Friday, March 7, 2014


They had cats in the palace. The place was not over-run with them, but within certain precincts they were very much in evidence. Most represented various Persian varieties. Some came all the way from Siam. Court ladies fastened tiny paper messages to jeweled collars and sent them off... in that way correspondence with the outside world (which included all areas beyond the walls of the 'forbidden quarters') was maintained. 

A few haughty felines frequented our portion, entering through a series of ventilation tubes binding all parts of the Imperial Household. Some claimed scent gave them away. Harem cats smelled different than kitchen cats or throne-room cats ( at times actual cheetahs ), or observatory cats. The mortuary cats had a certain stink. Embalming, contradicting Scriptural precepts was rarely used in these parts. But The Imperial Household contained thousands of individuals. Some died every day. That's just how it was around there.

And one more thing before I forget. My torn out toenails and fingernails grew back quickly. Night-folk just are that way. So physical tortures meant little. Our kind is adept at escaping. Trance-like states come easy to us. Most effective punishments include horrific isolation. A 'learned man' (basically a wizard anywhere else, though we have no wizards here) via ethereal manipulations learned from a Hundustani master, sent an Imperial Enemy to the far side of the moon. And we saw the unfortunate vampire reflected in a 'magic' bowl' standing on a black sand plain, staring at the terrible brilliance of a black sky dense with stars. None else save a vampire could endure such things. Lack of warmth... lack of shade... lack of air mean nothing. Our bodies just endure. Maybe, in this case, the vacuum of space will cause a slight bit of desiccation but eventually a point of stasis will be reached. It's not the blood that really comforts us, delightful as that is, but the taking of the life.  And the 'dead' man on the moon.... the solitary vampire just stares. I suppose one day a wandering explorer will find him. Perhaps the night-man will bite through the suit?

And every day another victim. Once I had a twenty five stone (about 300 lbs) pirate.  Please know that piracy was a capital offense. The Ottoman Navy ruled the seas. Interlopers, including the still marginally formidable Venetians, were crushed. Originally the fat man was 'for the hooks.' There was a large tapering pylon erected in a public square hereabouts. Like a scaled down Washington Monument. I know that shape from obelisk grave markers in Laurel Hill Cemetery. Marianne told me. This particular civic erection rose approximately seventy cubits (1 cubit = 18 inches... 70 cubits = about 105 ft. or 35 m) into the clear Thracian sky. Large, heavy, sharp hooks were mounted on it and condemned individuals, stripped and bound, were raised up via a truly ingenious system of mechanical levers and carefully pressed into place upon one of the sharp points. Specially trained 'picture hangers' rode up to oversee the procedure, lest hasty placement caused excessive bleeding, or organ damage. Mustn't ruin the show. Blood dripped down. Not too much. Just enough. Panic shit too. Gulls and ravens made short work of the eyes. Brokenhearted family members attempted to give food and water to their loved ones (provided they were mounted down below) and the guardsmen never stopped them. The extra attention only lengthened the suffering. Though mothers and fathers never saw it that way. 

It turned out that the brother of the pirate, possessed of an enviable fortune, promised half to the Grand Vizier, or maybe it was the First Eunuch Harem Guard, charged with carrying messages between the Grand Vizier and the Sultan himself, in return for his fat sibling's merciful death. Since the brother's fortune was an honest one earned over years in the Trans-Caucasian slave trade, the Divan (throne) took him up on it. And so I had a blood rich feast. So much blood he had. It trickled from my ears, from my nose, from my rear and my urethra. My body could not hold it. But I drank it even so. I saw a commercial once, for a cascading chocolate fountain at a place called The Golden Corral. Well, I was one of those. Remember, my form is the form of a twelve year old boy, abet with somewhat pointed ears and ever so slightly lengthened fingers.

Lesser slaves came in to clean the blood after the scrumptious indulgence..... I'm not evil... (whispers) Just addicted.

Tomorrow I'll tell you 'bout evisceration by mice.  


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