Monday, February 6, 2017

VAMPIRES IN WINTER ... 2/6/17

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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