There's no music tonight. Just me, Jonathon, thinking about what I'll do when I get there. How will I 'school' this individual? Bad politicians are far from rare. Some are just clueless and unprepared for the task. Others are very willing snake oil salesmen. Too many are unrepentant haters. Do your homework, if you want this job, remember this... for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. That's not an opinion. It's just the way our universe is.
So I passed through the air on my way to that city... that white marble re-imagining of classical Rome. Re-imagined? Maybe they didn't think it all the way through? I watched tiny pinpoints of light... planes from God knows where, coming in for landings at Reagan International Airport. What magic would my mortal family, all those centuries ago, ascribe to such things?
But then I came in for a landing too.... Washington, D.C.. All these years... more than three hundred of them in this land and I had never been there.
Please think not that I disparage anyone's choice. And please remember the first Vampire Wonderland episode ever to appear here almost six and a half years ago. I began with these words --- First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. A lot of truth passes for fiction. A lot of fiction is accepted as the truth. It's all mixed up. Everything is everywhere. But let me ask you this? What choices do you make... and most importantly, why?
Now let me share my plans. When next the dark time comes again, I will sublimate into the new, local home of a certain trusted advisor... a power behind the throne, known for consorting with those who most would term 'polite haters.' This means not that your little ones are secure, should they belong to a threatened group. Consider this when you push them down the street in their safe and padded stroller some mild, fresh spring day. Not all who smile back at them sincerely wish them well. I intend to do something about that.
I will raise that unrepentant vessel for hate from his bed. I will grasp him under his arms and around his chest and sublimate us both up through the roof and toward the heavens. But lest we pierce the crystalline shell, I will bear him off across the city. Should he scream or struggle, I simply threaten to let go. He won't struggle. He won't scream. Then I softly place him down upon the sidewalk in a quarter not his own... No phone... No money or cards or identification. Just a nightshirt. That's all he wears. Then, in an instant, before I leave, I rip the flimsy garment from his corpulent, flabby body, deliver a sharp slap and tell him to run... Imagine him huffing and puffing and padding through the streets. For a few moments I hover above in the darkness. Then I scream, as only a vampire can. I scream again and again and again, till lights go on, doors open and people come out. Some recognize the crazed, naked white man crouching behind a car. Dogs break from owners and give chase... Pit bulls, dogs like that. You know what I mean. Young kids with phones rush out and snap pictures. Instantly Mister So & So is all over the World Wide Web. Audio and video couldn't be better. He shrieks and races off. The dogs were getting too close. No one calls the police. Not yet. This is still too good. Not like he's gonna freeze. Spring is early this year. Just one more rodent on the street...
The press, if they knew who I was, would sponsor a holiday in my name... Not just the press... (lol)
No sign of a break-in. Nothing irregular. Mister So & So just took a little walk... Just wanted some air... real casual like.
Well, that's my plan... and so far, I'm stickin' to it.
<more next time>
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Harken unto my words, oh best belov-eds, for I bring you tidings of our enduring friend, Jonathon (pronounced yo-nah-TAHN) ben Macabi (pronounced ma-CAH-bi), one vahmpeer, late of your American Philadelphia, but now abroad on Hah Adon's (The Lord's) Highway. He goes to 'heal the world' and right wrongs and all that... A knight errant, with fangs instead of knives and an abiding magic more potent than Old, Yemeni cava (coffee). On the night before he left, our faithful one slipped into the darkened sanctuary(save for the warm russet glow of the 'nair tameet' (light eternal)) in a venerable, beit k'nesset (meeting house)) and silently danced up and down the central aisle and all about the bima (beemah -- Table of The Book), as he prayed. The little angel guarding that House of The Book, for all consecrated places of prayer and introspection have guardian angels, said he sang. In a still, small voice, he sang. Our reverent vahmpeer gave voice to a collection of old hymns and cantorials first heard in Toledo, Granada and Sevilla many centuries ago.... Who am I, that a heavenly messenger should address me? I am Zebulon, a well known disembodied spirit narrator of this tale... the ghost of a thirteen year old Judean boy stoned to death during the reign of the last Hasmonean king, either John Hyrcannus II or Aristobolus the whatever. ... Family records indicate that Jonathon hails from that line. Believers never lie about such things. For kings are raised up by The Lord and he who bears false witness to The Divinity fears The Resurrection for obvious reasons. But I know God is merciful and although I was stoned for consorting with Assyrian Witches, I fear not The Day. For He who saved The unobservant Children of Israel from the flesh pots of Egypt with compassion and grace seeks not the eternal banishment of a curious young Jerusalemite. So I have taken it upon myself to accompany our hero and relate the parts he does not tell in his own voice. At times our story may be told by an unnamed voice much greater than I. You know who I mean... No, not God, but Metatron, the Angel of angels, the chancellor of Heaven. He must like books, for he narrates so many of them. Perhaps he curates the libraries on High? When next the dark time comes again, we go to your national capital, the City of Washington. He seeks to play conscience to the president. He seeks to pierce the royal bedchamber and waken your ruler from his sleep. The vahmpeer, Jonathon, knows how to convince even the most hardened and ignorant of souls. Failing that, he'll bring him 'over.' How can a vampire function as president of a great land, such as yours?...What would they say? How could they explain it? ... 'Oh, he likes to sleep in. You know how it is?'..... Hardly.
So for a while we shall be vagabonds... hiding in the modern equivalent of root cellars and..... well, more root cellars. Jonathon doesn't like mausoleums. '... Attend to the living. Let the dead take care of the dead' and all that. It's a very Hebrew thing. God does His thing and we ( all right. I'm no longer in the flesh, but you know what I mean) do ours. In the physical world, our hands are His hands.
Now permit me to prepare myself for what is to come. True, I pack no 'things,' but thoughts and dreams and memories are 'things' too.
Don't I talk nice for a thirteen year old? ... I think I do.
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By some twist of Night Magic we are privy to the Vampire, Jonathon's thoughts ---
I didn't go back to the townhouse. I walked. I just walked around the city. Don't ask me where. I didn't look at the buildings. It was cold. I like the cold. And I just put one foot in front of the other and kept going. Traffic did not stop me. My heart was pounding. I was in what vampires call 'an agitated state' and when we get that way, those that can, remain 'energized.' It's on the sublimation continuum. Did I fly? No, but cars are no barrier. I pass right through, or rather I let them go right through me. Horns blare. Guys holler curses. People scream.... Well, f#ck you! You bastards. At least you're still living.
I've seen martyrs. Martyrs are not rare. Humanity manufactures them at an alarming rate. Indeed, in my last mortal moments I almost was one. But I never get over it... innocent souls destroyed for the vanity of demons. The people at the 'Bureau' looked like dolls. Some wore lab coats. Others looked like Silicon Valley tech geeks. There were families too. They had living quarters there. It was like a town. I saw babies. I saw toddlers. I saw little children with backpacks.... All twisted and piled together, trying to get to the elevator... trying to get to the surface... trying to breathe.... dried green foam caked 'round their mouths and noses.... glasses broken... fingers smashed... Gassing is not quick. It's not just a lack of oxygen. The lungs burn, not from heat or fire, but from acid. Lips turn blue. Fingers blacken. Blood vessels within the eyeballs rupture. It can take more than thirty minutes..... Please, I don't want to picture that anymore.
When I stopped. When I 'woke up,' if you will, I was sitting on a bench in Washington Square, a six and a half acre, grassy landscaped park with mature trees, winding walkways and a monument in the center marking the Tomb of The Unknown Soldier of The Revolution. There are no leaves on the trees now, but even with the lampposts the dense branches throw lots of shadows. In the seventeen hundreds, they buried nameless indigents and slaves there. During the War For Independence, casualties were added to the mix. Some claim most of the dead were evicted generations ago, but some claim a lot of things. Look, that poor, dead soldier is still here. They admit to that. How did he get overlooked.
I know I see ghosts every time I come here. They rise up from the ground. Some just stand where they are, never moving, unaware. Others walk off through the park and out into the city. A few are 'reactives.' That means 'ghosts' who see their surroundings and know where they are, in effect, the 'sane' spirits of the dead. They sit on benches, turn their heads and focus on the living. I spoke with a soldier named James. By the look of him somewhere around sixteen when he died. The first thing he did was ask me what year it was. He always does that. We've talked before. I told him. He thought and said - Gone almost two hundred and forty years..... I nodded. He thought some more, then told me he supposed he had great nieces and nephews in the city, considering he was one of seven surviving children. I said he was probably right. I'm told he asks everyone what year it is. A professor of my acquaintance has a theory. Time on the 'other side' may not be like the regular, linear progression we know here. One day (to a ghost) might be the year twelve sixty seven. The second might be thirty two twenty five. While the third might transpire in fifty four B.C.. Who knows?
Apparently some of the 'reactives' are a bit telepathic. James is. He knew about the Anti-Enchantment Bureau. He knew about the strange zoological and quasi-human specimens. And he told me, if I desired, he could tell me the name of every one who died there.... I shook my head.... He said - Even the name of the poor, little one who perished all alone?.... I didn't answer... He whispered - David, his name is David and he just turned three years old.... I teared up. The ghost said - He's with his people. No need for that.... Then he spoke about the Revolution and all the unnamed dead lying there. I learned he knew their names too, but stopped him after the thirty second one... He nodded and almost as an after thought told me they died for a cause.... I didn't respond... The Spirit of James leaned closer and in a low voice said - Sometimes rebellions are necessary. Then in an equally throaty whisper, regaled me with a rendition of that old Irish war song, The Rising of The Moon. When he was done we fell into silence. Twenty four heartbeats later, as if on cue, a cloud set sail and we were bathed in the weak, silvery light of the aforementioned orb.... He put his hand on my shoulder. Odd, but I felt it.... Then he called me 'Moon Man.' Celtic peoples often call vampires by that name.... Moon Man, or Moon Woman, for we live by the light of Selena.
I caught his game. He was making connections, binding me to a purpose. He called me Mr. Macabi. He knew my name ... the descendant of all those long gone rebels immortalized in the scriptural Book of Maccabee .... I gasped... He smiled... a disheveled revenant in a soiled, bloody coat of The Continental Army. A sixteen year old boy.
He mouthed the words - Do it..... and disappeared.... The square was silent... just a small, city park surrounded by tall cooperatives and condominiums, all canopied by the clear, dark sky.
I got up and left, secure in my new role... no longer a dabbler, but 'an independent actor,' a rogue knight, if you will, bound by the motto -- Tikkun Olam (Complete The Universe or advance the Coming of The Messiah).....
Tomorrow I'd go to the Capital and help to set things right.
But I contacted a certain 'familiar' before I left, an amateur genealogist, and asked her to research all Philadelphia Delaney's collaterally descended from a certain, Continental Soldier by the name of James, dead at the age of sixteen, a casualty of The Battle of Germantown. Then she was to send copies of her findings to all concerned, notifying them of their many times great uncle's resting place. Perhaps some night they'd gather there for a family reunion?
<more next time>
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Some of the people who worked for the Anti-Enchantment Bureau had families. They lived in the complex with their wife, or husband and children. The quarters were snug and comfortable. Delightful mobiles hung above the cribs. The kitchens were kitchy and cozy, like colorful 1950's kitchens come to life, with clean, cotton ruffled curtains, updated versions of classic appliances and chrome trimmed dinette sets. The living rooms and bathrooms were equally nice too. And the views through all the windows were extremely high definition digital illusions, but you'd never be able to tell. Days were sunny and warm, or partly cloudy and chill, if you dialed up fall. The leaves were exceptionally vivid. How colorful the twinkling lights 'round Christmas time and in a scientific facility like this, there were a few menorahs too. All the lawns slumbered beneath light blankets of snow. Brand new late 50's cars rolled by. Single people lived just as well. Ozzie and Harriet would have been proud. Doctor Franklin designed it all. He liked things that way.
Oh, the people weren't prisoners. They could ride up on an elevator and exit via a small office complex. The Navy Yard leased space to all kinds of respectable businesses. Children in strollers didn't seem out of place. A lot of organizations offered child care. But those kids who were old enough to know were rehearsed. If questioned, they'd say - My mommy and daddy work for Little Learners (a tutoring service with a chain of charter schools.).. So they went to the zoo, or into Center City for lunch and shopping, or to buy sneakers. You get the picture.
But if you read yesterday's post, you know they all died. When the Special Ops types left with the little known exotic creatures, the computer data and Luna, Doctor Franklin's vampire, physician assistant, they locked all the exits, turned off the ventilation and detonated the gas bombs. Apparently someone in Washington wanted it that way. People with money know about the paranormal world. Some have first hand knowledge. They benefit by it.
Doctor Franklin knew something was wrong when he didn't get the call. They contacted him that way whenever he was away. But when he called the 'annex' (still a sizable outpost in its own right) up in the Poconos, they did answer, yet told him they weren't able to contact the Philadelphia complex either.
The day was very lonely for him. Edith, the witchy-woman housekeeper, fixed him some eggs. The old patriot ate in silence, put the plate in the sink and went back to bed.
That night, when the sun went down, Jonathon went to the 'Bureau.' He knew how to avoid guards. The Navy Yard was full of them. But he could sublimate just enough to foil cameras and so he slipped into the Anti-Enchantment Bureau with nothing but a flashlight. What more did a vampirino need?
He smelled the gas right away. Mortals would miss it. Night-folk were different. When he sublimated down from the Little Learners offices into the top level of the compound, he saw them, a tangled mass of corpses... men... woman... families with children. Some were covered in dried blood. People must have clawed their way to the top, desperate for clean air, while those struggling beneath tried to force the elevator doors. Little children faired worst, broken like dolls. Jonathon saw it in bits and pieces, as the flashlight beam moved over them all. He found a few others scattered throughout the Bureau. Some levels were empty. Some families stayed together, lying on the floor. Wet cloths can only do so much. One poor little thing was all alone. He must have gotten lost.
Jonathon said a prayer and left.
Even Franklin's vast apparatus, the Grand Armonica was gone. The huge assemblage of large perforated crystal discs arranged by size along a thirty foot, bronze, horizontal pole (itself eighteen inches in diameter) was not there.
While a few hours to the south, technocrats loyal to the new regime tried to decipher their vast haul.....
<more next time>
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This is how it happened. This is what they did after the real Ben Franklin fled the Anti Enchantment Bureau... .. But for newcomers, we'll provide some pivotal info. Ben Franklin never died. He preserved himself via the science of harmonics. Since the ostensible date of his demise he's been holding court in what has become a vast, multi-leveled science, technology and paranormal research facility hidden under what became the Philadelphia Navy Yard. In fact, it's the premiere facility of its type. Most days he tools around the endless hallways in his signature, green, Philadelphia Eagles sweat suits checking stuff... his white, wispy hair flying behind, like some mad scientist. No, wait a minute. That's exactly what he is. There are chambers with cutting edge apparatuses only he and his associates know how to operate. The biological floors host a who's who of exotic guests. An ancient mermaid woman regales all with shrill, old Sumerian sea shanties. Two young Jersey Devils inhabit a sylvan recreation of their Pine Barrens home. The ceiling of this gymnasium sized habitat is thirty feet up, allowing them enough space to stretch their leathery wings and fly. He has one Bigfoot and one Sasquatch. The differences are subtle, yet, never the less quite real. Both are essentially plant eaters but like chimps in the wild will eat meat, even human, when they can get it. This last fact was discovered when a hapless attendant accidentally got locked in their enclosure during a 'night' phase. The guy monitoring the video feeds fell asleep, so no one saw when the two frantic hominids cornered the shrieking little man and tore him limb from limb. Odd, how the mouth still moves on a specimen comprised of a head, neck, part of a chest (one inflating and deflating lung still visible), one shoulder and the upper half of an arm... And after a bit, they devoured those parts too... rubbery tendons (oh, how they snap)... cartilage... some of the bones... organs... North American indigenous hominids have the bite strength of three and a half lowland silverback Gorillas in heat.
Tales about the place are endless. But we're here to tell you what the government, or rather its most recent leaders did. Look, many people know about Area 51, and the God damned, chain smokin' cursin', foul mouthed aliens they got sittin' in the lunch room, suckin' their teeth and watchin' TV all day. Then when they get bored, the help has to run around findin' Flintstones Coloring Books. And they fight over who colors Wilma and who colors Betty. Doctor over there wanna slip 'em 'the needle,' but boss won't let him, 'cause America got a shortage a aliens, since a few ran off with some renaissance faire and one is married to a woman Laundromat owner in Beek-a-Boo, West Virginia. You know how it is.
When the genuine Ben Franklin disappeared few noticed, 'cause the look - alike was real good. And things got back to almost normal. Special Ops guys still walk around in their black uniforms with their threatening, but cool looking black guns. Guys from Washington hacked and downloaded the computers real fast. They don't know about the place up in the Poconos, or its completely separate data system. Staff figured they'd maybe take a juvenile Jersey Devil as a souvenir and drive back to D.C., but they didn't.
One day the main one, Captain Sigmund, makes Luna (she's Franklin's assistant and a medical doctor vampire in her own right) unlock the biological wing. She doesn't want to do it, but she does. As far as she knows, they haven't 'typed' her as an 'exotic' (paranormal human) yet and that's OK with her. But then four other big guys come trotting in with special little rifles.... Luna goes - Please, what are you gonna do?! You're not going to kill them, are you?!... But they don't answer. Luna sobs, as they trot in and out of all the habitats shooting every specimen in their path. Took a while. There's a lot of habitats. Specimens down at the end start screaming and crying. Staffers can't call out. All communication devices have been confiscated. None of the Bureau people are from Metro Philadelphia. That was done for security. But family members have been calling. It's been a few days and they want to know if everything's all right. Since all incoming calls go to the main phone number, the girl at the desk, a Special Ops woman, tells them about some routine lock down for inventory and trouble shooting. All the mommies and daddies and spouses and kiddies say 'OK, please ask them to call as soon as possible?' ... Special Ops woman says - Definitely. I will. Bye bye now.... But then her face gets all mean and hard 'cause she's Special Ops and all.
More black uniformed minions start pushing special gurneys into all the habitats, bigger ones for the North American Hominids, smaller ones for the merfolk, Jersey Devils, reptilians and other rare specimens. They've obviously been well trained, because they know how to properly fold Jersey Devil wings and wrap merfolk in specially warmed, moisturized cloths. Turns out none were killed, just sedated for transport back to a federal installation in Virginia. And all the while they're doing this, the piped in music system's been playing Smokey Robinson and The Miracles singing Going To A Go Go... Yeah, they're 'going' alright... straight into the back of big, black vans, straight out the Navy Yard and down I-95 back to D.C., or the Virginia suburbs of D.C., or somewhere like that.
Oh, one more thing, at the last minute they shot Luna too. Right through her lab coat. Right above the left breast. And the 'medication' worked, which meant they knew she was a vampire, because night-folk only react to certain, little known, ancient, aromatic potions.
We can only guess how the new president will use her.
But she wakes up fast and stars to cry. They have her swaddled like a baby in a hooded blanket, all tight, newborn style. The fabric's cold and metallic, woven from fine filaments of pure lead. Ain't no vampire can sublimate through that.
Special Ops guy guarding her, jabs her in the ribs with the butt of his rifle. She cries some more.... He mumbles - Shut up, you devil bitch. Then he makes like he's gonna slice her eyeball with a special lead straight razor... She shuts up...
They keep driving... a strange caravan of unmarked black vans...
Meanwhile, back in the Bureau, the staff is desperately trying to get out. But none of the exits work. Key cards won't work. Eye patterns won't work. Phones are still all screwed up. Heats off and it gets cold fast that far under ground and right by the river. People start yelling and crying. All forms of digital communication are dead.
And then the gas bombs go off....
<more next time>
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Our vampire hero and Doctor Benjamin Franklin talk in a basement level sitting room at the townhouse.
Franklin - They just came in. They just appeared. They had the right pass codes. They had the right cards. All 'special ops.' To me they looked like all special ops. But I don't know the difference. You know the type. Hard faces. They all have the same expression. I was three levels down. Somebody activated an alert. But by that point they already took hostages... five genetic biologists from Penn. Well, that's their cover. They do research at Penn. But what they really do is underground with us. And it was all so subtle. Were they not hostages, or were they? But what would you call it? They were surrounded by twelve God damned bastards with guns. Everybody else just hid... in closets... in storage rooms... in offices. No one wanted to be taken in a lab. No one wanted to be forced to share information. This is insane. We've always, more or less, cooperated with the government. They don't officially recognize us. We don't officially recognize ourselves. And that's it. It's always worked. For two hundred and twenty seven years, that's how it is. They didn't even mess with us during the Manhattan Project. Only one time... ONE TIME! And that was The Philadelphia Experiment, because no one else knew as much about harmonics as we did. Even then, they never came in with guns. I had to meet with them. I had to. There was this 'person.' I don't even know who he is. I don't know his name. I don't know anything.
JONATHON - What did he want?
FRANKLIN - Everything! He wanted it all. I said - Who wants it?... He smirked at me. Oh, I hate when they do that. I'm Benjamin Franklin, for God's sake! Without me THIS would all be 'Canada!'....
JONATHON - I thought you like Canadians?
FRANKLIN - I DO! But you know what I mean. Look, when it comes to 'America,' I'm the J.K. Rowling. I WROTE the God damned script! And that brainless tool, that soulless piece of machinery smirks at me?
JONATHON - What did you do?
FRANKLIN - I gave him the codes. You know the last time I did that? When the British came in eighteen twelve. Then it was on paper. Then it was the key to a written code. Now it accesses everything. Their guns were pointed right at me.
JONATHON - Did they know who you were?
FRANKLIN - No... I didn't tell them. They don't know I'm still around... 'Preserved by harmonics' - that's just a legend. Even F.D.R. didn't know. They think every Director here just takes the name 'Benjamin Franklin.'
JONATHON - So, there was no shooting?
FRANKLIN - No, there was... a little.
JONATHON - Who?
FRANKLIN - One of Luna's aides. He ran and locked himself in a closet. I know what he wanted to do. He wanted to call in the planes and have the place bombed. We got 'tacticals' you know. We have bombs that would take out the complex and maybe a block or two all around. God knows what it'd do to the river. Probably send a tsunami into Jersey. So they shot through the door and killed him. He was twenty seven years old. Just got married. I was there, The Downtown Club, right across the street from 'headquarters.' (Franklin always calls Independence Hall 'headquarters') And now he's dead.... They're all over the complex. More than just the initial twelve. I don't know how many. I didn't even see it. But the people up by the entrance said they came in vans... big black vans... a whole lot of vans. Mitzi heard. You know Mitzi, the girl from the welcome desk?
JONATHON nodded.
FRANKLIN - She heard them say something. They whispered. They tried to be quiet. But she's had her hearing artificially enhanced. She went deaf. We had to. Thought she'd wind up normal, but she's better than normal, much better.
JONATHON - What did she hear?
FRANKLIN - Russian...
JONATHON - Yo no lo creo.
FRANKLIN - Now don't you go all Spanish on me. Don't you go reverting back to all that crap. Not now!... Please.
JONATHON - I'm sorry. (ponders things for a few moments) I don't believe it.
FRANKLIN - The insignias were all American. The equipment. All of it.
JONATHON - How high do you think it goes?
FRANKLIN - My dear 'boy,' are you serious???
Neither one said anything for quite a while.
FRANKLIN - (pours himself a bit more vodka and continues) The whole place is in lock down. They're already accessing the computers. (exhales)
JONATHON - (quietly) Do they know about the 'annex?' Do they know about the Poconos?
FRANKLIN - I don't think so. The system up there doesn't interface with here. It's all independent... Thank God... Unless they start torturing people. Look, they've said that publicly. They believe in it.... You know, they're installing a lead room in Washington?
JONATHON - A vampire proof room?
FRANKLIN - Yes.... What world leader doesn't know about night-folk? They all know.... And the crowd roars. They can do no wrong.
JONATHON - What 'crowd?'
FRANKLIN - Not everybody, just all those 'concerned' and worried people who thought this was such a good idea.
JONATHON - Let me ask you something. How did you get out?
FRANKLIN - This is Philadelphia, dear boy. You know how many Franklin impersonators there are around here? I'm Mickey Mouse in the Old Quarter. A few are really good. I always keep an impersonator on hand... just in case... and today it came true... Our uninvited guests don't know everything. It's so easy to throw people off. I slip into the next room. They rush in to find me. But I'm not there... well, not the real me. The 'Bureau' has so many 'ins and outs'... a regular labyrinth... (he starts to sing This Land Is Your Land. This Land Is Your Land... then he stops)... Can you get me out of here? Can you get me to The Pines? I know you have people in the Jersey Pine Barrens.
JONATHON - (nods) I'll sublimate as soon as it gets dark.
FRANKLIN - And you're sure your aura will 'sublimate' me too?
JONATHON - If I carry you in tight. There's a harness... a canvas harness we can wear... like for tandem skydiving. It'll be cold, but you'll be all bundled up. If heights bother you, keep your eyes closed. I can give you smoked goggles if you like?
FRANKLIN - I want the goggles.
JONATHON - All right.
And so they sit there, waiting for the Earth to turn... a more than three hundred 'preserved by harmonics' year old scientist and patriot and a more or less thousand year old rather dashing, 'young' Spaniard, born into the physical world in The Caliphate of Cordoba.
'The world is so full of so many fine things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings' ... by Robert Louis Stevenson...
<more next time>
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Some nights I haunt the streets like this, especially late, snowy nights. I'm all in black... black jeans... black pea coat... waterproof black lace up work boots... matching turtleneck... scarf and black 'waxed' (waterproof) fedora.... trim, fur lined leather gloves too. At times I meld with the shadows. No one knows I'm there, even most of the cats.
I glide along, just above the cold surface. If anyone does happen to see me, they think I'm sliding, or 'street skating.' But there are no tracks. There are no foot prints. I can do that. When I sublimate through creation altitude is not important. Flying is flying. I pass through the air. I pass through snowflakes. They do not melt. They just go on.
Sometimes I whistle, not loud, but in a low and resonate manner. If people hear, I don't care. There are nights when I tail someone for quite a while. We skim the perimeter of silent, photogenic squares all covered with snow. The prey turns down some sporadically lit residential street. I turn too. We pass classic, pre war apartment buildings, coveted brownstones and beaux arts towers.
In PHILADELPHIA AFTER DARK, the seminal screenplay Vampire Wonderland is based on, I lived up there, safe in a lofty redoubt. My name was Thomas (not Tomas) and I'm not Spanish, but the second son of a Scottish aristocrat. Please know that is fiction. This is not.
The prey slips into an all night coffee shop. I wait outside. Hidey-holes are everywhere. I don't fear the cold, or the rain, or the snow. There's a thing I do, a type of sublimation, that causes all manner of precipitation to evaporate before touching my clothing. So I'm quite dry and comfortable. I fall into a state, contemplating things from years ago. But when the prey leaves the warmth of that coffee shop, I move too.
You see, what I'm sharing here is another way I hunt and kill those souls unworthy of mortal life. During this stage of the pursuit I make no sound at all. Teddy Bears Picnic is a favorite of mine. Sometimes I whistle it, not loud, but I do. Am I repeating myself? If so, forgive me. Night-folk rarely think in a linear manner. Time is different for us.
The prey climbs the steps to his stylish quarters in a converted townhouse. I glide up too, not stepping on each marble tread, but rising up, as if on an incline, till he unlocks the door and steps inside.... But I pass through too.
There's no drama, no grand orchestrated dance. I merely restrain him and levitate up perhaps eighteen inches from the floor. When their feet can't touch a solid surface the whole thing is much easier.
I quickly drain him dry and let the body crumple down onto the black and white, checkerboard quartz tiles. Then I leave, not even waiting for the remains to ignite with a 'cold' blue flame. Should some one enter right after my departure, they'd think it a case of spontaneous human combustion. Believe me, that more or less, fictional occurrence veils many a vampire's feast.
Don't ask me what I'd do if interrupted whilst in the act. Does that happen? Yes, not often, but it does and I hate to think about it.
Thus is my life, or my existence, if you're picky about such things...
I pass through the thinly blanketed streets and leave no tracks. The snow stays clean and pure....
Ah, but the air feels good....
<more next time>
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You see, what this blog is, is like a notebook. I record everything the vampires and other night-folk want me to record. They'll start telling a story, a recollection of what happened to them that night, or maybe centuries ago and then just go silent. That means they're already thinking about something else and that 'something else' might be a different long ago experience, or the quiet sound of a rooster coming from a TV that's left on because it's always left on. Vampires are like that. Years later they'll go back to an old story like they never left it.
Sometimes Jonathon takes me with him when he goes wandering through closed museums. We pass through darkened halls and galleries barely lit by tiny night lights. He likes dim illumination. They have rooms brought over from Europe and Asia piece by piece and reconstructed here. We sit in a medieval cloister originally from a French monastery. It's a series of rooms opening onto a square arcade. A low stone wall separates the arcade from what was once geometric flower beds surrounding a little fountain in the middle. Fountain's still there. Flowers are long gone. Now there's an authentic geometric design made from distressed looking stone cobbles. Little flickering, artificial candles shed an orange glow through the doorless rooms. We sit on the low stone wall looking at the dry fountain. During the hours when the people come, they play a low recording of tinkling water. But not now.
Jonathon starts saying something in a northern dialect of Vahmperigo. I can hear the romance words in it, but this is more like French than Spanish, so I just go 'uh huh' and let him talk. Vampires are proud of their languages. His is more like Spanish, Catalan and Piedmontese Italian with a few ancient words from a source unknown even to the vampires.
I ask him if any spirits ever come over with these reconstructed rooms. He shrugs. That means he's contemplating his answer. Sometimes he just contemplates and never answers. But not this time.... He says they don't usually do that, because the initial destruction of the site drives them away. Some pass on. Some wander. Though he says there might be a local ghost, maybe somebody from here who liked this exhibit (it's a permanent exhibit) and visited often. They might be here, especially if they lived alone and didn't have much family. They might come by.... I ask if there's one now.... He doesn't answer. That might mean 'no,' or one's here now and it's none of your business, or 'What? I'm thinking of something else.'
Jonathon already fed tonight. It was his time to 'cull' somebody. This time it was a lawyer. He's equal opportunity. Culls all types.... shyster doctors... shyster investment advisors... shyster politicians... violent haters... abustive people. I can't remember all of them. Tonight was a shyster lawyer. Guy took advantage of widows... trusting grown children beneficiaries, some of them handicapped. He was a real creep. Put an old lady in a home. Then he had a house sale and sold off all her stuff. Kept a seventeenth century Dutch painting for himself. Said it covered expenses. Chipped away at the rest of the estate real fast. You know how those 'expenses' can be?.... She died without visitors. Who would go, him? He never went. And she wasn't the only one. He got rich. They died broke and alone.
So now it was his turn to die. Jonathon sublimated into the right house. Found him watching some basketball game on TV. Oh, yeah, what an athlete. Let me tell you. He had a bet on it. That's why he cared. Sure, his team lost. Well, they won, but didn't make the spread. But he won't have to pay. Jonathon jumped out, pinned him to the floor and bit a whole mess of gristly tissue from his neck before he could even scream. Then the vampire, blood and gore still dripping from his chin, leaned down and whispered into Mister Lawyer's ear.... He said - Your time is up. The years are done. I've come to end your life..... Like a poem. That was it.... The guy squirmed. Tried to punch him. Jonathon quickly broke both arms just below the wrist, so that took care of that. The guy mewed like a little kitten, till he died ninety four heart beats later, when the last of his blood was gone. Jonathon's a fast drinker. Never say vampires 'suck.' They don't suck. They drink.
When done, he stood up and exhaled. Blood rush produced an all over hot flash. Steam rose from his body, instantly evaporating any bits of dried blood and gore. It's remarkable how clean vampires are. Soon the victim ignited into the 'cold' blue flame, like they all do, and disappeared.
Before he left, Jonathon 'liberated' a few substantial pieces of jewelry... a heavy, gold watch... a signet ring... and ninety five thousand dollars in cash, neatly packaged in nineteen, paper banded 'flats' (stacks of fifty, one hundred dollar bills). Of course there was a safe, but vampires have an extremely deft touch and can finesse their way into anything.
Even your throat....
Look, I was going to tell you a bit more of how they view and deal with winter. They love the longer nights, but suffer a heaviness brought on by the dense, cold air. Thoughts are somber and dark. Not so much at the beginning of the season. Then they like it. But as February and March drag on, even they hunger for a warm night breeze and the perfume of flowers.
Maybe next time?....
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