouse. He leans against the chimney and waits....

For soon the dead twenty four year old gets some sweet revenge.

The night is clear. The wind is sharp. The stars shine coldly down...

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BRIGHTEN THE CORNER WHERE YOU ARE..... (and we mean REAL corners) 4/01/13

Jonathon quietly arranged for a series of rooms at the new HOTEL MONACO in Center City, a brand new, posh, boutique place familiar with night-folk from other venues.  The out-of-town life-eaters slept there. Big rooms. High ceilings. Granite baths. And sumptuously curtained windows able to shut out every photon of troublesome daylight.  And I'm not sure, but they say a few merfolk swam up the river to patrol the waterfront. You know, naive, clueless druggies hang out there sometime. A few fall in the river. A couple drown. And the merfolk (two males and a female) want to prevent that.  I'm telling you. This is really gonna be something. 

Sarah organized the 'bleeders.' They met in the basement of an old church. wilkravitz went with her. He was out of the hospital now. Still a little shaky, but he wanted to help. She let him distribute and collect the tiny, glass vials. Each one held maybe five to ten plump drops of red, rich, potent life-eater blood. They had these little, plastic screw tops to seal them shut. They were old, never used, perfume sample vials, but the night folk couldn't ask for anything better. Afterwards, other life-eaters gave them out, sublimating into semi-private rooms and wards in hospitals, narrow, old row houses on tiny, little side streets and cold, dark, hidey-holes behind big, metal dumpsters.

Sick people drank it down. They knew it came from 'vampires.' Nobody played games anymore. Nobody cared. Sure, a few of the physicians didn't like it, but nobody cared about that either. And people got well, even terminal cases. They sat up, swung their legs over the side, jumped down and went home. The ones in the little row houses already were home. And the pathetic cases behind the dumpsters just wandered around. Later on a few life-eaters caught on to that and fixed it up so they could sleep in a few of the old, colonial manor house-museums in Fairmount Park. Not on the beds. After all, they were antiques. But they gave them these real good, thick sleeping bags, so that made it OK. A few park guards were assigned to each place to keep things quiet and not let them get too rowdy. Rejuvenated women were never kept in the same mansions as the men. Fed 'em all a lot a five dollar, take-out pepperoni pizzas from Little Caesar. What can I tell you? They like that. Some guy who owns a local Coca-Cola bottle plant sends over cold drinks. They say Bill Cosby's a part owner, but I don't know.

Jonathon goes to evening services at the old Spanish Rite, Sephardic Synagogue in Society Hill. He sits in the back, off to the side. The men sit across from the women. If you've ever been in a Quaker meeting house, you know what I mean. He's never made an aliyah (ascend to the scriptures) yet. He's never been called up to read a passage from the Bible, but he doesn't care. Well, maybe he does, but not that much. Sarah said she'd go with him. But he told her she didn't have to, because it's not like they could sit together, or anything.  He enjoyed the hymns and cantorials, since they brought him back to similar observances in medieval Al-Andaluz (Spanish Andalucia). At first the rabbi felt funny about having a life-eater there. A lot of the clergy all over the city did. But when Jonathon quietly sat down with him at  a post Sabbath service communal hour (he eschewed the sponge cake, but did sip a bit of the coffee) and told him how he was that self-same mythological helpmate, how he was 'the golem,' who helped Rabbi Lowe and others in the ghetto repel the baby-killers all those many years ago, in Old Prague, that made it all OK. Then he was a hero. 

And the city improved. Not the gentrified areas. They were already top notch. But the badlands, the ruffie-tuffie places got a little better. Pushers gave up the corners. They had to, what with all the 'vampires' and all. You know, life-eater blood cures addicts too. 

Doctor Franklin and some scientists from his sprawling bureau under the navy yard came up to observe things. Luna, his attractive 'vampire' assistant and a physician in her own right, came with them. Sarah doesn't like her. She doesn't like her at all, 'cause Jonathon used to cheat with her. But they don't see her much. 

Most nights, just before dawn, a group of life-eaters meet at Baylah's place. They gather 'round the piano in the little jewel-box bar and sing songs. 'Vampire' voices have a certain, satisfying resonance. One of the favorites is 'We'll Meet Again. Don't know where. Don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day....... Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen.

Oh, and Johnny Jump Up is still out there, only he seems scared to come out too.

And Little Bastid Annie (our hard to handle child vampire) goes 'round to half-way houses late at night selling Girl Scout cookies. I think she's a Brownie now, or maybe part of the older group. I don't know. Looks mighty weird in that uniform though.

The life-eaters still feed, but they all follow 'the law.' They all stick to the old lunar schedule. One 'culling' per month. And they only take out the people sent to them in visions. I think Jonathon's gonna 'cull' somebody tomorrow night. Come back.

Maybe he'll show you...

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