michael jackson ben is Doctor Franklin's Private theme Song.. 6/1/16

And Doctor Franklin went on..... The old reprobate could talk for hours, especially about his favorite subject... himself. The vampire, Jonathon, sat and listened....

Please, my dear Mister ben Macabi, think me not a bigot. I esteem no group's talents, beauty, or ability over any other. It is humanity in its entirety that needs my guidance. I've promised to be a benevolent master. .....

Jonathon doesn't say a word. He listens and tries to understand..... Franklin goes - Are you trying to 'read' me? Don't waste your time. You can't do it. Your vampire abilities, as well as the burdens, don't hold here. I've turned them off. Harmonics can accomplish almost anything. An infinite 'choir' of notes and chords, each with its own frequency, each with its own 'vibration.' I can shatter skeletons, living skeletons, I mean, deep within a living body. Think about it. What once was a man, is now a hand puppet without a hand, a slug quivering on the ground. They don't live long. Breath depends on the diaphragm and the diaphragm depends on bones. Tendons have to be attached to something.  Theoretically, a whole city can be 'liquefied' in such a manner. Well, maybe more than just theoretically, but you don't have to know everything.

Then he goes silent, listening to the birds in his garden. Jonathon sighs. He has to humor the old man. He knows that. So he pours himself a bit more wine, the better to fall into a soporific buzz....

Now alternate universes are a funny thing, an infinite number of Brigadoons, each real, each occupying the same space, each with its own unique 'hum.'  The 'hum' is pivotal. It's what makes them discrete actualities, the umami of universes, providing heft and weight and presence.... the 'beefiness' if you will. And Pig Blood Annie has been tearing through a lot of 'beef.' The rampaging 'born-witch' has seen a lot of places... all 'dark' worlds.... endless masses of densely packed writhing worms.... one huge, never ending blizzard..... the world where all sentient beings are Charlemagne The God...... But she's making progress. She's getting closer. It's the smell. It's the scent. That's what born-witches go by and vampires and over three hundred year old reprobates named 'Ben' leave very particular trails.

Meanwhile, Billy, who blogs this all for them, is in Jersey, trying to find help in The Pines. Those Red Paint people must know something. But they're quiet. They're cagey. They're tricky. Regular Jersey Pine folks know and they leave them alone. But who can tell? Maybe they'll help? A bunch of shut-mouthed, confident, Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Peekaboo Street lookalikes, that's what they are.

But disembodied, spirit narrators don't judge.

<more next time>

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