Thursday, December 24, 2015


Jonathon picks up where he left off Monday night~~~

Not all the gold coins are given to homeless people. Believe me. Center City is not over run by them. I just know where they hide. I just know who they are. But sometimes I share with working people. I'll walk through a hospital and slip one of the velvet, drawstring sacks (actually, my Hanukah-'Gelt' bags. I've been giving them out for weeks now) into the pocket of a hardworking orderly.. or a practical nurse... the overlooked people. They don't make that much. I can help them. They rarely see me. Vampires can effect people that way. It's more instinct than art. Cats can do it too. If I really 'feel' for a mortal they get a few sacks... each with the carefully folded note inside telling them where to go to sell the coins and also that I meant them to have them. I learned. I have to put that line in, because one recipient put an ad in the papers trying to find the rightful owner. I'm sure he's in the presence of God. He died young. Where else would he be?.... a saint.

Though not all are saints. There are other things out there too. Not vampires. Not other vampires, or ghouls, or witches... nothing like that. These have no preternatural identity. They sit... hidden in plain sight... Maybe in a bus shelter, or on a bench. They mumble to themselves, emitting evil, little giggles. Their eyes glow orange in the night. Some smell like stale, wet ashes. I'm not talking about mentally disturbed people. These are different. Many times the mouth never moves, yet words, or what passes for words, comes out. And the trickle of blood from a nostril is not a trickle of blood, but a greasy, red worm. I hate them. They trick people. They grab people. A feverish hand flies out, locking on a wrist. Then the language... a low, guttural barrage of words. 'Soul thieves' they are. Oh, the victims still move and talk and work and go about their lives... or what used to be their lives. And it can go on for decades... until the mortal dies.... I've seen human babies, snatched early on, exist as shells of what they might have been for the better part of a century. Puppets, they are... and sorely used. Eleven are on 'death row' right now.

Lesser fiends I'd just kill. I'd sublimate  [when a vampire passes into and out of living tissue, the cellular and molecular structure is destroyed, leaving naught but a viscous, oozing puddle]through them and that would be it. But, just as you, I am a soul too and I don't want to lose it.

So I stroll back toward the townhouse. Quite a distance really. I'm walking through a cunning, little gothic courtyard of The Wharton School now, The University of Pennsylvania's famous nursery for titans of industry and powerful money barons and that's in the 'thirties.' Our place in Society Hill is over three miles away. So I walk and I think and I communicate..... Billy types it all up... brightens the vocabulary a bit... deepens the atmosphere... He's good at that.

And please don't believe him when he tells you we give him 'looks' because he hasn't made us famous yet. He reads it all wrong. We know how hard he works. It's he who craves the spotlight. Every writer is an actor. Every writer is a 'ham.' They perform on the page ( or lap top screen ) instead of the stage. That's all.

Now permit me some privacy. I'd like to distribute a coin sack or two to some troubled undergrad. They wander around now. The night can be quite attractive. I'm sure I'll find one soon.

Peace of The Season to you all.

(with that he turns and walks away)

<more next time>


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Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Joyous New Year to all.


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