Monday, June 30, 2014

IMMORTALITY IS A FLEETING THING---- Doctor Franklin Talks ... 6/30/14

He had a few of the ranking scientists in attendance over for chilled gin concoctions and conversation. Those in the speculative arts love to talk. And scientists are steeped in speculation. Indeed, the scientific theory itself demands it. Theory comes first and in a very real sense governs each and every subsequent step. We find what we set out to find, whether gun powder or God.

They sat in an eighteenth century salon.... brocade chairs... formal settees ... fine, fruitwood tables... handmade woolen rugs on oiled oak floors. A few are familiar with the place. Doctor Franklin's commodious residence beneath his storied 'Anti-Enchantment-Bureau is whispered about throughout the scientific/investigative world. Hitler sought alliance as early as '33, but the 'Bureau' ever a bulwark of new ideas and tolerance, only fed him lies. Most outsiders get half truths at best. Doctor Franklin was and is extremely particular that way.

He said - They're chanting along The Parkway. Some think it's a tie-in to Welcome America Week and all the Independence Day observances. But the young girls gathering outside the townhouse, beating ancient Celtic bodhrans and strumming classic Hebrew Harps are quite another thing. They drone on and on. They go - Tomas-Jonathon, Tomas-Jonathon, Tomas-Jonathon........... Another scientist went - Rah, rah, rah!........ Doctor Franklin said - No, this isn't funny. We have scientifically unacknowledged hominid primates roaming the streets. We have self described and in all honesty fairly effective witches working wonders outside coffee bars. And I don't know what those Red Paint People are doing.  You know how many out of town press people we have here this week?......... A different guest asked - Then why are you doing this? All the Grand Armonica posturing, entertaining as it is and all?........ Doctor Franklin sighed, thought for a moment and said - Because it's time. Because I want to. Look, I pressed for it in '47 during Roswell and all, but Truman wouldn't let me. Can you imagine, they 'changed' the story to a weather balloon!? I threatened to tell the Russians, or the French, anybody. But we didn't have our own dedicated reactors back then and he said he'd pull the plug. No, it's time. They have to know. Humanity, I mean. We inhabit a tiny part of an unbelievably immense cosmos. And not only that, we have abilities certain factions are desperate to stifle. No, this thing happens here. Extra, extra, read all about it, as they say....... Didn't you start that phrase back in your newspaper days? - someone asked.... Doctor Franklin studied him for a heartbeat or two and said -I started everything. Merlin to Washington's Arthur, if you will. There's a reason my picture's on the one hundred dollar bill. Those dumb bastards! Those God damned assholes! I should have been 'it!' I should have been the first!..... The Old Reprobate can get quite loud, bitter and vindictive at times.

No one said a word. A few nodded. Thank God for those chilled gin drinks. After a bit, a comely young girl, sent down from The Curtis Institute of Music began to play sprightly tunes on an authentic, hand painted harpsichord. Endearing Young Charms, I think it was. That calmed him down and he continued - Mortality is an illusion. We are all dead for eternity. We all live for eternity. Do you think when people pass to The World To Come, their still 'living' children aren't there with them, or that young, doomed children move on to a parentless reward? No, the Once and Only Diety responsible for all this is not so mean as that. Everything that is, was, or ever will be swirls through creation right now. We experience it sequentially because we're made that way.

Look, is your vampire friend, Tomas, really gonna come back? - a guest asked.... Franklin seemed to sink into himself. Then he nodded, grasped the arms of his chair and said - Yes. Maybe not in the same form. Maybe not in the same body. I don't know. How could I know? The basic principle is valid. You all saw the experiment with the goat. But I can't disregard the variables. You know his friend, the Piney 'witchy-woman' named Edith, says what I do here isn't even necessary. And she doesn't mean any disrespect. Just sure of her own talents and the talents of those around her. That's all. Magic-like science meets scientific magic. Come, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. Let's down these spirits and make for the 'clean room' ( large experimental space housing The Grand Armonica). We've a 'raising' to do.

So they did. The commodious salon was abandoned. The young girl at the harpsichord quietly gathered her sheet music and left. The domestic staff made quick work of any remaining spirits.

And the vampire, Tomas, also known as Jonathon, was already on his way... 

<more next time>


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Friday, June 27, 2014


Please excuse my clerical skills. But I was never good with the ordenadoras or computadoras or whatever name you use to refer to them. That is why I got the Billy Kravitz to facilitate our communications with you. Besides, I am currently, legally within a heavenly state, or perhaps the vestabule one enters before passing on to the true heavenly state. 

The singularities of my spiritual being begin to tingle. I feel like a shaken bottle of Clicquot Club. The Old Woman used to drink it. Do any of you remember her? She hated Sarah, but loved Annie. But who cares, for she is dead now too (and permanently, I fear). I see her here dishing out hot lunches behind a steam table to formerly homeless dead gentlemen, who still apparently relish those things. She makes like she doesn't know me. I say - Hello, do you remember our chill, North Atlantic passage all those generations ago? Snow covered deck chairs by icy moon glow... how positively surreal..... She (who looks like Mrs. Beazley, the lunch lady in Archie comics) just chews the same huge wad of gum she's been working since she died and ignores me. Scooping out Beefaroni for eternity. My God, her apron's filthy.

I suppose, when the time comes and I re gain my mortal coil I won't be a life-eater (vampire) anymore. If so. If I am right, the first thing I'll do is go to one of those all-you-can-eat Chinese Style buffets and see what Billy Kravitz was always talking about. 

I hope they put me in a nice body and would very much appreciate it if the flesh in question still wears the same size clothes as I. Edith has them. They're packed away in the townhouse.

Why are they allowing me to return? It feels like they are. Am I worthy? Is this a punishment, or a gift? Whenever I pass close to an angel and ask, they just stare off into the distance and smile. 

Sometimes the thought of donning new flesh scares me... Sometimes I want to stay here, learn Sanskrit and become personal human relations muse to Angelina Jolie.

Sometimes I don't even know what I want...

<more next time>


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Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Bring Him Home ( 6/25/14)~~> THE RETURN OF TOMAS, inspired by ~~>, Les Misérables - Alfie Boe and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir

They tested it with a goat. Doctor Franklin hated to do it, but that's how it's done. They always test with a goat. He climbed the stair to a platform by the north end of the Armonica (his huge, harmonic device) and placed the small, neat, almost unicorn-like creature in the polished bronze casket. It bleated once or twice. No one made a sound. Pin Head Mel wanted to clap, but Horsey Skeezix leaned over and whispered - It's not a show..... The technical staff and agents assembled in the 'clean room' were familiar with it all.  Some of them helped formulate the procedure. But it was a special thing even so. Another functionary put something into the bronze casket at the south end. I think it was ambergris. The Anti-Enchantment Bureau has a relationship with the Lords of the Sea (the great whales) via the merfolk, so they get all the ambergris they want. When not engaged in medical investigations, Luna makes boutique batches of exceptional fragrances and perfumes with it. Various First Ladies of The Land and a few queens too covet the small, jewel-like bottles of 'Enchantment' (named after The Bureau) and 'Eventide' (recalling her adopted vampire nature). But we're talking about something different. The huge apparatus has to work. Movement from the flesh to the spirit and hopefully back again too must take place. So Doctor Franklin climbed down from the platform and took his place at the rather Jules Verne-like control panel. Large levers, looking more like fittings in old pubs and taprooms were adjusted and 'played' with a practiced virtuosity. All eyes were on him and the old reprobate enjoyed the attention. Indeed, he dressed for it. Gone was the emerald green Eagles attire... the sweatshirts during winter... the tee-shirts in the hot months. On this occasion, Doctor Franklin wore modern recreations of eighteenth century garb.... black, light wool knee britches.... fine, sea isle cotton stockings.... handmade kidskin slippers with brilliant, silver buckles and a white 'blouse' (that's what they called them then) to gladden the heart of any pirate king or weekending country squire.  Franklin was always vain. 

Back to the technical side ---- Soon the large, heavy, crystal discs (in graduated sizes) began to hum and turn... each kept moist by momentary passes through a shallow pan of specially formulated, super fine oil (also furnished by the whales). Rubber mallets, operated from the console, came up to 'kiss' the crystal rims and make them sing, giving out with a sound resembling  whale songs. 

Then everything began to vibrate, sending tickling undulations through all in attendance. Most enjoyed the sensation. A few giggled. And it's believed some unwitting people in adjacent parts of South Philadelphia got 'tickled' too. I wonder what they thought?

But those with keen ears heard the goat. The terrified animal screamed like a human baby. Steam rose from the ambergris filled, polished bronze casket at the other end and a few of those in attendance experienced involuntary acts of public urination, sometimes curtesy of a a too-close, giddy neighbor.

Seconds later the lights went out, not an electrical failure. The current was normal. But certain coordinated vibrations just do that. Ambient energy is transformed. That which was light is 'somewhere else.' Even Doctor Franklin doesn't understand all the details. A few members of the local clergy acquainted with The Anti-Enchantment Bureau have theories, however Doctor Franklin says we can't share them (now anyway) due to confidentiality agreements and other things. 

Then frost began to appear on the outer surface of the one with the goat inside. It was visible because the light was back. Not from any existing fixture, but from the air itself. Look, who knows? Maybe it wasn't from the air. Maybe it came from the 'ether,' that unknown, universal substance occupying every physical point and actually infinite in nature since there's no limit to how small each point can be. Soon after, the 'real' lights came on.... and an ethereal image of a small, neat, white, unicorn-like goat pranced out through the side of the polished, bronze casket set up at the north end of the Grand Armonica. Everyone gasped. Pin Head Mel clapped. No one corrected him, as the little animal 'translated' to another state appeared to bleat, though none could hear it. A few heartbeats later it tip-toed down the steps, walked 'cross the room and disappeared through a wall into a lunchroom or someplace like that. For an instant the 'clean room' was quiet, then everyone began to cheer. Doctor Franklin brushed away tears. He missed Tomas, also known as Jonathon, too. A lot of beings did. But now they knew. There was an excellent chance the much loved vampire would be back.

And the message from Edith, relayed by Horsey Skeezix and Pin Head Mel a few nights before spoke of events on the outside. Strange beings were beginning to assemble. Witches gathered in the Norman Castle-like, City Hall courtyard. Red Paint People began to walk the pathways of Rittenhouse Square, chanting songs sung since The Ice Age. And 'people' as yet unidentified streamed up from the subway near Sixteenth and Locust. I guess they rode the Patco Line in from New Jersey. Perhaps they came from The Pines?..... Elferinos and elferinas were seen flitting about the city too. Some cried. Some did not. All were serious. Regular, boring, plain humans didn't know what to make of it. Kids strolling South Street (where all the hippies meet) stopped representatives of the slightly smaller, more gracile, in from The Pines, Mid-Atlantic Bigfoot variant for autographs. But Bigfeet don't write (although they are known to scrawl doodles in the dirt), so what they got were mostly obscene representations of hominid genitals. But the kids didn't care. You know how kids are.

'War wagons,' industry jargon for TV news vans blossomed all over town. It was already on line. You could see it on You Tube, even Twitter.

Was it easy to explain? No... but it was real.

Tomas is coming back?

<more next time.... click on OLDER POSTS for parts of the story you may have missed>


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Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: ISOLATION ........... 12/31/13 Here's a good OUTER LIMITS type treatment you might like...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: ISOLATION ........... 12/31/13: The Russian steppes go on forever.... endless vistas of tussock and tundra... no trees... just horizon... a sea that doesn't move. Huma... Click on this and see the whole story. An eighty year old abandoned, moldering Stalinist research complex.... all alone out on the vast Eurasian steppes... Mother Russia has secrets... Oh, the vampire-oligarch, Grigori Usipov comes back too... Human-ape crossbreeds... Strange, tragic experimental victims.... 

Come and see... And if you want, scroll down, or click NEWER POST (down below) and read it all.

Some things never die...


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Monday, June 23, 2014


They walked into the city. Red Paint People and heretofore unseen preternatural creatures from The New Jersey Pine Barrens.  Maybe from other places too. But around here, The Pine Barrens is like 'monster central.' Not 'monster.' I just said that for expediency sake, 'cause I wanted the words to flow. Witches are coming too. Mostly the 'trained' variety. Born witches are too iffy. You saw MALEFICENT. you know. Some might come, but I don't know who. 

Horsey Skeezix and Pin Head Mel run around the complex like maniacs.  They say they feel the vibes. The Jersey Devil kid also says whatever's going on compels him to eat buggers. Just his own. He thinks that makes it OK.  Doctor Franklin stays away from them. Luna, the vampire- physician watches them. She's not a physician for vampires, but rather a physician who later became a vampire. Does medical work for The Bureau. The Sea Hag (an old, gnarled mermaid residing in the strange specimen wing) loves her. They eat Creamsicles together. SeaHag dips her's in little pieces of minced squid and Luna spits hers out, but it's how they bond. 

Horsey Skeezix rocks back and forth and quietly chants - The Jew Vampire's comin' back. The Jew Vampire's comin' back..... Luna says - Stop that. It doesn't sound right. (she once loved him. not the jersey devil kid. tomas, also known as jonathon, the jew vampire, I mean). But 'Horsey' don't listen. Just keeps rockin' and cackling. Now it's easy to keep Pin Head Mel quiet. They gave him a big jar of Vlasic Kosher Pickles. He likes the salty, crunchy, vinegar taste. Sloshes it all over. But look. This is The anti-Enchantment Bureau. They got people to clean everything, even Bigfoot shit. 

So there was going to be like a flash mob. They'd never call it that. Edith would never use that word. She has a lot of words for it. But I think the one she'd pick would be 'affirmation.' This is gonna be an affirmation. Beings ... all types of beings, would show themselves out on the street and ask for Tomas' return. They'd ask for his restoration. People would see them. They'd see the Jersey Devil families and the slightly more gracile variant of Mid-Atlantic Bigfoot. Merfolk would swim up the estuary and congregate just off Penn's Landing. Red Folk People would chant their age old chants. Oh, it's gonna be a big thing. Probably a few vampires too. And I don't mean just the Philadelphia contingent. 

While inside, deep within the vast, subterranean 'clean room,' Doctor Franklin prepares his Grand Armonica... a huge apparatus consisting of a monumental polished bronze, horizontal rod supporting increasingly thick and impressive sparkling, crystal discs, the largest more than twenty four feet in diameter. Each carefully bored through the center like giant forty five RPM records. You know the classic baby toy with all the colored, plastic doughnuts stacked on a vertical pole? Well, that's what it's like, only horizontal. There's more to it. I'll get 'techie' some other time.

And on the other side of the spiritual bar, Tomas, also known as Jonathon, feels the pull. Each and every singularity of his being zings with a strange, new energy. It wouldn't be accurate to talk about atoms, because spiritual beings aren't made from atoms. But there is a non corporal cognate and thus we say 'singularities.'

Others notice. A woman sharing a small paper sack of roasted sunflower seeds with Johnny Carson says - Yo, kid (Tomas does look eighteen) what's the matter with you?.... Tomas just shrugs. He suspects, but doesn't know for sure. Dead people know a lot, but they don't know everything. 

Nor would they want to.

<more next time..... I think you can google Doctor Franklin 's Grand Armonica for more information>


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Sunday, June 22, 2014


What you call 'Heaven' is a very busy place. Souls do not rest in peace. They work towards a divine ideal. They contribute towards the perfection of the universe. This world and your world mesh more than you know. Although I think some of you do know. We communicate with those still in the flesh. We share and suggest and cajole. We comfort the weak and distressed, instruct the curious and sooth the angry. Many attend to our voices. Some do not.

I am Tomas, also known as Jonathon and I am dead. My physical body is gone. The thousand year shell that served me well has become ashes. But my coherent essence endures. And I hear angels and see the light reflected from The Sapphire Throne. I see human souls plus spirits from other realms. Knowers Of The Lord come in many flavors. 

But I move among our own. Although centuries a vampire, I am and always have been human. Life-eaters (vampires) cannot renounce their nativity. Humans remain such, altered, but basically the same. And I  am glad.

Sometimes we travel. Souls fly off to witness creation, passing through alien worlds, dark voids out beyond the most distant galaxy and the terrifying, heart stopping grandeur of looming stars where even the 'dead' know fear. I also preach to the 'living,' but in a quiet way. I whisper as they doze. I comfort the aged dreaming over scripture. I say - The purpose of revealed religion is to make us better people. Worry not the details, but seek the warm, bright heart..... They gave me this job based on my life. I'm glad. 

God is not a lawyer. He never says - How did you imagine me? What form had I in your eyes? Which tales to you were truth?... Rather He says - What did you learn? How did it change you? What did you do? ... Jacob's Ladder bears many creeds..... I've said these things before...... But (sigh) I still want to go back. And not as a  re-born soul. I want to go as myself, wrapped in my memories and named the same names.

Does God allow that?.... Don't ask me. Sometimes I think 'yes.' But only sometimes..... I think rather He asks - Do you really need this? Does the firmament need you back?..... Some spirits say such concessions are made for little children, infants and toddlers torn from the world by sickness, accidents and hate. They say innocent small ones stuffed into steel walled, coffin-like ovens to be burnt alive in crematoriums meant for the dead were instantly freed from the flesh with the first spark, to be born again to surviving parents, should such people exist.... as were little, starving children and I mean truly starved unto death upon the broiling sands of Anatolia years before.... I'm sure there are other instances too. I know not all the details.

(whispers) I want to go back. I want to go back. I want to go back.... It's like I KNOW it's right. It's like I have no say in the matter. ... Souls here seem to sense that. They nod. I see subtle gestures. I see expressions... Beings of spirit and energy still communicate in physical terms. Maybe this is just Heaven's anteroom? Maybe that's why?

I see my brethren. Family. 'Flesh' from Al-Andalus... My mother. My father. My brother. Yet there is a wall between us, as if they know.... I am not long for this world.... Another polity claims me.

So I sit with Johannan, ever my faithful servant, as he was all those centuries ago when I was mortal. We drift, lost among the stars.... not looming, roiling giants, but soft, cool, distant lights. We pass through multicolored nebulae, gossamer clouds of worlds yet to be. Possibility is everywhere, as it has been since the beginning.  And before the birth of our universe there were others. When ours winks out there will be more. Indeed we have sister universes as we speak... some to the left... some to the right... Angles of incidence are infinite.

My friends in Philadelphia will do their 'dance.' Doctor Franklin and his people will do their thing. Edith and her contingent will do theirs. And I will be back.... not due to the dancers, but due to The Great Conductor Who makes the cosmos sing...

<more next time. please know this is a long running, on going story. if you like, google Johannon Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz to learn more about that character, or contact me on Twitter at @wilkravitz and ask>


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Saturday, June 21, 2014


When they don't want to be seen, Jersey Devils have this thing they do. They swoop down low and follow the rivers skimming right over the surface. Nobody sees, 'cause it's so dark out there. First they traced along the Cooper River, then veered into the Delaware. Lights from the city twinkle off the wavelets, but that only creates more camouflage. Pin Head Mel saw the lights from one of the casinos by the water and wanted to go see. But Horsey Skeezix said - No.... Then he wanted to go to that big intersection in South Philadelphia where all the tourists go for cheesesteaks . Horsey Skeezix said they couldn't, 'cause Pin Head, unusual as he was, is still human, whereas full blooded Jersey Devils don't quite make the cut. So they turned right and headed toward The Navy Yard. Few folks on a thirty two foot cruiser out from the marina, drinkin' flavored vodka and eating seared tuna on little croissants (with fancy, homemade mayonnaise), might a seen something, but forty five percent of 'em were naked from the waist down and jumpin' around, so it don't count. Thirty four heartbeats later,  they came in over like a bulkhead, or fence thing and touched down in a private industrial quadrant where lubricated catheters are made. Due to automation and technological efficiency, not all the space is needed for navy stuff, so they rent some out. You know 'gimp?' Do your kids play with 'gimp?' Well, it comes from here. Nuclear submarines, gimp, catheters and brassieres. Something for everybody. And under it all was 'The Bureau,' a six level, subterranean complex one half the size of The Pentagon, plus here everybody has real nice, multi-colored lanyards. Some got two or three of 'em.

Now what with the underground center and all, the guards are used to strange things. One time, before she died, Ester Williams came by to have creamed herring with the merfolk. Brought two big jars she did... Guy from The Philadelphia Eagles brings new emerald green sweat suits every season. Frank Sinatra, The Beatles, Bob-Cat Goldthwait, kids from the Our Gang comedies; everybody been down there. Some still are. But they don't appreciate it when you stare.

Pin Head Mel likes riding down in the elevator. Lady with a yellow, gimp lanyard takes them. He makes eyes at her. She smiles. Somebody give Horsey Skeezix pair a white cotton gym shorts, 'cause he don't got none. Jersey Devils casual that way. Lady takes them into 'The Residence,' where doctor Franklin lives. He's sittin' in a Margaritaville Adirondack chair watching old, late night reruns of The Jack Benny Program. Most of the rooms are authentic, eighteenth century reproductions, but some are not. They got the Margaritaville Adirondack chairs from Shoprite Supermarket. Hundred bucks a piece, I think. Lady makes introductions. Doctor Franklin nods and says - What can I do for you boys?..... Horsey Skeezix gives him the old, plastic pill bottle with the note in it. Doctor Franklin unrolls it and reads. Then he sighs and goes - Well, well, well... and says - Miss Gingold, get these boys some corned beef specials..... But Horsey Skeezix says he don't eat no meat from animals what got hooves, 'cause that'd make him like a cannibal. So Pin Head Mel gets two corned beefs and the other one gets plate a fish tacos. 

Dead Vampire Tomas knows what's in that note and it makes him happy... relieved too. Look, he understands it's God who controls everything. But when He sees how much trouble certain segments of humanity are willing to go to to get him back He just might bend the rules...

<more next time>


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Friday, June 20, 2014


Now we speak of drama. Edith knew of events in Philadelphia. She's had a special relationship with Doctor Franklin for ages. He has 'talents' and she has 'talents.' That's just how it is. They both want to help Tomas. Magic finds a way. So she signaled to the two little snoops in the dark shadows of the midnight Pines. Horsey Skeezix (a juvenile Jersey Devil) touched his chest and said - Me?.... The witchy woman nodded... And Pin Head Mel too - she said. So they stepped out into the low, candlelight and approached the rustic porch. Edith wasn't worried 'bout Mister Edith, or their Red Paint People company. They were already sawin' wood after all that booze from those fancy little bottles. Like The Three Stooges they snored. 

Edith whispered - I got business for you two in Philadelphia... They stared wide eyed. Unusual and mythological juvenile beings from The New Jersey Pine Barrens love drama... special missions and all that. They love jaunts into the city too. If ever a place had a fantastical, storybook name, Philadelphia was it. Philo-delphia... City of Brotherly Love... Frank L. Baum couldn't create any better. Tiny, Center City streets with small, below grade shops straight out of Diagon Alley. Who needs hot, sun-burny, Florida amusement parks when you got this? Old, certifiably haunted, vast, dungeon-like ruined prisons... a museum of preserved, deformed oddities... and another one practically devoted to mummies... centuries old, ghostly (and still very much in use) theaters... If every place what goes 'bump' in the night went 'bump' at the same time we'd have gridlock. 

So she gave the little boy with the slightly equine face, glossy, chestnut, horse-like coat, soft, velvety bat wings ( they grew out of his back. the arms were normal) and well formed deer hoofies an old, plastic, pill bottle (empty, of course) with a little rolled up piece of paper inside. He put in in a small pouch worn 'round his neck. Pin Head Mel said - What do I get?..... Edith said - A free ride. You there to keep him sane. He likes you. He worries 'bout you. Now grab hold his neck and hop on just behind them wings. And fly. Fly all the way to Phillie-delphia. You off to see 'The Wizard!'.... Then she threw her arms up in the air and cackled. Not because it was necessary, but because level headed Edith likes a little bit of theatrics too sometimes. 

She watched as the strong wings whomped through the air. Soon they were off, soaring over the trees. Pin Head Mel in his quiet, little voice asked  - You know the way?.... Horsey Skeezix snorted and said - Yeah, I got family there..... He did, too. An aunt or uncle or somebody stayed with 'The Wizard' (Doctor Franklin, actually. Magic folk just call him that. Well, it's sort a true). All manner of creatures lived down there in The Anti-Enchantment Bureau. Jersey Devil ain't no big thing.

Soon he'd read her message. Doctor Franklin, I mean. She might have contacted him telepathically. He's 'adept.' He can do that. But rolled, little scrolls, even in old, yellowed plastic pill bottles, have a certain literary/cinematic quality and Edith is, at heart, a frustrated director.

A few moments later the witchy woman turned, went back and stepped up onto the porch, where she sat down in her high backed wooden chair and rocked.

Mister Edith and the two Red Paint People slept through it all, there in the dark, night air..... Crickets chirped. Lightning Bugs blinked. Edith yawned and fell asleep too.

Even magic folk need to rest.

And a certain twice dead 'young' man, Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi, might not be that way for long...


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Wednesday, June 18, 2014


It is I, Doctor Franklin. I sit in my commodious residence under the Philadelphia Navy Yard... a meticulous reproduction of an eighteenth century gentleman's house. The 'windows' look out upon digital images. Horse-drawn carriages pass by. Boys roll hoops and shepherds drive sheep. The breezes are recreations too. I see it all on a picture-book lane, winding down below in a little valley. Then, with a click it changes. The house is in the city and I see city things....  mounted troopers with plumed helmets and bright, silver breast plates.... vendors selling wares from large trays supported by thick, canvas straps 'cross their backs. Some sing songs... sedan chairs bearing matrons... bone wagons carting off the dead.... Yellow Fever plagued us then. The 'better' sort packed up and fled to summer houses in German Town. Indeed, I frequented many such places during my 'official' lifetime. But I've lived far longer than that. Those of you familiar with our tale (remember, we only pretend that it's fiction) know of my harmonic investigations. You know of The Anti-Enchantment Bureau (strange name) and our unusual work.

When he was here, Tomas contributed. We studied him, recording his every vibration and energetic effluence. He'd hang suspended in a web of sound generated by the Grand Armonica (you can google it) like a sixteenth century Italian painting. I have all the recordings ... every cerebral detail.... I know how he works. Actually, I could reconfigure a functional 'Tomas' quite easily. He'd be like a hologram... not transparent... not like a ghost... and under certain conditions you could touch him... but what you'd touch are only electrons.... Odd for me to say that when we know that the surfaces of mortal bodies are only electrons too... Is that how God creates us?

But the ether wants more than that. Tomas talks to me. He wants to come back for both superficial and spiritual reasons... That frightens me, for I am a reverent man. I question, but still believe. In my day I contributed toward and subscribed to all denominations in the city. Tiny brass plaques bearing my name decorate pews in various Protestant and Hebrew sanctuaries throughout the old quarters of Philadelphia. The Catholics, both Roman and Eastern were still unorganized back then, but had they been established my plaques would be in their holy places too and many more besides.

You know what happened in Russia? You know what we did for Grigori Usipov out beyond the Urals. I think if you google - Stalinist research center, Vampire Wonderland by Billy Kravitz, that might help clear things up.... I'll try it when we're done. If it doesn't, we'll post something else next time. 

Now in another vein, we raise escargot down here. So plump. So delicious. I'm eating some now... two dozen toothsome delights, rich with butter and garlic and something else. I don't know. The chefs do that. 

A lucid hologram of the great tenor Enrico Caruso sings my favorite, Nessun Dorma. Some friends, people I know from that Bilderberg thing are here. You can google that too.... Bilderberg Conference.... You'll see. 

You'll have to excuse me now. A certain American President, Emeritus wants to discuss world peace with a very well known Nepalese holy man. Perhaps I could help broker something? Doctor Kissinger gives me looks... He doesn't like competition.

They call us 'The Vampire Wonderland,' but we're so much more than that. 

Oh, how Voltaire would have loved this....

<more next time>


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Tuesday, June 17, 2014

SMOKE FROM A DISTANT FIRE ...musings on a night too hot to channel real strange beings.. 6/17/14

this is blue. the letters, i mean. blue is cool and no capitals, because capitals convey 'heat.' can't channel our usual paranormal vampires, zombies, ghosts and all. the temperature makes it hard to focus. also, i'm drinking so much iced tea, i run to the toilet every fifteen minutes and that sort of makes me forget where I am narratively..  i want cold vanilla almond milk and cereal...(this is where I take a break to eat some. you won't actually 'see' the break, but ~~>> (this) represents it.... i had two bowls... i asked the girl who works at the market if it's possible to let the water evaporate out of almond mild and reconfigure the residue back into little almonds. bet they'd be real expensive. i'd like to see a big almond made from marzipan.

they say it's possible other complete universes might exist so far out in the infinite ether that we will never see their light

they say it's possible the 'big bang' in another universe might have resulted in one massive planet revolving around one humongous <~~~(scientific term) star. any people on the planet would look out at a completely dark and featureless void. when they exhaust the resources on their home world...they die.... no space flight (where would they go?).... no God in the sky (unless it's the daytime sky maybe)... no asteroids... and what if life had never appeared on that planet?... do rocks have souls?

also, what if (in our world) science finds a way to essentially banish death via biological, or digital means? someone will be 'the last person to die.' will they be revered, or pitied? will some people opt for 'natural death' anyway?... got a feeling some science fiction author's got a 'take' on this.

do you realize there are many universal forces we can't even explain yet...dark matter... dark energy and all that... but, at least, they've been observed... what about the ones we haven't even conceptualized yet?...(i'm still waiting for 'gravity waves.')

in some ways ants resemble alien intelligence. is it possible on a certain level, either mind to mind, or perhaps via the hive/colony intelligence, to communicate with them? (also a good science fiction premise.... imagine the book and later the movie --- ambassador to the queen)

too hot... gotta sleep... probably drink too much iced tea first... hope that tower fan helps a little bit.

this is already wednesday. in three days it'll be June 21st, the longest day of the year (though not necessarily the latest sunset...different things)... summer, even with the heat waves, is such a special time. it goes so fast. no sooner here than over. you know stores like target already got them 'back to school' decorations ready to roll any day now. but no matter what they say, september is still summer too.

Lerner and Lowe were right.


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Sunday, June 15, 2014


Crazy people wander graveyards in the rain. They come right up to the caretakers' cottages and peek into the windows. Usually the shades and drapes are drawn. The wives and children of caretakers like things snug, especially at night. Prayers are said. Lamps turned on. Televisions tuned in. The phone rarely rings after dark. Families and friends of those inhabiting caretakers' cottages know how loud it sounds, so they call early. A knock at the door is a dreaded occurrence.

But sometimes those unburdened by sanity caper about in midnight downpours. They blind rabbits and sing with crows. Then, later on, with the first gray light of dawn, they sneak back to beds in other places.... The nighttime revels of lunatics. 

Children lie still as stone, mummified in blankets, listening to the dust-like whispers of voices down stairs. Floorboards creak. Cupboards open. Clocks tick backwards. Footsteps... barely audible footsteps...The faintest hint of illumination washes up the stairwell... What's down there?... Please, God. Please, God. Please, God, don't let them come up.... Yet in the morning nothing is amiss. The carnival glass treasures in the breakfront are there. The knives in the kitchen lie straight in their drawers. But the terror was real... and so were the whispers.

I am but a voice. Don't ask me more. The one you call Billy types this... all alone in a dark, shadowy parlor 'neath a small, yellow pool of light cast down from an old wrought iron floor lamp. Edith knows. From her porch in the Pine Barrens she knows. And the ghosts know and the Zombie Princess, Opal knows. 

Magic is but the apparent manipulation of life and death. Oh, you know what death is. You've been there... back before you were born. .... I am a disembodied spirit... like Mister Never You Mind, yet far less avuncular. And I bleed through into your world.

Vampires, witches, zombies... What are they but unusual individuals?.... Storied bloodlines trickling through history since page one. And the truth is, no one knows. Unchanging reality is but a conceit. Edith knows. She told you last time, there on her porch in the haunted Pines.

Tick, tick, tick... you're morphing right now. Where are you going? Does it matter? How does it matter?Direction is but a convenience too. But we knit 'beliefs' to keep us warm... Tomas, the dead vampire, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi knows that. He wants to come back. Perhaps he will?.... Perhaps a mouse will gnaw through a wire and burn you as you sleep? Or a dead, gray, wraith thing will silently climb the stairs and enter your room? Doors are but atoms ... like mist... like dust... that's all.

What is that sound? Is it the refrigerator? Is it the pipes? A stifled cough? Laughter?

Nobody lives alone....

.... Next time we move on.


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Friday, June 13, 2014

Witchy Woman, Edith, Discusses Ways To Ransom a Soul From Death.... 6/14/14

Edith took her time. She thought and considered. Then she went on..... The problem is - she said - reality is fluid. There is no 'now,' just what we see, or think we see at any given instant..... Please know she spoke to the cool, night air. As a witchy-woman, she knows we're reading this. She knows the one called Billy Kravitz channels it out through a slightly dated lap top. She knows many things, though essentially a very modest woman.... And as she speaks out into the dark, Piney ether, Mister Edith, plus their two or three Red Paint People guests, rock and nod. Red Paint People don't say much anyway. An old, abiding culture they are. Some consider them to be surviving vestiges of original Cro-Magnon stock. Males tend to favor Captain Jean-Luc Piccard of The Star Ship Enterprise. Females bear a striking resemblance to Olympic Skier Picabo Street. Not as children. When they're older, I mean.

Getting back to Edith, she said - Think about a river. If you stand on the bank and look at the water (well, how can I say this?) it's never the same water. Different molecules of hydrogen dioxide (for that's what water is) flow by every second. Other things flow by too, dissolved bits of former animals, urine from various sources, tiny, water smoothed , shards from a long forgotten skull, gray, stringy fish turds. 

Life is like that. It has no beginning. It has no end. Birth and death are but dams. When we're born, life flows out from life. When we die, part of that force is diverted. We slide down a sluice gate into a holding tank, perhaps the 'tunnel' of light' people talk about, and wait there, preserved and safe for as long as it takes. But each soul is a discrete repository of unique information and nature doesn't waste a thing.

For everything there is a season. A time to live. A time to die... And to be truthful, a time to live again. Tomas, also known as Jonathon, wants to live again. He's not different. That's nothing new. Many souls resting in the clear, cool pools of eternal joy and contemplation want to climb out onto the deck and run around a little. And they do. They get that chance. It's called reincarnation. But every time they step out onto the stage of the living, memories are wiped clean. Maybe it has to be that way. Otherwise death would be but a momentary hiccup and physical life would truly be eternal? I don't know all the details - said Edith. Just some. And if Tomas is brought back, we have to create another dam, or another sluice gate that will bring his essence back to us in this part of the world between Philadelphia and the South Jersey Shore. some call that act a 'ransom.' Some call it a 'diversion.' Words are just words. It's spirit and power that counts. 

Then she got up, went into her little house and came out with a basket full a little bottles of liquor, like what they used to give out on airplanes. Mister Edith said - Give it here... She did. He fished around for a bottle of Jack Daniels, took it out and passed the rest over to the Red Paints. I don't know what they picked out. Who cares? Edith didn't take any liquor for herself. She had a pouch of Capri Sun. Witchy-women ain't no big drinkers. They go whoop-dee-doo other ways. 

For now they just sit and rock and drink... a few people on a cozy little porch, lit by a handful a small candles, deep in the middle of the spirit-filled woods. 

Pin Head Mel and his best friend, Horsey Skeezix, watch from the darkness. but that ain't no big deal. They always snoopin' 'round. 

Next time we hike up them skirts and show you more.

If you like, google the NEW JERSEY PINE BARRENS. These woods is real... and they are out there.


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Wednesday, June 11, 2014


I left the townhouse. It's me, Edith, the witchy-woman housekeeper. Baylah left the city too, like she does every summer. Went with her rich mortal boyfriend to his place down the shore. Sarah stayed, though. And I don't know who else. She likes warm summer walks in the dark. Goes down pitch black streets and everything. But that's her. I like the Pines. Go back to my cabin. Set out late at night with Mister Edith and maybe a couple Red Paint People. Haven't talked about it much lately, but these here woods is the biggest, densest, thicket east of the Mississippi. Go ask somebody. Google it. You'll see. Got Philadelphia at one end and New York City at the other. If you wanna know, it's a miracle we still here. Like all the rest a humanity just flowed right around us.

Trees can talk, you know. Not so you hear. Not with your ears anyway. But they're smart and they know things. Stupid, dope scientist might say - Yeah? Well, where's their brains?.... (rolls eyes) Thing is, every little piss-ant shithead knows all they is, is brains. Whole thing is brains. Every bitty cell goes - I'm a tree. I'm a tree. I'm a tree. And I feel the wind. I taste the rain. My roots tickle the dead. Birds crap all over me. but I live and I live and I live...... Pines what we got here (not all pines, just mostly) talk to other trees. Trade secrets with hardwood trees in Brazil and Banyan trees in Central Africa.... I say - Trees, how goes the world tonight?... And they tell me.... 'Bout girl what got herself raped and killed in Siberia and boy in Chicago Land building bombs out back his house. Know of a body being 'et' by snapping turtles in that almost Canadian part a Michigan and terrorist-extremists dripping down through British Columbia - Washington border... They talk 'bout good things too. 'Bout a forty seven year old lady what thought she never get married getting pregnant by her boyfriend in some park in Philadelphia. And he's the boyfriend what won't run away. So they gone get married, buy baby furniture and everything.... Trees is sad that most all furniture comes from murdered family. That's why Mister Edith (and practically everyone else 'round here) say - Dear Lord, thank you for this child a Yours what grow in the ground... every time they kill one.

Trees know 'bout Jonathon (also known as Tomas) too. Taste his ashes when he die. He wanna come back and they know that. Trees listen to dead folks, 'cause who else will? I don't mean showbiz  'your-dead-granny- say-she-love-you' bastids what tell lies (or semi-lies) for money and play games on afternoon talk shows. I'm talkin' bout the real thing. 

Trees know 'bout that zombie girl. Teacher what got et had itty-bitty Japanese bonsai tree (fifty years old, I think it was) growin' in a tray top her dresser and it tell two peach trees outside. Peach trees like sweet stories, but they very truthful just the same. Ain't got no flesh-eaters in the Pines. Not now anyway. All we got is ghosts and Jersey Devils ('bout eight or nine families... Guy from weirdnj (yeah, it clickable) say eight or nine families necessary for stable breeding population) and Red Paint People and pin-heads. Some pin-heads can do magic, but some can't. I can do a little bit a magic. Ain't no 'born witch' like what kill Jonathon. Just pow-wow witchy stuff I learn from 'round here. We not talkin' witchy stuff now. We just talkin'. Whisperin' actually... Me an' Mister Edith and them Red Paint People. Cabin got a porch. Porch got rockers...homemade wood ones (sorry trees) painted red. Red scare off negativity. I do not know the scientific reason for that, but so what? Who cares? We eatin' peanuts. Red Paint woman brung 'em. Talkin' 'bout family what taught squirrels to talk. They was Dutch, though. And that was more'n three hundred years ago. Some squirrels still talk Dutch. Not real Dutch, but a dialect they make up 'mongst theyselves. Piney folk what spent time in Philadelphia or New York City say it sound like Yiddish. I ast a squirrel-lady, but she don't know.

Ten yards off this porch (maybe less) is the woods. Some nights ghosts glide out a there and walk right through like we never here. Mister Edith and me don't care. We just let 'em. Once in a while one wants to talk. But that just once in a while. Guy what got duct-taped by racketeers and suffocated talk some. Gimme a good way to make pasta gravy. Say his mama wear same kind a scent like I do... I say it Jean Nate an' wanna give him some. But he say - Don't tease me, bitch. You know I can't hold nothin'! ..... I say I sorry. He sniff back ghost tears and nod. 

Red Paint People hummin' songs now. Old songs from back when all humanity speak almost the same language. Sound like Cherokee clog dance to me.

I miss Jonathon (also known as Tomas) real bad. Gonna maybe 'ransom' him..... June crickets chirp real nice....

I tell you 'bout that 'ransom' part tomorrow. .

Ooh, look! There go a ghost...


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Monday, June 9, 2014

The VAMPIRE Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, Speaks From The Spirit Realm... 6/10/14

It is I, Jonathon ben Macabi. Death destroyed my body, but could not touch me. I speak to you from the Realm of Spirits. I could identify it as The World To Come, or Paradise, or Heaven, or The Bardo. The place has many names. But I chose the most neutral to include you all. 

Know that death is not eternal and I will be back. How that will transpire I cannot say. Not because I'm a secret keeper, but because I don't know. We are each domiciled according to our needs in this place. Young mothers become child guardians standing night watch over orphans. Fallen soldiers stand by surviving brethren. Artists of all types inspire the living. 

I am an ecclesiastic by nature. Would that I could have served among the Holy Orders of Levites at The First or Second Temple. I am not that particular. A medieval academy of Godly scholars, or perhaps a snug, little country wooden synagogue painted with birds and flowers. Such wondrous sanctuaries they were. Most of the surviving  ones  were burned seventy years ago.

And my labors?... I talk to clergy. I whisper in their ears. Denominations mean little to me. Wait til you pass over. You'll see. Rabbis and imams and nuns, oh my. Other teams too.  I talk about 'we are one, because God is one.'  I do this mostly while they're sleeping, or drinking coffee, or watching Andy Griffith reruns. I'm told he's even big in The Emirates. 

But listen to me making much of  'no denominations' and all that, while I pine for the faith of my childhood. And not 'here.' I could have it here, with hummus to die for (well, you know what I mean) and cantorials worthy of Andrew Lloyd Weber, or the guys who wrote Les Miserables . Death does nothing to improve memory. I try to recall interesting little places I'd pass on our midnight rambles (with Sarah, I mean), yet I can't... not always. 

It's funny. When we lose ourselves... our mortal selves, I mean, discrete, episodic memories mean little. It's all a multi-dimensional matrix...all things... all places... all everything... And I  do (what would the word be?) abandon myself to that every once in a while. But I still miss my trim, little leather bootlins and the black jeans and how I'd make these little sparks shoot up from my heels when I scrapped them on the sidewalks just so. No vampire magic that trick. Just metal taps. An old fashioned shoemaker on Ranstead Street did it. Hey, 'shoemaker on Ranstead street,'.... I remembered.

I want to come back. I miss the townhouse and Edith and Baylah. I miss long, cool, subterranean sponge baths with Sylvia and Aura (daughters of the mole people king). you remember them. And I miss Sarah. Some opt for reincarnation. But I don't want to wait that long... Well, since most of the people I miss are vampires or witches I could. You know, the supernatural life span and all that.....

Oh, I don't know. Death can be so confusing. I mean I'm absolutely awed by the radiance of angels. I could stare for hours. Some of them don't like that. Makes 'em nervous. Start sucking their teeth and making like all of a sudden they gotta go do something for God... Yeah, right. Like He doesn't have other angels. Bastards.

I'm gonna go to the seventeenth century, Earth, London section of Heaven and play my guitar.

Bet Doctor Franklin could do something. He did it for Grigori Usipov. I know. I remember.... Look, am I 'bad' for feeling this way?

I don't want to talk any more.  I'm gonna go help change diapers on newly dead old folks... Takes 'em a while to realize they can give up all that piss and bowel movement crap.... Humble myself and make amends. Then I'll go play my guitar.

Hasta la proxima, mis amigos viviendos.


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Saturday, June 7, 2014


This is Opal and I don't even know what day it is. Madam Blavatska don't let me watch TV or nothing. Gives me all these books to read. Zombie stuff. I don't think you can buy 'em in Target or whatever other place they sell books in. Flesh-Eaters get 'em off the internet. Sometimes rich zombies buy a whole mess of them and give 'em out to poor zombies that don't have no internet, or else f#ckin' asshole zombies that don't know how to use it. I'm starting to think we got a lot a those. 

This place is big. The Penthouse, I mean. Got like three floors. Secret zombie crap gets kept downstairs. They don't call it 'secret zombie crap.' I forget the real words. Think it's in French, or some kind a German, or something. They let me go pokin' 'round by myself up here, 'cause all the good crap is somewhere else. But I found this little room. Real cozy... like an old fashioned library. I know, because I seen one once on Channel 12. That's PBS. Sherlock Holmes was in it. He's like a cop and a druggie and a gay guy and an English guy. Might be a warlock too, 'cause I think all English people can do a little magic. My grandmother was English and she blew smoke rings real good, but that might not be real magic if you're gonna get picky about it. 

They had this book in that room... a real old book. Said it was printed in 1865. All the pictures were plain, little drawings. Not stick people. The guy who drew 'em would a got like an 'A' in art. 'A's' in art is what they give weird kids to stop 'em from pickin' at their faces til they bleed all the time. But some teachers just let 'em bleed. 

Book said Queen Zombies give birth to 'young ones' in a larval stage. Had a picture of a lady who looked like a naked Statue of Liberty with big maggots plopping out a her pee-pee. Said that way births happen on a fortnightly basis.  Didn't say what 'fortnightly' meant. I gotta look that up, 'cause that part scares me a little. What if I'm on a bus and a maggot comes out? That could be embarrassing.... 'No, I don't want it. That's not mine. You can have it. Look, your little girl's already playin' with it.' .... Ever see what an 'after birth' looks like? But that (being a zombie) I could eat.

Do I feel bad 'bout eatin' my old teacher? Shut up. I don't know. Don't ask me. Feel a little bad 'bout eating her husband, though.

Before all this zombie-ness I used to want to be on the Broadway Stage. Probably be hard now, 'cause like on 'hungry' nights I'd be jumpin' out into the seats and eatin' people. And most producers would probably not like it, 'cause if people heard they might feel funny about buyin' tickets.... When I talk to Madam Blavatska about that she gives me a look. Says I should be proud to be Zombie, 'cause flesh-eaters help get rid of a lot of crap. ... I go - Ewww, you're a racist..... But she says she ain't against no big group, just shitty people in general. Says she's particular. Says sometimes the world needs a good haircut and we're just the hairdressers..... OK, I can see that. Just don't wanna give it no mullet. 

Saved that old zombie book, though. Wanna see what Zombie Kings is like...


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Friday, June 6, 2014


Opal entered the house. Basement windows are easy. Kick right in. They had some kind of metal security bar, but I don't think the manufacturer considered zombies when he designed it, because Opal smashed that too. Squeezed through and slid down onto an old sofa. Place was like a little Smithsonian for discarded suburban paraphernalia ... a thirty year old Mac, basically a toy by today's standards... stuffed 'Alf' thing... chorus line of mangled, sometimes headless Barbies. Guess they got fashion doll zombies too. Creatures like Opal can see in the dark. Not magic. Just a keen ability to detect photons. We told you. Vampires got the magic, not 'fleisch essern.'

She got down on all fours. Quieter that way. Divides the weight. And scurried up the steps. Any creepy-crawlies sneaking about got out of her way real fast. First floor was typical. Pergo in the family room. Ceramic in the kitchen. Not granite. Just Corian. But it was alright. Better than what Opal's family had before she ate them. Well, she didn't eat all of them. Topaz got away. Tall clock ticked in the living room. Opal wondered what the husband did.

She went upstairs.....

Carpeting needed cleaning. Almost made her sneeze. A few of the treads squeaked real bad. Somebody snorted. Opal froze. Then the bed squeaked too. Night noises are mostly pops and squeaks and creaks. Houses live too, you know. We just crawl around inside their guts. Seven heartbeats later the somebody who snorted mumbled - Shit, gotta go pee..... It was her. It was that teacher. Opal pressed her body down onto the steps. She couldn't really see into the master bedroom from that angle, but she heard the woman get up, enter a room (guess in was the master bath, or the en suite, or whatever they call it now.) go in and close the door. Hubby kept snoring away. Our ninth grade zombie silently scrambled into the room and slid under the bed. Then she just waited amid old slippers, dog toys and whatever other crap was under there. The dog was dead, but luckily they didn't leave it under the bed. Him they had cremated. After a few minutes the woman came back. Had a rule in this house... No pee-pee flushing during the night. But she did wash her hands. Few greasy, little farts. Gonna be dead soon, but she don't know that.

Opal waits til the snoring starts. Then she slides out, carefully climbs up onto the bed, straddles the victim, pins her arms and immediately goes to work. The wicked teacher starts screaming with the excision of the first dollop of flesh..... Ed! Ed! Ed! - she goes. Get the gun! Get the gun! G-g-get the gun! ....... Ed goes - Whatsa matter!? Whatsa matter!?...... Zombie! Zombie! Zombie....... Flesh is flying. Blood splatters everywhere. Sheets like a slaughter house in hell. But Ed can't find that gun. Keeps shaking and going - Oh my god! Oh my God..... Opal keeps grindin' away like the Tasmanian Devil.... Just like a strong, little ninth grade zombie buzz saw. Teacher done talking. Mostly trembles and gurgles now. Ed watches, slack jawed and helpless.... Lungs go. Heart goes. And with the last spark of tortured  life the wicked teacher has, Opal leans over and whispers in her ear~ Don't you wish you let me get my drink?.... Then it's over....

Ed says - Is she gone?..... Opal goes - Yep..... Ed asks - You gonna kill me? Opal spits out an eyeball, that bounces off his stomach and goes - What do you think?.... With that he darts 'round the bed, grabs something off the dresser, runs into the bathroom and slams the door. Locks it too. Must of grabbed a cell phone, 'cause she hears him making a call.... to the cops. And they don't cotton much to zombie free for alls in these parts. So she crashes through the door, grabs his head and like a cartoon beaver grinds through a tree, shears that ugly sucker right off and drops it in the urine filled, unflushed toilet.

Eleven heartbeats later she's out on the dark, dark street. Soon after her ride glides by, she jumps in and they're off.

Madam Blavatska will be very pleased, indeed.


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