A snug winter night in the townhouse. Jonathon peeks through the draperies, taking in the icy drizzle. The cobbles shine like onyx. He turns to face Billy, typing away on his laptop. They're in the little library, a warm refuge. Billy works in a small pool of light from a genuine, ginger jar table lamp. Who knows? Perhaps it once belonged to a Mandarin prince? Our vampire hero, watches his mortal friend tap the keys.
He says - You do that every night. I read your 'Twitter.' I know what goes on. You work and you hope and when it doesn't happen, you work and you hope some more. Do you think they're ever going to help you? My God, don't you know by now? They don't care. You're invisible to them....
Billy - Not all...
Jonathon - No, not all. One or two. Maybe three of four. But think what you do. You mention and retweet people night after night after night who never even notice. Who knows if they notice? They never answer back. You hope for it. No, once, I take it back, Amy Schumer answered back. One time... and the timeline was jumping for weeks. A few words. A picture. I'm sure she's forgotten she did it. But she did. Alright, she did. Yet the others take it all in and never give it back.
Billy doesn't answer.....
Jonathon continues - I peek over your shoulder all the time. You don't even know I'm there.
Billy - I know you're there.
Jonathon - No you don't. You only know when I want you to know.
Billy - So why are you watching now for?
Jonathon - I just feel bad. I know how long you've been at this. What is it, six years? You have those guys, those directors and actors you tweet to. I don't know the names. The 'comedies,' the comedies, where everybody says 'fuck' more than they say 'the.' You retweet them when they ask for retweets. Sometimes you're among the first who do. And every few months you say 'Hey, if you get a chance, please click on my links and look around.'.... Do they do it?
Billy - How would I know?
Jonathon - You'd know. There'd be something. Once in a while you see them tweet to a name you don't recognize and think 'oh, look. maybe they do answer unconnected people sometimes.'... But then you google the name they're talking to and see it belongs to a guy with one and a half million followers. Have you ever seen them actually address somebody like you? I mean other than to belittle some dope over politics, or to retweet people with diseases or money problems, or a one word 'thanks' for desperate fans who gush over anything they do. Come on, tell me.
Billy (quietly) - No.
Jonathon - Then WHY do you do it? And that other one. That girl. That comedian. What's her thing? She says 'vagina,' 'vagina' and 'clitoris' all the time. Like the words to a song.
Billy - But she's funny. You saw her special. You even said she was funny.
Jonathon - But has she ever tweeted back even once? I don't care about her. I care about you. Well, has she? Has she ever helped you?
Billy looks at the keys, but says nothing.
Jonathon - They're worried about their own stuff. They're worried about their own projects. They're not gonna acknowledge you. What can you do for them? You can't even do little favors. You can't do shit.
Billy - Thank you.
Jonathon - No, I don't mean it like that. You have talent. My God, I could never tell this story like you do. You know how few blogs ever come close to four hundred thousand hits? Less than one percent. A fraction of one percent...
Billy - How do you know?
Jonathon - I asked that kid, the one from the computer classes at the library. They're open till nine. I get over there.
Billy - W-w-who does he think you are?
Jonathon - Who CARES who he thinks I am? You worry too much.
Billy - So I worry too much...
They sit in silence for a few moments...
Jonathon sighs and says - Here, I'll give you something. You never heard this. They like weird, stuff. Tell them this. There used to be a carnival that stopped around here maybe a hundred and eighty five, a hundred and seventy five years ago. A few Gypsy caravans, fortune tellers, sword swallowers, fire eaters, a sickening contortionist. I hate contortionists. And a whole bunch of crap like that. You could win a glass 'diamond' ring by tossing a little hoop over a wine bottle, or guessing a number on a crooked wheel of fortune. That got a wreath of wax flowers. I'd go and I'd watch them. Got friendly with the 'geek.' You know what a geek was? I mean the first meaning.
Billy - No.
Jonathon - Well, I'll tell you. They used to have a crazy looking guy. Ran out on the little torch-lit stage screaming and jumping and rolling his eyes. Ladies weren't supposed to watch. They'd go look at some grimy looking doxie make 'Japanese fans.' And this was always in the autumn. They'd come in the autumn. Chilly nights. People bought cider. Hard cider too. Ate hot, buttered corn on the cob. Stood around looking like smacked in the face idiots.
Billy - Where was this?
Jonathon - Where City Hall is today. They used to take down the gallows and let them set up. Everybody came. Coaches dropped off aristocratic couples, young bloods from the University. They didn't go home with glass diamond rings, or wax flowers. They went home with the 'clap.' But that's another story.
Billy - Did you cure them? You could have cured them with a drop or two of your blood. Did you do it?
Jonathon shrugs - The one's who deserved it. The ones I liked. Even cured the carnie girls too sometimes. But they just came back with a new case next year anyway. (loses train of thought) What was I telling you?
Billy - About the geek.
Jonathon - Ah, yes, the geek... They had him dressed up, or almost dressed up in torn scraps, dirty rabbit skins mostly. Maybe a dog's tooth choker 'round his neck. He'd screech like an ape and go berserk. And imagine, all torch lights. The whole carnival was all torch lights. Shadows dancing. Carnies paid local boys to run around with big galvanized garden pails to put out all the fires. Just little ones. Most never got too big. Then some roustabout would throw a burlap sack out onto the stage. Sack was filled with live chickens, all squawking and flapping. Geek got down on all fours. Starts sniffing around. Works his was over to the sack. Sits down. Lifts one out. A big leghorn. They were always big, white leghorns. White feathers made for more contrast... Chicken would beat those big wings. They knew what was coming. They could sense it. And chickens don't deserve anything like that. They're good souls mostly. Take care of their chicks. Count them all the time. Show them how to scratch up fat little bugs. If one goes missing the mother goes crazy. Even the rooster gets involved. God loves chickens. He'd rather we left them alone...But the geek is a big draw. He can't leave them alone. They're the reason he lives. Curls his right thumb and forefinger 'round the chicken's neck up by the head. Does the same with his other hand a few inches down. Brings it up to his mouth. Teeth all filed to points. He gnashes them a little bit. Lets the crowd see. Birds all manic by now. Feathers flying. Grab a feather at the geek show, get good luck. You know what they say?
Billy nods.
Jonathon - Then he grins, brings his jaws together. Carnie guy smothers a few of the torches. Doesn't want any apoplectic fits. Nothing too lurid. People dropped dead over anything back then. Everything was a big deal. Folks eating raw sushi would of wiped out half the town. Funny, raw oysters never did, though. Mortals are strange.... I have to think of something....
Billy - What do you mean?
Jonathon - We have to get those bastards to pay attention. To the blog, I mean. How many words do you have up?
Billy - Uh... eight hundred thousand words... Why?
Jonathon gives him a look - No reason....
Billy - So what happens with the geek?
Jonathon - He gnawed through five leghorn chicken necks. Bit through the feathers, the skin, the spine, all of it. Red blood. White feathers. Sports in the crowd, that means gambler types, bet how far he'd go. Held the heads up to the crowd. Beaks still snapping. Put one on each earlobe. One on each nipple. Hung the last from his upper lip. Soon as they clamp down they hold tight, especially once they're dead. That's how chickens are. Geeks were a big thing. They were cutting edge. Blood dripping down their chins. Eyes bugged out. Grinning and all. People remembered.... For an encore they'd bring out a newly hatched baby chick. Had to be a 'runt.' Human mouth isn't that big. Geek would carefully stuff it all in, look at the crowd. Face all distended. Could still hear it peeping. God knows what it thought. Five heartbeats later he started to crunch. Blood running out. Yellow fluff and all. Crowds love blood. You'd think they were the vampires. Carnie gives geek a jug of cider to help get it down. I once saw a geek die from a punctured esophagus. Convulsed a good long time too. Crowd figured it was part of the show. Carnie-king didn't tell them....
Billy - Wow.... And that's it?
Jonathon - That's it. Eating live chickens, or biting their heads off, was a growth industry back then. You could by stock in it.
Billy - For real?
Jonathon - No, not for real. I just thought you could type it up and maybe people might like it.
Then he put his hand on Billy's shoulder.
Billy - Thanks, Jonathon.
The vampire nods....
They switch on the little tv set among the books and watch an old black and white movie.
If you read this and know some famous bastards, please ask them to look at Vampire Wonderland...
What could it hurt?
<more next time>
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In past posts we learned that among night-folk, this is the beginning of The Age Of Independent Actors. They've tried organized movements before. We've outlined some of them in Vampire Wonderland. But mass movements never last. People get bored, or just tired. It's no fun being cannon fodder and unless you are the leader, or among the chosen few, that's all you'll be. There's a reason why pawns are so numerous.
Yet things will still happen. History will be nudged and tweaked in many different ways. Vampires are a weapon. They cut with extreme accuracy. People just disappear. Nobody ever finds them. Nobody takes credit. That's it. Oh, stories get out.. a detail here... a night mare there. Puts the 'scare' into people.
I can't tell you who gets snatched. I can't tell you what they did, or who fingered them. But I can tell you it happens. And 'noble' vampires are doing it too. The ones who take vows. The ones who 'cull' the wicked. They got ways. Sometimes traditional vampire methods don't even enter into it. Hell, they get enough blood.
A lone life-eater will sublimate into a room, snatch up a victim and sublimate out. The energy, or 'the aura,' forms a halo all around them. Vampire holds on real tight. Just so the victim's inside the cloud. If they are, they pass through walls and everything else too.
Most start screaming. One minute they're snug in their bed, or some hotel bed in Washington, or probably New York (at least the American ones) and ten heartbeats later they're high above the city, up where it's nice and cold. Teeth start chattering. Vampire loosens up a second. Lets them slip a little. They scream some more. Vampire whispers - Scream again and I'll let go. Let me tell you, they don't scream.
We talk about 'independent actors,' but in certain cases two or three night-folk buddy up. They find a place, maybe a cave somewhere... a real hidden cave. Ones with lots of secret, little twisty turns are best. Don't take no blood. Kill other folks for that. This is something else. This is the Righteous Wrath of God. That's how they see it. Natural 'culling' would be too easy. Some don't deserve 'easy.' Get an old hypodermic needle, fill it up with muscle relaxer. Shoot it in the bastard's ass.... They go - What's gonna happen? What are you gonna do to me? Who ARE you?! WHAT are you?! ..... But the vampires never answer.
When the drug kicks in and the eyes start to flutter the pigs mumble. They say - W-what you do, poison me?.... It's awful dark in there. They can't see too much. Vampires carry cigarette lighters, for draggin' folks into caves and all. Maybe the vampire nods. Maybe they don't. This thing isn't about communicating. This is about taking action.
Bastard gets dumped in a little niche, or natural alcove. Rocks and mortar are all ready. They whimper some more. They pray. They beg. Offer money. Offer lots of money. Vampires set a little candle in there with them and light it. Then they just keep sealing them in... more stones... more mortar. You should see the look in their eyes before that last stone gets tucked in. Some don't say anything. Some moan. Who cares.
By the time the drug wears off everything's all dry and set. God bless that quick curing mortar. They get up. Try to find a way out. But there is no way out. You see, vampires don't get tired. That wall's probably three rocks thick. And when that candle burns out... when the last little orange pinpoint goes pffft that's it. They smash their heads against the rocks. Most curl up like an unborn baby, but they're not waiting for birth....
Vampires got other ways too. You come back tomorrow and I'll tell you...
<more next time>
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I slept through the actual Event. Being a vampire, that's a given. But It was still all over the television when I rose. I saw enough. He also assumed a 'burden' today. And do not think it's a light or easy one. I know about burdens...and you know about me. For those who don't, I am the life-eater, Jonathon ben Macabi, also known as Tomas de Macabea, a reverent, 'noble' vampire, who sought not this dark contagion, but transcended it. I take not the innocent. Indeed, discovering the 'noble' breed has been my salvation.... or my most recent salvation.
Many know I was born into a believing family in Old El Andalus approximately one thousand years ago. I play the oud and the Spanish guitar. I speak in the cadences of El Cid. We had a chapel in my father's house. Old Rabbi Abravanel, the chaplin emeritus of Elijah The Prophet synagogue in Sevilla rode out in a closed 'Roman' carriage every Sabbath Eve to lead us through the prayers and stayed the night to preach again the next day. How I loved the service, delivered in a mix of Hebrew, Andalusian Spanish and Arabic. When I sit still and all is quiet I can still hear it.
There's a part I'd like to share with you now, especially in light of today's important events. So, brethren, and I consider all righteous searchers as my brothers and sisters, let us consider Deuteronomy 24:14-15 and we begin... Thou salt not oppress a hired servant that is poor and needy, whether he be of thy brethren, or of thy strangers that are in thy land within thy gates.
In the same day thou shalt give him his hire, neither shall the sun go down upon it, for he is poor and his heart is set upon it.
That simple teaching means a lot. It means be a good 'boss'... be a good leader... be true to all. There are no strangers. That word is our creation, not God's. Would that America's new elected king (for that is what presidents truly are) know that.
And there is a passage in The Holy Book of Ishmael. Considering the land of my birth, I knew that too, a short couplet, but a vital one ~
And our Merciful God says ~
I created you as many nations and groups
so that ye may know each other.....
Sometimes I think this nation, America, is the land where that revelation truly came to be. Who is NOT here? What people do we lack? What creed prays not within our shores? This is the place where all become one, not blended into a featureless mass, but true and unique, like the sparkling facets of a diamond. I hope we all remember that. And may it be that we come to accept, love and respect each other. May we come to know each other as worthy brethren and beloved neighbors on this 'island' Earth.
That's all... The purpose of life is possibilities. What choices do we make?
I sit in my favorite room, the little library, as I write this. I listen to The Avett Brothers and I think. This has been a contentious year. While the inauguration might stop that, let us all stay true. Let us all remember our dreams. Let us all make this place, this America, a better place, but let us proceed without malice, contention,
or hate.
Had I not been burdened with this 'vampire' thing to save me from a martyr's death, I suppose I too would have been ordained. So permit me these moments at the 'bima' (Hebrew for preacher's rostrum, or 'reading table') and thank you for reading my words.
<more next time>
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There are places in the night-world where the media never goes. This post will take you there. No one's sure how this loathsome beast came to be. Some claim the torture theaters of early medieval Byzantium. Others credit a clan of witches in Kievan Rus. A few know the truth, but they don't talk. Most magical truths (of all shades) go back to The Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn house in London. It's a real place. We're not supposed to reference it, but we do. Look, how many TIMES have we said - First of all, we must pretend, that what comes next is fiction?... That's like a spell. You say that and anything that follows is made right.
Now, as far as we know, the monstrosity in question did not begin in the torture theaters of the Byzantine Empire. Kievan Rus, we can't vouch for, but they were more into burying people alive, or partially burying them in underground catacombs with heads exposed, so they could be fed bits of food and water by hooded attendants and thus cruelly preserved. The dirt around them slowly turning to shit... What we're talking about is different and unique. We've pinpointed one. They say there might be a few more. They say a lot of things....like the steel skinned children of Bombay or the headless, gurgling man-thing who guzzles creamed corn and Raisinettes down his pie hole five times a day (and night) for the delight of carnival fans in nine states.
The Vampire Snake Man has never been featured in supermarket tabloids. They're too frightened. The snake man can still sublimate. The snake man can go anywhere... dragging himself over a shag carpet... stopping by the bed of an oblivious sleeper.... working his way up under the covers till he plants his slimy kiss.... Victims are alive at the beginning. Maybe they see the head. In the dark, how can they tell what it is? Perhaps they feel the thin, pliable body resting on their belly and coming to an end between their legs?... A night terror?... Of course. But this is not a dream. He has no teeth, save for two, long, needle sharp fangs. No hair grows anywhere on his head. No eye lashes. No eyebrows. And his nose is a little nubbin with a pair of tiny holes that serve as nostrils. Don't know what good they do him. South of his Adam's Apple there's little 'human' tissue remaining... the neck vertebrae... the thorax vertebrae... the lumbar vertebrae... the coccyx (that's the tailbone) and that's it. The naked spine is encased in a clear, tough, pliable casing, rather like the membrane on old fashioned, fat kosher hot dogs. It collects the blood when he feeds. And that fluid evaporates through barely detectable, microscopic 'stoma' into the atmosphere. Blood doesn't sustain vampire lives, the 'magic' does.
They surgically removed his teeth, save for the upper incisors, prior to transformation. And they flensed off every other part of his body while he took his master's blood. That first drink is a transcendent experience. There is no free will. None can break away till the thing is finished. When that happened he was as he is now. Maybe there's a bit of gristle and ligament holding the spine together, if the magic allows for it.
Thus he endures, an almost mindless existence. Who 'made' him is a mystery. No one knows the purpose. He moves. He feeds. He hides. Look, to be truthful, this monster can be coiled under the basement steps... your basement steps, as you read this. He can snake through shuttered shopping malls, or the dim, chill galleries of august museums. If security cameras pick him up who'd believe it? And if they did believe it, do you think it'd be publicized?
Secrets are all around us and this clammy, sticky, animated remnant is one of them.
In an infinite universe all things are possible.
Every hellish thought is real somewhere... but you who sail the paranormal sea know that...
Que sera, sera......
We're just along for the ride....
<more next time>
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Sometime Edith go back to the Pines to be with Mr. Edith, her current husband and to say 'hi' to everybody. It supposed to be warm for January, like in the fifties, so she gone down now. Ain't gone miss nothin'. Little Larry gone learn how to fly. She see vampire-cherub learn to fly before. She see all kind a stuff, bein' witchy-woman.
Right now she out on the porch. Got a snug, little cabin, wit' a root cellar down below. Got a few bottles of Pine Wine. She like the night. It colder now, like thirty eight out. She got a good ski-jacket from the Value City, before it close up. Vampires give her money, but she like simple ways. Bundle up wit' scarf and a Philadelphia Flyers wool cap. Got a little candle flickerin'. She got it in a flower pot so breeze don't blow it out. Not much light. Ghosts don't like too much light, 'cause it wash 'em out an' make 'em look all scuzzy.
Cabin in a little, muddy clearing. Twenty feet in every direction is the woods. Bobcat come by. Got like a little bitty human hand in its mouth. Not little bitty for a child. Like little bitty for a man, or some woman what wash her clothes by hand. You know, wringin' out take a lot a strength. Edith jus' stare that bobcat down till it run away. She stare anything down, even a headless ghost an' that hard to do.
Ghost come buy. It a little shitty, drunk ghost wit' a Six Flags Great Adventure t-shirt. Ran in the woods and got lost. Tripped on a log and got ate up by some snappin' turtles. That why it so shitty lookin.' One eye all gone. Lips all gone. Nose went somewhere. I don't know. Hands all skeleton. Ain't got no external genitalia, 'cause snappin' turtles like that part real fine.
Edith go - Peace, spirit of the Pines.... Little, Shitty Ghost go - Zat where I am?... Then he go runnin' off through them trees yellin' - Help! Help! Help!... Edith go - What you yellin' 'help' for? You dead already?.... But he already a ways off an' don't hear.
She thinkin' she might go see the Talk-To-God Man. He like a shaman 'round here. Sit in a twisty cave off through the woods. Cave used to be a mine, but that back when George Washington still breathin.' Edith not scared a the woods at night, 'cause she a witchy-woman an' can always throw a hoo-doo. Nothin' come near no witchy-woman what throw no hoo-doo. Even them ham-bone spiders stay away. They called ham-bone 'cause big ones can drag a whole, bone-in ham up a tree, or like a baby goat, or like a baby anything. Sometime you hear poor little creature bleatin' in the dark. She find a dried up husk, mostly jus' skin and bone, on a trail one day. Jus' say a little prayer and keep goin'.
Deep in the pitch black maze of Talk-To-God Man's cave is room where he sit. He light little candles too, so it not all dark when he sittin' there. Got a hole in the floor surrounded by rough flagstones. Hole maybe four feet across. Slant down maybe three hundred feet. Sides all slicked with smooth, white lime. Damp keep it slippery too. Got a big room at the bottom. Space like a upside down half a grapefruit. Walls and floor all mud. Them what do bad 'round here get throwed down there. Most try brace they legs 'cross chute, but chute too wide. They go down anyway and it a one way trip. They scream and plead. They promise they gone be good. Talk-To-God Man go - Shit on you, you devil bastid. You gone die!...
But they don't die fast. Eat big fat slugs what live on walls. Slugs eat little fungi what grow there. Don't know what they taste like. Maybe escargot? Them what get throwed down suck water out a mud too. Folks can go on a long time that way... down in the dark and the wet and the shit. Sometimes they throw women type people, young'un type people... even a dog once or twice. Them what do the throwin' in ain't always much better. They just band together.
Edith change her mind. She not gone go see Talk-To-God Man. Horsey Skeezix fly over. He see candle glowin' on her porch and come down to say 'hi.' Edith like Horsey Skeezix. He a little boy Jersey Devil... like a human bean, but with horsey hind feet, a horsey-like smooth, glossy coat, a slightly elongated horsey face, arms with big, strong, long fingered hands and a horsey mane runnin' down from his head to between them big, leathery bat wings growin' out of his back...
He play with Pin Head Mel. He a friendly Jersey Devil. Actually, most a them not that bad. It just lousy public relations.
So now I gonna leave you. Case you don't recognize my voice, I Mister Never You Mind, a disembodied spirit narrator. I a ghost... an old Creole-Cajun gentleman what got tied to a chair and burnt up, or tied to a chair and throwed in a acid vat... When you been dead since Prohibition you forget. Who knows? Who cares?
An' one more thing. The Jersey Pines a magical place... Got great music, great stories, old time traditions. Most folk just like you, only folksier.
But if you float down little bitty unusual river bend, or hike to what they call 'another part of the forest' you gone encounter all kinds a things... and some things got hands an' eyes an' claws an' teeth an' everything.
Jus' so you know...
<more later>
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So a bit of time passed. The household got used to little Larry and loved him. Sarah bought him warm outfits from shops all around Center City. She also brought home colorful story books from her cozy, snug, tick tock book shop, Philadelphia After Dark. Dragons and unicorns hung over his crib. He liked warm, strained, apple cider and the rich, meaty blood Sarah regurgitated for him. Such is the life of a new, little cherub. He had a small, seascaped aquarium on a table next to his crib lit by a low blue light. Tiny neon tetras swam about the tank. Other fish hid in the plants. A mermaid blew bubbles and waved. Larry waved back as he drifted off. Some nights Jonathon played his oud.
Early in the evening, Sarah bundled him up so he wouldn't feel the cold and took him out. Not that the cold could hurt him anymore, but he'd make a face and say - Don't like it... when the wind touched his skin. She'd put him in his stroller and push him to Washington Square. They had to go early, or else people would look and say - Why's that baby up so late?... Larry would go - I not a baby. I two!... And everyone instantly loved him. On the way back she'd stop in a nice, little bodega and get him a few bottles of juice. Vampires can tolerate certain liquids, but you know that. Once Edith was cooking for herself and Billy. She was making mashed potatoes, real good ones with milk and butter. Larry says he wants some. Sarah tells him he's 'allergic' to that kind of food and will throw up. But he doesn't care. He remembers throwing up from before she made him 'night-folk.' Toddlers don't mind spitting up. Vampire toddlers taste a lot of things. And if they do throw up ten minutes later? So what? When he's out and about Sarah can take him into some place for a bowl of chicken noodle soup. She can get a cup of tea. Helps them fit in. But here's the sad thing mortals never think of. You can't have a two year old in the same area for more than a year or so. People notice. They ask questions. Either they'll have to give up the townhouse, or keep him somewhere else.
That's why it's so important he meets the other cherubs and gets socialized. Sarah and Jonathon are in denial, but they know. He'll probably join the others like him and live with the caretaker and his wife (this is a new caretaker) in their cottage in the middle of Laurel Hill Cemetery. It's so private there. After dark they have the run of the place. There's a walking tour that comes through two evenings each week. People carry candles. It's real atmospheric. The caretaker's wife keeps the cherubs inside till it's over. Then she opens the door and lets them fly out. They giggle (quietly, or course) and play tag above the memorial obelisks.
Sarah and Jonathon and some of the other vampires will still visit Larry all the time when he moves on. One of the never used private mausoleums is set up as a playhouse. You can't tell from the outside. Looks like a regular, above ground, pseudo classical temple, dead-box. But cherub magic can open the heavy, verdigris, copper door. They have big floor cushions inside and quilts and toys and music boxes and puppets... some of the puppets dance by themselves. They have these big chunks of quarts that glow in the dark for light. I don't know where they find them. Night-folk just find stuff. There's a finger paint decorated skeleton named 'Boney' seated in a corner. The cherubs say - Hi, Boney... Boney waves.
Larry will be all right.... Like a nice, little, wide eyed, pre-school Peter Pan.
Look, Sarah'd like to keep him with her always. But that would mean moving from place to place every eighteen months, keeping him hidden on a vast, isolated estate somewhere, or locked in the house all the time.
Night-folk make choices. They have to.
They teach him to fly. Little by little he learns. He laughs his cuddly toddler laugh. He smiles.
They nod and smile too.
But then they cry.....
<more next time>
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Jonathon sits by the crib quietly serenading the new-born 'cherub.' He plays old lullabies on his oud and in his mind imagines he's descended from the ancient Hebrew bards singing for their kings, as they pick out melodies on a harp-of-Galilee. Poetic, he's always been. Being night-folk only ads to it.
Little Larry, their two year old, vampire son, lies down, dressed in a thick, warm sleeper and listens. His eyes grow heavy, his breath deep and regular. He tries to shape the words and join in, but the ship has sailed, carrying him off to the Land of Nod.... Jonathon covers him with a nice, new comforter, puts in his favorite Sophia-the-Giraffe toy, dims the light and leaves.
He joins Sarah in the small library. She sits there hugging a throw pillow. He sits down. She doesn't say a word. He stares at the weak light from a small lamp placed among old volumes on the shelves. And that's it. For the next twenty minutes they just sit. These are vampires. They're like that.... Then he says - I love that little soul, but I wish you hadn't done that... Sarah whispers - So do I.... Then, after a few dozen heartbeats he says - Why didn't you just 'preserve' him with a few drops? We could have placed him with a mortal family. The 'familiars' would have found somebody. He could have grown and lived... She doesn't answer... But he knows she's not a bad soul. He knows this wasn't a malicious thing. Some vampires create 'cherubs' (baby/toddler vampires) for 'toys' or temporary playthings. They dress them up like little dolls, or little demons and send them out to feast upon sleeping mortals. Cherubs rarely kill, you know. They flit about like chubby mosquitos, taking quick, tiny kisses before racing off to repeat the same somewhere else.
Sarah says - I'll take him and go if you want. Jonathon says - Stop it. Don't even say it. Do you think I would ever want that? She shakes her head.... Then silence descends once more, till he ads - At least we don't have to change any diapers... She goers - Yep, but it'll be Paw Patrol and what's that other one they like, Twerkin' Elmo? What do they call him?... Our vampirino and vampirina giggle.
Meanwhile, witchy-woman housekeeper, Edith, sneaks into Larry's sleeping chamber with an ice water sippy-cup. Larry likes that. Calls it 'coffee.' He sees Edith drink her stainless steel, no-spill coffee cup. That's where he gets his ideas. He watches everything and everybody. Peeks through the parlor curtains early in the evening watching people walk by and goes - Hi, lady. Hi, sad man. Hi, crazy guy. Hi, other lady. Hi, dumb baby who not talk.
Jonathon says when he's ready they'll round up the other cherubs to socialize him.... Sarah goes - Uh huh... They figure there must be about four of them. Jonathon can't remember their names... The thing is, they were made in the Old World. They survived being soldered into a lead chest and thrown into the ocean. The lucky ones washed up somewhere else and got out. The unlucky ones are still out there, hopefully lapsed into a vampire coma. You know vampires occasionally walk across the sea... white, bleached out wraiths making their way along the abysmal plane. Some spend years down there. It's always dark. It's always cold. And if they need blood they get it from merfolk, or the great whales. The great whales don't mind. The merfolk do. But who are they going to complain to?
They say certain soulless oligarchs have a cherub, or two. Keep them in huge, glass 'aviaries.' But if you look at the glass, you can see a fine, honeycomb of lead webbing imbedded in it. Night-folk can't sublimate through lead. Those cherubs ain't gone no where. They just flit around that artificial, story-book woodland, skimming over the little lake and taking little blood drinks from dumb bastard naked folks locked in with them till they die. Then the oligarch throws in new , dumb bastard naked folks. Guys watch and drink vodka, sometimes champagne, or those expensive, little bottles of Starbucks sweet, creamy, coffee drinks. Sometimes they eat chicken fingers, but the good kind, 'cause they're oligarchs.
That's all we got about the vampires tonight. But one more thing. They'll never say it, but they like Sarah Silverman and Judd Apatow. A lot of vampires do. God, who doesn't know that. So, if you want, could you please click onto SARAH SILVERMAN ... and ask her to kindly retweet THIS SITE and visit maybe. Also ask JUDD APATOW the same thing.... I've asked them but they never do. Maybe if some of you ask them it'll be different. After almost six years and closing in on 400,000 hits the night-folk are getting antsy and I don't want them to kill me.
signed, Billy.
<more next time>
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Something happened here and I want to tell you about it. Sarah brought someone 'over', a little soul named Larry. He's two years old... and now he will be two years old forever. I know I owe you more tales about Jeanette and my life with her in medieval France. I think it was France. Borders change so over the years. But then this thing happened and I just want to talk about it.
I've mentioned 'cherubs' before, back when this strange bit of vampire therapy began. You don't know how many times I've wanted to stop, but I can't. I know you know it's me. I know you know it's Jonathon.. Some might recall periods when I went as Tomas. Well, so what? They're both me.
A vampire. I'm a vampire. And others are Elferinas, or Elferinos, or witchy-folk, or 'born' witches, or my God, what's the name of those others?... the Red Paint People! Yet we're all manifestations of the same thing. We're all touched by 'magic.', or 'the magic,' as I should say. But it rests differently on each and every one of us. Those labels I just mentioned are types. They're just basic varieties. Not every vampire is the same as every other. Many of the 'noxious' types are little better than glorified zombies. But we still call them vampires.
Cherubs are vampires. I hate to say that. Such sweet, innocent things they are... among the rarest of night-folk. Please, I'm trying to control myself, but she took a little toddler and made him into what we are.
They're upstairs now. He's sleeping. She has him in bed with her. She's sobbing. Said he was sick. Said the attendants at the home didn't care. Lying in a crib, coughing. All alone. He didn't understand. He didn't know what was going on. Kept saying - A hug... A hug... But no one came. They were all in a rush to get out and get ready for New Years Eve and the ones who had to work were sharing a five dollar, pepperoni pizza at the front desk. Mariah Carey was more important than the little ones. Besides, the doctor said he'd probably fade. Not much more they could do and stay in budget.
When she told me, I said - Couldn't you have just given him a few drops like you do all the others?.... She cried. I hate when Sarah cries. Sometimes the attraction is too much. We can't stop and the ones we love most die. A lot of vampires destroy themselves after that. But at the last moment, before the spark goes out, a few pull back and give the marked one a deep, deep drink... and that does it. The blood in their body is vampire blood... the blood in their heart... the blood in their brain. The fluid that gives them 'life' is not, itself, alive. But they 'live' and they 'breathe' and the laugh with delight..... Sarah said when it happened to Larry his baby laughter sounded like chocolate. And when went - A hug! A hug! A hug! She wrapped him in her arms and sublimated out of there.
So now he's ours... and he'll never grow up... Every day will be filled with wonder... Toys will be miraculous things, until he discovers he can fly. Cherubs can, you know. The caretaker's wife, at Laurel Hill Cemetery used to knit warm, little outfits for the three or four cherubs she kept in their cottage. They'd flit through the trees, monuments and mausoleums at night, when no one could see. Sometimes we hear reports of child vampires who, after decades and decades develop something resembling 'adult' souls. But they're older. Those like Larry don't do that. Maybe they're better off?
And they go on. There are cherubs in London who date to Roman times and now they love books about Sophia the Giraffe. I suppose we'll have to get some of those...
The little ghost boy, the polio victim, who stays downstairs in the basement... or used to, wants to see him. He knows about Larry. He's excited. He has a baby brother.
Does all this sound strange?
We're night-folk... It's not strange.
We have 'lives' and we live them and we do the best we can.
I know our friends will understand... They've been with us for six years and that means a lot...
<more next time>
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Oh, it would be less burdensome if I could say this in Vahmperigo or another of our ancient tongues. But I want you to know and understand. There have been whispers... All over the Earth, people wonder. Some have seen the actual site. Others have read accounts... a prophecy... a new age... Not since the Titans gave way to the Olympians have we seen such a thing. And if a life-eater speaks of it you know it's true. We are old. We know.
Your Jonathon fights his own internal battles. He reads his Scriptures and listens to sacred music. That one so wants to change the world. But wanting and doing are not the same. While his consort, Sarah, simply goes about each night doing what she can. Some people die. Some are saved. Maybe the world still inches toward salvation? Progress is slow, yet so is geological erosion. Yet the outcome is unmistakable.
I am The Khan, an old life-eater from the Plain of the Ganges. I lack the years of 'Papa' or 'The Lady Renate.' Perhaps in your Vampire Wonderland wanderings you've stumbled upon them? But my years are not measured in eons, though five thousand passes 'round the sun is long enough. And all that time I have never seen it. The sun, I mean... Imagine that.... Think on it. Think of what it's like for a Hindu soul, like me... So many wasted years spent in this body... one distorted lifetime stretching on toward God knows where. I have been walking down a vast unending gallery with no exits. How I hunger for release. How I want to move on. I can destroy myself. I can see the sun. I can stand in the fire. I can sublimate till the particles of my being are spread so fine any type of reversal is impossible and I blow away like smoke. But I will not do those things. I will not.
What I will do is tell you what I know. The Georgia Guidestones are real. The philosophy behind them is genuine too. Not that it will work. Not that humanity, or their version of it, will benefit, but the actions outlined on them will happen. In a few years approximately ninety two or ninety three percent of you will no longer exist. The worlds population will be rolled back to five hundred million souls. They have the means. They have the people. They're so brazen, they brag about it. You've been watching it for years. And while there'll be little flesh eating, something like 'zombies' will exist... for a little while....
What's this? You think you'll stop them? How will you do that? The truth is you'll be one of them. You'll put down your burdens and shuffle off like lemmings. The spark is already in you... the drug... the poison... the thing. Old people and young will all walk off, staring down at the ground, leading their little children, carrying babies. Remember The Time Machine? Remember the Morlocks and that piercing siren? Well, this time it'll be silent. They won't eat you. They'll just make you disappear. The acid will do that. There's an installation right near where you live. Probably been strolling by it for years. Don't worry. You'll see it. You'll jump right in.
<more next time>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click bit.ly/297pDxg ... then click on the rectangular 'subscribe' button near the top right corner of the screen to browse all episodes of Vampire Wonderland.
click Twitter.com/wilkravitz ... to join me on Twitter. please leave a comment. thank you.
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