Wednesday, June 21, 2017

James Carr - The dark end of the street..Our Vampire, Jonathon, Loves this song.. 6/20/17



Jonathon speaks ~

I need this song. Every so often I listen to it. It soothes me. Night-folk spend a lot of time in the dark. And I mean to make no moral judgments. 'Dark' is an ambiguous thing.... basically just an empty void. It takes all comers. It hides everything. Some are eventually discovered. Others never are.... Darkness is magic.

The storms were severe. Four houses were struck by lightning. One home in the Delaware countryside suffered tornado damage. Vampires fear lightning. We seem to attract it. The most famished life-eater will not go out when it's near. A mortal might, under certain circumstances, survive a hit. Vampires never do. We explode. Suicidal vampires run screaming and laughing maniacally into the tempest searching for the final cataclysm. I am not suicidal. Suicide is a sin.....

So I waited till it was over, went out into the dark, raised my arms and ascended into the cloudy night sky. Sublimation calms me. Some vampires fear it, but 'Papa's' blood is almost without equal. I revel in it. I move through the air and the air moves through me. I like that... and headed for a secret place, deep within the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

Ah, The Pines... one of the largest, old growth, original forests east of the Mississippi and right in the middle of Philadelphia and New York City.... Some folks don't even know it's there... but night-folk know... and 'witchy' folk and Red Paint People and strange, mysterious species of human-ish beings know too. ... Secrets live along its dark streams. Orange eyes peer out from black shadows..... Careless people have been devoured by the huge snapping turtles and certain spider bites can take an eye out.

There's an ivy shrouded cave deep in a dense stand of tall, Southern Pines. South Jersey is the last stand of them what thrives in the South.... Got muskrats and bobcats and coy-wolves... a cougar or two... and that's just the documented varieties.... It's the undocumented specimens I mush up with.

Came down and condensed right outside that cave. Two, little dead-fish-white imp things tittered and scurried out of my way. I stood there, barely discernible in the weak moonlight dripping down through the trees and listened to what was going on in that cave.... Talks-To-God man lives in it. He's a shaman... a non-denominational shaman. Line started with the Red Paint People more than eight thousand years ago, but he does hoo-doo's for everybody now. Acts as court of last resort too. Real bad types get dragged in there. Then he shoves them down a near endless, round, narrow tunnel... more like a chute, sliding into the dirt, gravel and mud... a one way ride you don't want to take. Some folks try to straighten their legs and wedge them against the opposite side. That works for a bit, but sooner or later they get a cramp, or get tired and the race is on... sliding and careening down that greasy tunnel till they pop out the end, fifteen feet above an oozing, muddy, clay-like floor of a Hershey's Kiss shaped chamber...

I can hear them moaning.....

If they break a few bones, they break a few bones. It's not like anyone comes back up.

I step into the cave and quietly make my way 'round a bend, toward a low burnished glow about sixty feet up ahead... a four hundred pound black bear snorts and wakes up to check me out. Animals don't bother night-folk. He just sniffs and goes back to sleep.... Then the Talks-To-God-Man speaks. He says - His eyes are my eyes. Why are you hear, vampirino?.... I enter the small, round room where he sits staring into a compact, reddish fire. It's hard to tell where his shaggy hair and beard leaves off and his tattered, shredded up animal skin cloak begins. I sit down, nod... he talks again - Can you hear them moaning? There's two of them down there. One's got a broken shoulder and a broken leg. The other's got a shattered femur. Razor sharp piece jammed up into his bladder. He might have a few more fractures too, but that's the big one. They don't die right away. Water seeps up through the clay. Got fat slugs crawlin' around down there. Live off the mold. When them two get hungry enough, fat mold eatin' slugs gonna be like candy. Last bastard what rode the chute lived nine months. Well, existed nine months. When he dies, slugs ate him. They got a slime turns bone into soft, rubbery gristle. Slugs got rough tongues. They like gristle. They like everything. Mold just for tough times. Now, why you here, life-eater?

No reason for me to tell him. He knows. Talks-To-God-Men have their ways. I want to rescue one. You see, Edith, my housekeeper is a Piney-Witchy-Woman. She picks up things, even forty or fifty miles away in Philadelphia and one of them poor bastards is like a nephew to her.

Did he do anything horrible?

Don't ask me that. It's not what you do. It's all who you know... I say - I want one of them back.....

He laughs and says - Which one?

I say - The one with the punctured bladder. You know who that is. I'm thinking the slugs are your eyes too.

He nods and says something in Red Paint People talk. Then adds - Do your best, vampirino...

I attempt to get up, but my legs are all sucked into the damp, clay floor and no matter how I try, nothing changes. Even with all my abilities, I'm not going anywhere.

And the two, poor souls, three hundred feet into the earth begin to scream...

<more next time>

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Friday, June 16, 2017

Our Reverent Vampire, Jonathon , shares his thoughts as he watches this filmBaraka (1992) . 6/15/17 - fast... and slow

 

I have kept my own counsel as of late and in a sense I have retired from you. Others, both mortal and night-folk have filled my place, but I have always been here... thinking, experiencing and asking. Perhaps, I'm beginning to taste what 'life' is like for the one we all know as "Papa?'

But I am Jonathon ben Macabi, equally known as Tomas de Macabea and I have something to share.

Our world, our planet, our place in the universe is in a state of unbalance. A tribe of philosopher shepherds in the semi arid lands of what now calls itself 'America' has a name for it.. they call it 'Koyaanisqatsi.'... The Hopi knew and subsequent generations of humanity continue to know. We can't pretend any longer.

We are here to help complete and perfect Creation, or at least our part of it... and is not every place we touch our part? Our hands are God's Hands. That is the potential. The actuality of that truth is up to us.

Go out and work toward the perfect completion of Creation. There is an old Hebrew - Aramaic term, 'Tikkun Olam.' It means 'repair the universe' and the Children of Abraham are charged with nothing less..

Think not that the duty skips you. Think not that you hail from a 'different' tribe. We are all intermeshed.

If the nations had not been so intolerant toward the Exiled of Israel for the better part of two millennia the ten million souls existing at the time of Constantine would, through natural growth, be five hundred million souls today. In a sense, due to brutal forced 'assimilation' that number still rings true. The 'blood' is spread among all. The 'genes' shine forth in many bodies... These days, in this scientific age you can have the test. You can know.

Would that certainty entail a change of belief?... No, what we believe is up to each and every one of us.

These days politicians in the great New World empire of America view mankind as so many crabs in a basket, each responsible for its own place in the pile.. They tell us to work for the betterment of ourselves and be loyal to those who give us work. Well, that is true, up to a point, but it's only the beginning.

You are more than cogs in a machine. I'm sure, 'intuitively' we all know that, just as we know the ideal of 'righteous charity' so often falls so short of the mark....If it did not, physical want and injustice would be gone from the places they call 'red states.' Sadly, that's not true... far from it.

We are our brothers' keepers. There are no 'strangers.' We are all neighbors... It's obvious... Why is such a pure and simple thing resented by so many?

What choices do you make?

Those of you who visit this place with any regularity know me. Tomas de Macabea, or Jonathon ben Macabi (I am both) is a reverent soul, a believing 'vampire,' or at least, most nights, I am.

That's all

Have a nice weekend and if it is within your power to help others have a nice weekend, do that too.

It's a start.

<more to come>

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Monday, June 12, 2017

Meet the Baron Sareki... inspired by the music of the great Brandon Fiechter.. #vampirewonderland 6/11/17

 

Think of me as an Austro-Hungarian raconteur. I've graced the legendary coffee houses of Vienna and Budapest and Prague. I've danced at Schonbrun Palace and tasted the blood of Hapsburg royals. Some say I invented the czardas, or that it was invented for me. I have a lock of Cissie's hair... more than a lock... live strands complete with waxy roots and all. Some day we'll grow her back. I'm told the roots hold volumes on each and every one of us. Who has your hair?

Don't ask my age, or the place of my nativity. Who cares for such arbitrary details? But know me as Baron Sareki. That role defines me. Am I vahmpir?... Yes I am vahmpir ... and I am showman, impresario, rememberer of things past and so much more... I am orchestrating a 'come back,' though I have never gone anywhere.

It was so much easier being vahmpir in the old days. Private things were private things. People believed what you told them to believe. Brash, showy but eccentric Mittl-Europan 'aristocrats' were two for a pfennig . And the occasional missing 'ladies of the Ring Strasse' meant nothing. Members of the Gendarmerie barely noticed. Men of a certain sort were worth even less.

Unlike your Jonathon, I took no vows. Once I heard an advocate (lawyer) say most murders are aberrations. People snap. The right stimulus at the right time can cause that. Murder happens. Someone dies and then it's over. Skies clear. Birds sing. Peace reigns and the killer never does that thing again. Murder addicts, what you now call serial killers are rare. I think night-folk commit the same aberrant act over and over again. The trigger... the visceral blood lust... But in our case the circumstance, or the trigger, or the tension never disappears... Who knows? Perhaps we are serial killers. I mean do you think the Menendez Brothers will kill again?... The whole issue puzzles me. Are we battered individuals? Was the vampire who brought us over, in effect, out batterer? Is the only cure peasants with pitchforks, or some such variation?

Our individual conditions... yours... mine.. everyone's are so muddled. That's just how life is...

But the 'wine' flows... and we of the vampire persuasion possess near immortality, so tonight I dance. Tonight I feast. If I happen to drain you, or some other human you're attached to, hate me not. The act is not 'personal,' but an automatic reaction to a trigger far beyond my control.

Such savory little treats you all are... like sweet and sour meatballs drenched in gravy.

Ah, wunderbar.

(clicks heels) Baron Sareki is pleased to taste... no, forget I said that... Baron Sareki is pleased to meet you...

<Baron Sareki's tale will continue>

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Friday, June 9, 2017

Vampires hate the Summertime .. 6/9/17

They once sealed a vampire into a heavy, thirteenth century iron maiden made of lead. When it was shut and locked they wielded the seam with more lead. For the unfortunate life-eater sealed within there was no way out. Vampires cannot sublimate through that dense metallic substance. He sat there, forgotten, in the burial crypt of a semi ruined Austrian castle. Snow melt filtered down through the stones. He felt the cold. Thus he marked the seasons. Sometimes he dreamed. sometimes he didn't. The world turned 'round without him.

He's still there. The 'magic' rests differently on everyone. Some would dry and shrivel. But only some. I am Jonathon and I know many things. I feel them. I smell them. I taste them. And I sit here in our Philadelphia townhouse contemplating what I should share with you. There's so much... But let me just say this --- Truth usually comes at the beginning. So pay attention to our early writings. First utterances are the most accurate. All the really good words get used up. What comes after that rings hollow. It's like that with musicians... with poets and artists. The initial torrent runs clean and fresh. Subsequent trickles bear pebbles and sand.. Do you understand?

I've been practicing my 'expansions.' It's like sublimating. But when we sublimate the atoms of our beings  diffuse only enough to allow us to pass through solid matter. Expansions are different. We grow like clouds. Each particle moves away from its neighbors like stars in the firmament. Of course you understand the universe is expanding too? Maybe that's just how it is? 'Entropy' and all. I rise up above the atmosphere unto the very portals of space and I expand till my outstretched arms reach Heaven's Door... figuratively speaking.... I rest like that, drifting toward the Moon.... an invisible human shaped thing perhaps twelve thousand miles long. The silvery orb a basketball . My fingers rake the dust.... Then I contract and come back home.

'Papa' says I may not feel compelled to feed much longer. though I'll still possess that ability. Am I afraid?... Of course. But life goes on. What comes next is also a new beginning.... Will I still be here? Certainly... Things take time. Ux Mal wasn't built in a day. Sarah, my consort, watches me.. Now please know she has abilities far in advance of most other six year old vampirinas. I created her. My blood is her blood. But I've witnessed more than a thousand years... Well, maybe not. But close to it.

She sits there, in her comfortable club chair doing needle point.... petit point, actually. Her eyesight is superb. With concentration, she can see microscopic creatures cavorting through a glass of tap water. I can see souls rise up from corpses. I can hear the shrieks and cries of those buried alive. That doesn't happen so much anymore, not in 'developed' western cultures. But when it does, I can hear them.

Edith, our 'witchy woman' housekeeper, hands me an 'old fashion' glass of chilled vodka... more than chilled, icy cold actually. I enjoy the sensation... Cold is good. Vampires love cold. Winter is our time.... long starry nights.

The summer solstice approaches. They say in the misty time of first beginnings, early vampires truly feared that event. What if the days continued to get longer and longer till nighttime was no more? They gathered for prayers and for what some might call 'feeding frenzies.' But that was far, far in advance of my time... Papa's time too... even the Lady Renate knew not those things, though we all heard stories.

I suppose 'Mr. Old Bones,' the only extant Neanderthal vampire I've ever encountered might know the truth?
___________________

With that, the life-eater known as Jonathon ben Macabi, or Tomas de Macabea (both are equally valid) puts down his glass, exits the 'den,' proceeds through the entrance hall and leaves the house.

Sarah, his consort, waits for the door to click shut. It locks automatically. Vampire doors are always locked.

She exhales and returns to her craft.

<next time - magic even you can do>

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...

Monday, June 5, 2017

Our Vampire, Jonathon ben Macabi likes this ..David Bowie - Cat People (Putting Out Fire) Music Video HQ

 

Your vampire friend, Jonathon ben Macabi, like this. He listen to it all the time. He think and he listen. Tried to get rid a y'all for a while. Had Billy throw that Illuminati tale at you. True stuff too. Got it from an old journal. Lawrence Edgerton was real. A lot of what we tell you is real. Thing is... y'all don't know which parts.

But nobody read it, or not 'nuff nobody. Y'all want blood. Gets like that in the summertime. Folks get hot. Get itchy. Get buggy. I Mister Never You Mind. Y'all know me. Just a disembodied spirit of a man what got throwed in acid 'bout ninety five years ago somewhere in Le Vieux Carre. Dat de Frenchie part a New Orleans. I was a Creole gentleman, or at least I dress like one. Had dem white suits and nice cool Panama hats. You know them hats not come from Panama? Get 'em little way passed Panama, down Ecuador way. I used to go down there for de white powder... de cocaine. Folks in Quito, dat de capital, like doing business wit America people, 'specially us Creole folk, 'cause we sorta speak they talk. Most Creole be a mash-up a Spanish an' Frenchie. Talk both ways. But I digress.

Jonathon tired. Night-folk (vampires) get dat way come June. Nights too short. Blood too hot. Dey like it hot, but not dat hot. He once make a gal take a cold bath 'fore he kill her. She say - What for I got take a cold bath?.... He say - 'Cause I say so.... She go - Humph.... He say - You take dat cold bath, I give you gold bracelet.... She say 'humph' again, but she take dat bath an' he give her dat bracelet. She wear it when he kill her. But then he take it back. What for she need gold bracelet when she dead? Not like she know what comin'. Ain't nobody know dat. I once knew a fellah walkin' by de boneyard get killed by a beer bottle from the sky. Aviator guy toss it out. Diss right after de Great War. Dem bastids think they hot shit. He got gal up dere wit him. She say - Whoopee! How 'bout you an' me get drunk, big boy?...... So they do. She get herself little bit knock up, but dat wit 'nother big boy.

Dey send me out here to talk to you first. Night-folk, I mean. Jonathon gone break some bastid's knuckles wit a hammer 'fore he kill him tomorrow.  You know ev'ry finger got three knuckles... the big one what meet the hand and two little ones. Gone be lot a bone crackin'. Punishment fit de crime. Dat how it is... He got this thing he do, vampire fellah, I mean. Stand behind a guy. Put his right hand over guy's forehead, so head can't move. Then he hook his left hand over fellah's jaw an' rip it right off. Tongue too, most a the time. Dat for like a real big crime.

Vampire got they ways. You don't wanna cross 'em. They tear you right up. Not like gettin' throwed in no vat a acid, but still....

It gone be a long hot summer... an' if y'all want vampires, you gonna get 'em.

<more to come>

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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Welcome to The Wonderland and possibly, Fame - I Sing The Body Electric

 

This is Jonathon ben Macabi speaking, or Tomas de Macabea. Both truths are equally valid. I am the vampire 'star' of this site and in a sense its mascot. We've been here, on line, for six and a half years, detailing all types of fiction and fantastical escapes (well, at least we 'say' it's fiction) And we will continue to do so, but it's time to grow. That's where you come in...

Everything is everywhere... We believe that. In this digital plane of existence location is not a bar to anything. Light shines through every screen... hopefully some of it bounces off you. So join us. Pick a niche and write, or report, or interpret and tack your words up here. We already enjoy a somewhat respectable level of traffic. As of tonight, we're closing in on 400,000 hits. Considering most came in the last two years or less that's pretty good.

It's time for you to stake out a platform and fully inhabit your space. We're adding writer-reporters to our authorized contributor list. I think we're allowed one hundred.. A few we've already nominated. Many will nominate themselves. If videos are your thing, post videos... Cover food, or style, or cinema, or politics, or culture, or humor. Interview people. Share your links and any other sites you might have... Cover music. Post your own material... Discuss creativity with other creative people.

Switch niches whenever you want, just preface every post with --- KEYWORD MUSIC ... or KEYWORD POLITICS ... or KEYWORD CINEMA ... You get the picture. Make's it easy for browsers to search topics... example --- vampirewonderland.blogspot.com music.... All written posts should be at least 500 words. That's not our rule. Blogging experts say readers prefer 500 words or more. If you post video or audio material, you're the director. You pick the length... You decide how your by-line looks.. Does it come up top right after the keyword, or at the bottom? If you have a Twitter of FaceBook page, or any other social site add those links too. You can make them clickable. You'll see 'Link' on a bar at the top of the page when you write. Click on it. Very easy to figure out.

If you'd like to do this, click Billy's Twitter link just below all this and he'll set it all up.... Uh, I'm not 'Billy.' I'm Jonathon... remember?... OK.

There's a 'share' bar at bottom of each blog page. I'll get into how to use it later... but USE it... It works.

Till next time.....

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click BILLY ON TWITTER ... to join me and talk about your ideas..... Everything is everywhere... What choices do you make?... You want inspiration?... Listen to the great video from the movie FAME up at the top... Saw it on You Tube and had to share it. It's sooo good.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

There was one special day when ROLLING STONE was born, so maybe we all got a shot too? .. 6/1/17

We've been experimenting and considering new things. Story arcs will still be a part of it, but so will a lot of other things.... non fiction... 'newsy' things.... critiques... opinions...interviews.... Still feeling our way around... Will be sending invitations to writers soon... Manhattan's Ron Woodard might be the first (his invite already went out).. If you're a regular reader or TWITTER inter actor<---- click here to communicate with me (us?) about this via Twitter.... Morphing (maybe, I hope) into #vampirewonderland (clickable) an Urbane 'Evening' Newspaper... as we always say ---- 'everything is everywhere'..... what do you want to say, or highlight, or share?.. What's YOUR niche?

We already have 'some' name recognition... Might as well stretch and grow...

Also note ---- you can cover goings on in ANY city on Earth.... arts.... politics.... film.... pop culture..... how to get a break... how not to get a break.....Everything is everywhere.... borders are merely an illusion....

Please think about this... If you like, go watch ALMOST FAMOUS for inspiration...

That's it.... PLEASE communicate.

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Monday, May 22, 2017

Ape Tears Human Asunder 5/22/17 . Matthias Loibner hurdy gurdy master



Lawrence Edgerton, in spirit form, shares more from his early years with the Illuminati-----

Besides Hefton, I made three other friends that night. They were all a bit older than I and called me 'little brother.' One was a 'lord,' since his father was an earl and, as elder son, he carried the secondary title. The other two were brothers hailing from an amazingly rich gentry clan. Now gentry families are a whole other thing. They bear no titles, but not due to any social deficiency. I suppose, they just don't need them. Everyone knows who they are. And not being peers allows them to pull strings in the commons, where it really counts. Besides, they often hold vaunted county seats, such as sheriff and that provides real power too. Tarlton, they were called. Twins, though not identical, if I recall correctly.

Why do I dwell on this?.... Well, that's due to what happened next. They took me to a secret establishment. London was filled with secret establishments, from hidden gambling dens to a variety of gimmicky whore houses and occult cellars where they (at least according to whispers) sewed live humans into the carcasses of gigantic Nile crocodiles, which were then slow roasted in a long narrow bed of red hot coals. They say a certain Upper Egyptian river deity appreciated the gesture and dispensed eternal largesse to all committed supplicants. Why they didn't just write him a nice fat check, I'll never know.

We went to a rare and new display, deep beneath the second cellar of an old country house (or what was once a country house) a bit to the west of Vaux Hall, a once esteemed pleasure garden with wine dispensaries, live music and lovely little boats for hire, as well as a festively decorated merry-go-round and other such fun-fair devices.
The place sat off beyond a dark, secluded copse patrolled by armed guards. Some said a Scots Laird paid them, others a gentleman close to the throne. Wise men said nothing, as it was their place to know nothing.

That night we travelled incognito, in a nondescript hired coach, devoid of ostentatious trim. The coachmen was a mute illiterate. Any secrets he might know were sealed within his bones. The two bodyguards, brought up from Palermo and blood members of The Black Hand were the best that money could buy.. So we rode through the gardens and passed through the trees, till we came to the house (still a large commodious affair) and entered through a discreet, little kitchen door 'round the back...... A quick race down two or three turns of an ancient, spiral stair delivered us to the spot.... How many similar places hid among the rabbit warrens of London, I do not know. In that age they were numerous and well frequented.... You might call them 'television' and 'internet.' So feign not exalted honor at our expense. You do the like, though from a proper distance.

None were witness, save myself, my four companions and a master of ceremonies done up like a cruel, dandy clown. The walls, thick, white washed, rough hewn stone. In the center of the chamber was a large, black, cast iron cage with a small narrow passage going off to the right and a matching one going off to the left. They floor was strewn with straw. A miserly bit of dull, orange light fell down from lanterns widely placed about the space. The cruel clown whistled. A door opened and a whimpering naked wretch crawled forth from the sinister side out into the round cage.... No one made a sound.... The wretch, in a barely audible voice, whispered - Please..... but in vain. No rescue there that night.... The clown sighed and the remaining door burst open, releasing a bristling, bounding ape, brought hence from the banks of a river deep within the fetid depths of an equatorial jungle... How it shrieked and rattled the bars.... The victim curled up like a nut and tried to disappear, but the keen eyed beast already knew his scent and studied him . It hissed. The man screamed. The carnage was on.

First they go for the scrotum (true). Do you know how easy it is for a one hundred and eighty pound thing with two and a half inch canines to do that? The immediate and prodigious fountain of red is absolutely amazing. One can see the heartbeat in each and every pulse. Very often other sex parts come off with it. Death, due to exsanguination is a given. The straw was completely blood soaked. The ape's head resembled nothing so much as a crazed, candied apple. One or two of my companions downed swigs from cunning, little flasks.... Then the ruined fetal human babbled in an unknown language, reigniting the ire of the troglodyte, which grabbed the doomed meat sludge by its ankles and swung him around in complete circles, like a frightful ballerino committed to smashing as much bone as possible against the bars. Finally, the dizzy, stumbling ape settled down and proceeded to strip the flesh from the skull. We heard weak, little moans as it sucked out the eyes. Hard to stomach the fact that any measure of consciousness still remained.

The small door at the end of the passage to the right scraped open. The ape grabbed his dead 'toy' by the mandible and quickly disappeared back to its den.

No one moved...

After a heartbeat the cruel, dandy clown clapped his hands and giggled with delight.... We freshened ourselves at the kitchen pump (fortunately no one was splattered... they obviously had this show down to a science) and left.

The cool, night air through the slightly opened coach windows felt good.

And the sound of lurid hurdy gurdy music (a Vaux Hall staple) played us down the lane and out to the streets.

Tomorrow, or some day soon after, I'd see the Tarltons about an investment. My Illuminati mentors need their money to proceed.

And I think I know how to approach them..

That's how it was... Witness a murder, make a friend....

'Society' in the capital, circa 1830's......

<more next time>

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Friday, May 19, 2017

Prologue - Any Dream Will Do ..Edgerton learns Illuminati Symbolism 5/18/17

 

I hope the great and talented creator of musical culture responsible for this inspiring material begrudges us not for highlighting it here. But this disembodied spirit narrator burdened with the telling of the tale (for it is his tale) wafts through productions of the great composer's work all the time and wants you, oh best belov-eds, to think upon it.

Though that comes later...

Now we must return to Lawrence Edgerton (please know that the spirit was Edgerton) and what happened to him after the 'pleasurable' dinner and card came at Mivart's Hotel (the egg that grew into Claridge's) last time we met..... David Hefton (known as the 'second Beau Brummel') dropped him at the London townhouse he shared with his ersatz 'aunt' and left.

Inside, the selfsame lady sat in the main salon entertaining a late night visitor.... the man with the long, salt and pepper hair, indeed the gentleman who first brought young Edgerton 'out from the darkness' (an Illuminati term) a few weeks ago. They shared an aromatic Turkish hookah, as a large, wind-up music box played Gypsy folksongs in the corner. London culture in the 1830's still had a very 'romantic' bent. A soft glow from a pair of milk glass whale oil lamps bathed all in a most flattering way.

Edgerton nodded to the seated pair and joined them... The dapper, gentleman guest said - What's that smell? And I don't mean the ambergris scent from the lamps. It's something else.... The ersatz 'aunt,' herself a valued Illuminati 'light,' blushed and smiled, as the man went on... Is that some sort of perfume, or eau de cologne? And I don't mean that concoction  the 'Little Corporal' favored, 4711, or whatever it was........ Edgerton didn't say a word.... I believe it is a perfume. Chantilly water if I'm not mistaken - whispered the 'aunt.'....... The visitor thought for a moment, smiled knowingly and chuckled.... Please forgive us, young sir. We're quite familiar with current practice. We know what goes on at those 'gentlemen's evenings' - said the guest..... Speak not for me - went the aunt. I am a lady..... But she ever so slightly rolled her eyes.....

The salt and pepper haired man reminded Edgerton that although true Illuminati plans and purposes were in no way evil or sinister, the world was not an innocent place. 'Lights' (members) sometimes stepped down from the high ground for the greater good. Then he referenced the Biblical story of Joseph, a well known Illuminati symbol of one who did just that.... a reverent Son of Jacob, who made his way in a scandalous, foreign society, thus saving his brethren from certain starvation, as well as saving the Egyptians too..... We are all Josephs - said the man.... And Josephinas - added the lady..... We do what we can, where we can and when we can to move the herd along. Some may hate us. Some may love us. But all need us - he added.

So Lawrence Edgerton went up to bed. His employer, Sir Charles de Castor expected him to be at his tasks by eight 0'clock and his Illuminati brothers and sisters expected him to learn the ways of 'the street' (financial district), as well as the habits of the powerful men who made their mark there.

The music box went quiet. The house was dark.

Before drifting off, young Lawrence could not help but think about the 'private girl' he'd met just a few hours earlier.

And that was it.

Let the game begin...

<more to come>

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Wednesday, May 17, 2017

The Chainsmokers... Uno Illuminato said to post this.. 5/17/17. - Closer (Lyric) ft. Halsey




Hotels are a new thing... urban 'manor houses' for those with a bit of social distinction, or the money to create the illusion of social distinction. They set up 'house' for a few evenings or a week, perhaps a month, if funds allow, and live a life of luxury. Mivart's is such a place. London's first major hostelry. Quite a step up from the plain, though comfortable Georgian inns, although some of them still enjoy a devoted clientele. Indeed, so discrete was the neo-classical fa├žade that most actually took it for the city home of an aristocratic, well-off person of distinction.

My entre, my voucher, David Hefton, led the way. We ascended the grand staircase and proceeded down a wide, cream paneled hallway, lit by tall candles in crystal sconces, each surrounded by a sizeable cream framed mirror.... Why do I dwell so on such superficialities? I suppose I want the age to come alive for you. Mirrors were necessities back then, needed to reflect and multiply the illumination. Every floor had its 'sand boy,' even private homes, always at the ready to smother flames with a large, heavy pail-full of white Dover granules. For flames above the floor, such as those caused by mischievous sconces, there was a water boy... same job... different bucket. Should a ceiling alight, those that could escaped to the streets. Those that couldn't ran toward the windows and prayed.

Our era was tinged by the Enlightenment, though not by much. Urban poor often lived on pigeons or worse and prostitution was (no matter what churchmen said) better than starvation.

Now, let me get back on track.... I can use that term. Investment in railroads was beginning. The Illuminati promoted it. What better way to knit humanity together?

Hefton stopped before a pair of doors... cream colored, as usual. Oh, there was a bit of gold leaf applied here and there. 'Eggshell' does get tedious , thus the gory over reaction of the Victorian age yet to come.... Then he quietly knocked. A footman soundlessly let us in. The room, somewhat dim compared to the rest of the establishment was set up as a card room... five tables of gentlemen carelessly placing bets on the turn of a stiffened piece of thick, glossy paper..... I whispered to Hefton - How much is the buy-in? ... That term, I knew. Even country boys gambled. And I did have funds supplied by the 'beacon' (an organized 'chapter' of Illuminati).... Hefton (called 'the second Beau Brummel') smiled and said - Just sit down. Everything's been arranged.... So we took seats at a table occupied by four gentlemen recently graduated from university. Hefton made the necessary introductions. Another footmen gave us each our buy-ins and that was it. Not much different than the last time we spoke. Society was like that. One met a group... sized everyone up and was sized up in return.

Those in attendance were men of wealth, either their own, or some senior relation's... But the important thing is they could get it... should the right organization apply the proper amount of pressure.

So I played cards that night... I ate delicious cold, rare roast beef served Bavarian style with horseradish and pickled slaw..... I drank chilled Rhine wines. In the 1830's chilled wine was a true luxury and quite a delight.

Before play resumed, 'private girls,' as they were called, dressed in corsets and scanties, took their place under each table, surprising every guest in turn. Some closed their eyes. Some giggled. Others just stared into space and gasped for air.... How did I react?... With dignity and aplomb, I must say. I do remember that 'our' private girl was a quite striking Amazon named Charlotte... I did not know that then, but I learned soon enough...

'Dame' Charlotte, as she was called, proved a true friend... and a genuine virtuoso (is there a feminine suffix for that word?) in the persuasive arts.

Now, please let me streak about the universe, as disembodied spirits do. I have an appointment west of The Pleiades.

Edgerton out...

<more tomorrow>
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Thursday, May 11, 2017

Our Vampire Jonathon ben Macabi Speaks Tonight 5/11/17 .Kabbalistic Village - Raga Chill - Happy Indian Sitar Music

 

It is I, oh best belov-eds, one Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea and also known as a life-eater. I know your age calls me 'vampire.' I hate that word.

For many many nights I have been lost to you, as you are lost to me. Our tale meanders like the waters or the Duero, but sometimes we fall in. This is one of those times.

I have been thinking about 'infinity,' the ever expanding nexus of all possibilities and I know why such a thing can never rest under a label of numerical worth. I have always known, or almost always. A holy man came to our city during my boyhood, a man from far off Hind. All knew him as Bene Yisroel, a Hebrew proclaimer of the Unity from beyond the River Ganges. Thus they who over saw the governance of The Caliphate accepted him, for all who proclaimed the Oneness of Divinity found protection, if not unblemished freedom in our land. Though after a time we knew him as something else.

He was wise and learned in the ways of many tribes and nations. Indeed, many cartloads of books came with him. I heard him expound on The Logic of Old Ur and the mathematics of Ancient Cathay. He claimed knowledge of The Ten Lost Tribes scattered far beyond the River Sabbath, but our own learned men just rolled their eyes. Still his recollections were extremely diverting and so we shared our honey cakes and wine.

One night, after imbibing too much, he regaled us with detailed histories of battles fought in Heaven between blue skinned gods in radiant conveyances and cunning demons with swords made from lightning. From the tone of his voice, those versed in such things recognized his reverence and knew these stories were holy writ to him.

A scholar from Toledo said - Tell me, most erudite sir, are you perhaps a high born believer in the ancient Faith of Hind?.... At first, the man hesitated, afraid to speak... but the scholar from Toledo went on.... Fear not - he said. We will not denounce you, for was not our Deliverer, Savior and Redeemer also a stranger in a strange land?.... And the high born believer in the ancient Faith of Hind knew of that Prince of Egypt who stepped down from greatness only to rise to Glory, for as I said, he was versed in many things.

We asked him why he was here. Muslims ruled in this place. Trinitarians and Jews might live here, but those known as polytheists were anathema. They faced adoption of the dominant creed or death and our foreign man of wisdom was to meet with a brother wise man from far off Ux Mal, a city of the Mayans. Please don't look so shocked. People from beyond the Ocean Sea were known to us. Of course we never encountered them in great numbers, nor did we write of them. Such beings were myths, or if not myths, surely the most evil of demons. Believe me... we knew the rules.

Now it was that this gentlemen from Ux Mal washed up on our shores amidst the wreckage of a great twin-hulled ship built in the manner of his people. For months, he and a companion lived in shadows, fearful of our ways and our beasts. Horses terrified him. Till a widow in Cadiz took he and the other one in. She believed them to be angels or perhaps jinn and after a time they learned her language and ways, becoming the kidnapped sons of a faithful tribe from beyond the Great Desert in Timbuctu. Word of this kidnapped prince spread through back alleys and various municipal marketplaces. Though all knew he must remain hidden lest enemies assassinate him before he might regain his portion and, if God willed it, share a bit with they who were his protectors and friends.

Thus the legend worked its way from caravanserai to caravanserai, till even in the vicinity of distant Mumbai there were they who knew the tale...

Where language failed, numbers kept true. And peoples different in every way still searched for the resolution of Pi... the Portal to Infinity... The magic which was real and the same even unto the most disparate segments of humanity and after a fashion represents the unity of all things....

The next time we meet, if God wills it, we will get there, or at least approach as close as we might dare....

(until next time)

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Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Edgerton Meets the Fashionable Set.. 5/10/17 .a travel to the 19th century of london




Before we continue our tale, the disembodied, spirit narrator directs all to subscribe to the site conjured by Alexander Flamel on You Tube. Mr. Flamel created this video and you should see it...

and now our Illuminati Arc goes on~~~~

London in this age had few hotels. Members of the landed classes had their own townhouses and used those during 'the season.' People a wee bit socially deprived rented distinguished domiciles. Unmarried gentlemen lived bachelor lives at their clubs and parvenus attempting to be what they were not took rooms in the better inns or rented space in suitable homes owned by respectable widows.

Lawrence and his artificial 'aunt' left Miss Bobbin's residence for a somewhat small, though smartly set up neo-classic townhouse owned by the Illuminati. Few knew it was not theirs. Funds from the organization covered everything. And do not believe they who claim sinister intent. True Illuminati follow an assortment of recognized  creeds and denominations, or none at all. Liars who tout fealty to evil forces are just that... liars and have no place among the group. There are no horned gods , or fallen angels, or revenant mummies. Seek them in fiction, for they are not here.... although mystery of a sort and shadowy intrigue run rampant and reality can be just as lethal.

The Thames holds many victims tied in sacks and drowned. River mites creep up from the mud to take the leavings. The little crabby things work fast, pinching off the waterlogged flesh and stuffing it down their loathsome maws. In a fortnight only the bones remain. Hagfish and lampreys grind into those. The river swallows it all. Them what takes no dives in dark waters dies just the same, but the trip can be more troubling..... Cross the wrong sort and you might get throwed in a fiery furnace, or head-crushed in a vice, or ripped to shreds in the bear pits. The folks 'round Seven Dials got their tricks. Professionals, they are and known to work for the highest and mightiest in the land... plain and rich alike... those who scrape for their fat and them with golden pockets.

Lawrence Edgerton was about to meet some... the golden pockets sort. That evening his new sponsor, the 'honourable' David (Beau Brummel) Hefton came by in his brougham and carried him off to a private roast beef dinner in an establishment known as Mivart's Hotel... indeed, the first concern of its kind to bear that lofty designation. Later generations knew it as Claridge's, but that came in Kitchener's time, soon after the fall of Khartoum.

They spoke, as a quartet of chestnut geldings bore them over the damp, London cobbles.

First trip to 'the Aldwyck' (early Saxon name for London, popular with romantic poets), my boy? - said Hefton..... Lawrence nodded. I believe I was here as a very young child, perhaps two or three years old, but I remember none of it, sir..... Well, you'll soon remember some after this night is over.....

Then the talking ceased. Every so often the soft gleam of a street lamp cut in to warm the shadows, till they stopped by the white, marble curbstone and exited the carriage..... A liveried footman opened the door. They passed into a public room worthy of a duke's house, bright with candles and London society.

Few took notice, perhaps a quick practiced glance, for all had parts to play...

But they left that 'stage' and climbed the wide, main stairs to a private room above....

And there it all began...

<more to come>

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Monday, May 8, 2017

Edgerton Meets The New Beau Brummel.. 5/7/17 .Order Of Precedence - British Royal Family. Why Catherine Curtseys To Pr...

 

So young Lawrence Edgerton occupied a tall clark's desk in the room nearer the door, his top hat neatly stowed among a row of long, canted wall pegs specially made for that purpose. Shorter pegs might do for lesser headgear such as working men might wear, but this was an establishment frequented by middleclass quasi-gentlemen as well as those farther up the scale. Indeed, in 'the City,' as the financial district was termed, top hats were almost a legal requirement.

He was put to work reading every newspaper and broadsheet available and neatly clipping anything remotely important for his patron, Sir Charles, to examine later. After that, since he had a good hand, came subscription cards, fine heavy stock, about the size of what people in your time call an Ebook Reader. Each featured the name of  the concern marketed, its location, the product or service vended, shares to be sold, date of initial sale and opening price. At the bottom came - Sir Charles de Castor, honourable broker, City of London plus  his location on Chancery Lane. Lawrence penned them by the dozens and a bit later, during luncheon, distributed them to gentlemen coming and going from The Royal Exchange. Similar advertisements appeared in various daily business journals, but a card, respectfully presented in person was harder to ignore.... That's how he came to know Beau Brummel...

Now this 'Beau Brummel' was not the first Beau Brummel. that personage had long absconded to France in avoidance of debts and other obligations. Yet 'style' had become a 'thing' among certain moneyed circles of the town and this gentleman, one David Watkins, second son to Lord Hefton (thus he'd never inherit the title) was a sartorial paragon and because of that was bestowed with this informal appellation. Everyone called him Beau. We'll come back to him, but first I have to tell you more...

Lawrence particularly valued his time on 'the street.' He'd watch, as 'money barons' good naturedly gathered for lunch at this or that coffee house. Truthfully, coffee house entrances were a good place to distribute his cards, if not the best. The air was less sooty than districts farther east. Due to the narrow streets, foot traffic trumped the horse drawn variety. Shoes stayed cleaner. The meat pies sold at establishments up and down the thoroughfare seemed less lethal than those in less rarefied surroundings and the Honourable Mr. David Hefton apparently liked him. The 'tall' top hat is what did it. We described it in our last post, but for the uninformed, we'll do so once more..... taller than usual... slightly flaring at the top....fits low over the ears and brow, with a brim that rolls up on the sides...very memorable indeed.. In fact, the dapper man about town stopped him and asked where he got it.... but Lawrence didn't know. His 'pretend' aunt paid for it with Illuminati money. He paid no attention to the shop. He was new in town. What did he know?.... All Hefton heard was he didn't know and it struck him funny. Young men always sought good tailors, or hatters and the like and few 'forgot.' So he examined the subscription card Lawrence had just given him and later that afternoon, after a delightful coffeehouse lunch, the rather well known fellow came 'round to the House of de Castor for a talk.... and dropped seven hundred and fifty pounds on a canal company up in the midlands. Sir Charles was very pleased.

That evening Lawrence joined his new friend and other fashionable people for a night at the theatre, followed by a late dinner at one of the fashionable new hotels springing up around town.

Young Edgerton was off to a good start....

<more to come>

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Friday, May 5, 2017

Edgerton's 1st Illuminati Assignment In London 5/4/17 . Street Life in London in the 19th century - Pictures from the streets in...

 

The woman playing Lawrence Edgerton's aunt was an old Illuminati 'light' (individual member) known as Flora Mendez. In her own way, she was responsible for Wellington's battlefield successes and the Chartist movement yet to come. Contemporary Britain would not be what it is without her.

She directed the coachman toward a respectable establishment known as Mrs. Bobbins' Inn, a late Georgian townhouse, not far from  Chancery Lane, and all the most respected counting houses. If you've seen the 1951 version of SCROOGE with Alistair Sim, you know the place. The moving picture show up above is for them what ain't seen it. The images come from down time's road a bit, but close enough in feel and spirit..

Now the Britain of these times is in no way like the nation we know today. Few people were allowed to vote. No Woman had the franchise. The vote for Catholics was a new and novel thing and not at all universal in the hearts of the Protestant majority. Jews only voted if they were also registered as members of the (usually) Anglican Church. Many submitted to baptism ( a la the Disraeli family), were added to the rolls, but continued supporting and attending services in synagogues ( the word means 'meeting houses') throughout the realm. Indeed, Benjamin Disraeli himself regularly attended services in the old Synagogue at Bevis Marks.  Thankfully, Britain had no Inquisition, even if many openly hated the new voters (Catholics too) for remaining steadfast to their ancestral creeds. Catholics were allowed seats in The Commons in 1829. Unbaptized Jews gained the national franchise in 1858. Both groups faced certain petty difficulties till 1890. No male, of any group, voted if not solidly middleclass. This was not a democracy in the American manner. Life was hard. Family status and personal connections were paramount, although in some ways Britain transcended the American model. Slavery was abolished in 1833. Now we provide all this data to make a point. Much of the social progress we, in the West, take for granted was husbanded and nurtured by those many would call 'Illuminati.'... The pivotal names of individuals responsible for the furtherance of positive ideals we all enjoy today were often found on so called 'Illuminati' lists.

Young Lawrence Edgerton belonged to such a group. Soon after arriving in the City of London he joined the counting House of one Charles de Castor, showing up and ready for duties at eight o'clock one cool autumn morning, resplendent in his trim, black suit, dazzling white neck cloth and really quite dashing and impressive 'tall' top hat... You know it.. flares out slightly at the crown... rests low on the ears and brow. I defy any one to look bad in headgear such as that..... Beau Brummel himself (noted, aristocratic fashion plate and man about town) would have approved.

In fact, the extraordinary gentleman himself, as well as many of his exalted associates (including a few royals) regularly invested in financial offerings represented by the House of de Castor. Such dealings were strictly private. That's why it was so important for Edgerton's group to place one of their own inside. Who gives money to what is a great indicator of public endorsement and the Illuminati most keenly wanted railroad and steamship consortiums to succeed. Edgerton would provide them with much useful information...

How did he come by this position? His artificial 'aunt,' Miss Flora Mendez, also Illuminati, knows everyone...

An extensive network of friends is everything.

And the young Lawrence Edgerton was well on his way....

That's how the Illuminati does things... A little push here, a little push there... a nod... some money... a beneficial social introduction.... nothing violent... nothing harmful... It's not that way at all... and if it were not for them, human culture would be just as hard as it was in the 'good old days.'

<more to come>

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Tuesday, May 2, 2017

How Illuminati Pull the strings 5/2/17 ..Romeo and Juliet Montagues and Capulets Ft. GetRektGG

 

There was a dinner, or some sort of meal. I'd lost track of the days. Time meant nothing. But I sat at a table in a small room, opposite the First Facilitator. The walls and ceiling were covered in a burnished, antique mirror-like finish. The floor was florentined copper tiles. I suppose one of the reflective panels was a door, though once inside and seated, I could not remember where it was. Light came from two carved glass candlesticks. Not too much... just enough.

Our leader poured the wine and motioned for me to drink. I did. Odd, how in just a few days (I assume it was just a few days) I'd grown accustomed to it.

The leader said - You've been watched since birth... before birth actually... even before conception. I knew your mother and father. Members of the order they were. And we placed you with that family to grow up normally.

I asked - Who were they? Why did you say 'were?' Are they dead?.

But he ignored me and went on - It's not that hard to control the world. What's required is determination and foresight. Not just on my part. Every member of the order contributes. And some of what we do is so easy. Even kings have secrets. We excavate those secrets and thus we control them - went the leader.

Do they ever rebel ? - I said.

Sometimes - said my host. But then we persuade them. A prince dies. A palace burns. Whatever fits the situation. There's not a royal bodyguard we can't turn.

Wouldn't the people notice all the dead royals? - I asked.

They never notice. They never know. We insert a double. Few outside royal circles ever see them close up. It's not hard to do. A gilt coach rolls by. A hand waves. The people cheer.

What if a monarch refuses to cooperate and before you can neutralize them, they kill themselves, but not before notifying the church of your presence? What do you do then? - I speculated.

You are clever. But tell me, are not churchmen an educated lot?

I suppose - I said.

We brush shoulders at the best universities all the time. They, officially, avoid change. We embrace it. Thus we respect each other . They follow their path and we do ours. Yet privately many a bishop takes the best scientific journals. And many a monsignor wonders about electricity. Now we've spoken too long. Lift the dome and eat.

I did and the fine breaded veal chop was still hot, so were the roasted potatoes and green beans..... The food. It's hot? - I asked.

Why wouldn't it be? - went my guide, as he buttered a light, fluffy roll.

And then we ate, apparently in the Continental manner, for after the main course, a footman entered through the secret door with a tray holding two plates of salad... savory, peppery greens topped with salty, Italian Anchovies and sweet onions. Dessert was lightly candied pears and shaved chocolate, some cheese too. I settled in very quickly.

It seems the First Facilitator often dined with newcomers, as a way to feel them out. He poured more wine and we talked some more.

I passed inspection, for the next day I took a coach to London. Not alone, a woman, ostensibly my 'aunt' went with me. Our trunks were fine, but not too showy and our garments were the same.

I'd never been south before and took in all the sights. Towns grew larger. Well kept canals funneled narrow, cargo laden boats toward the capital. Carriages became numerous and gardens more lush..... At night we stopped at the better inns, taking two rooms, but never overlooking the coach yard to avoid the noise. Some people engaged us in conversation. We were polite but never shared much. I was going south to read law with a learned London barrister and my 'aunt' accompanied me for the esteemed gentleman was a close kinsman.

Thus I sailed ever farther from my first life and into something new... mysterious, though enticing at the same time.....

<more to come>

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Tuesday, April 25, 2017

TO ILLUMINATI, LIFE IS A GREAT CIRCUS.. 4/24/17..Don't Miss the Circus 1903 World Premiere Tour

            

To most souls, the world is a dull place. They work. They eat. They procreate, feed their suspicions and sleep. Perhaps there's a reel on a Saturday night, or a hot pancake breakfast on Sunday? Perhaps there's nothing of the kind? Such is life. Few aspire to anything else. Cheap gin takes care of that. Lack of gentle birth does too. And the fleas suck life out of everyone.

The Illuminati coalesced to stop that. But progress is slow and more like a careful, artistically arranged erosion than the growth of plants.

The man with the long salt and pepper hair taught me that. Others in our rarefied congregation taught me different things, though all formed a very special and magical chord.

If you read last night's entry, you know I saw the homecoming of our First Facilitator. I saw his vessel land. A lighter than air craft it was... the great grandfather of all blimpdom. Yet in those early days as miraculous as Fatima. They addressed him as 'Lord Facilitator. He had short white hair, receding at the temples but ample enough everywhere else, a trim matching chin beard and piercing, blue eyes. His attire was all black too... a severely tailored long coat over a satin waistcoat and narrow pants. I was there when he disembarked. They had it down to a science. The roof of a large stone and timber barn opened, just like two halves of a gift box, thanks to the grunting ministrations of ten men (five to a side) manning large cranks effecting a series of gears. The lighter than air ship, a cross between a hot air balloon and gondola (in this case enclosed) and an early framed craft settled in like a hen on her nest. The cranking resumed, this time in the opposite direction. The roof closed. I don't know how it maintained its integrity minus a central, ridge beam, but it did. Apparently the Illuminati know things about the physical side of architecture too.

The man with short white hair looked at me and said two words - A novice?.... The man with the long salt and pepper hair nodded. Then the leader joined us in the phaeton (our coach) and we rode back, through the moonlight, toward the manor house. There were two other passengers in the gondola, a Neapolitan violinist and someone else. I never learned who the someone else was. It might have been a woman dressed in a mannish manner a la George Sand. I don't know.

After late night brandies in a small sitting room lit by the embers of that evening's fire we retired to our beds upstairs. Mine was in a tiny space under the eaves, but a short, stub of a candle enabled me to get there. The bed sheets were the finest I'd ever known in my life. I saw stars through a small window, while far off, in another part of the house, an unseen juggler slapped clubs together in an intricate rhythm, as he practiced a new routine.

The next day they put me to work in the scriptorium, copying texts in second century Latin with the aid of a delicate, though solid, contraption made of fine, wooden beams and small, copper rods called a scriptograph. Four pens, each mounted one foot from the other, reproduced what I wrote.... Such wonders they had. I saw electromagnets and a frighteningly real automaton of Harlequin the Clown.

They said his face was covered with real, human skin. But few got to feel, for he'd snap errant fingers with sharp, pointed teeth forged from the best Spanish silver. A French count lost a pinkie. I know, because they told me, plus the relic is still displayed under a small, glass dome in the library...

Harlequin still sits there on a chair right next to it, smiling in a most amoral way and waiting for only God knows what.

Come back next time and I'll tell you how to make ice knifes.... razor sharp blades perfect for slitting throats and opening femoral arteries. Death comes quick, though no weapon is ever discovered.

And now, Lawrence Edgerton bids you adieu .

<more news of the illuminati to come>

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