Posts
Baylah sent people to look for me. Edith, my housekeeper, called her. She left her mortal 'boyfriend' and sublimated in from the seashore... That's how important she thought this was.... That one likes human comfort. A ride in the plush, leather womb of a Bentley is more her style. Indeed, we called her apartment atop that piano bar of hers 'the jewel box.'... Sarah, my oh so independent consort, loves that place. She goes there. They talk... But that was before. Now my heart races and I don't care what they talk about. Words mean nothing to me. Time means nothing... Present tense, past tense... It's all an illusion. Night-folk know that. Some pretend. They fit in. Some know they're pretending. Others don't. Now I know how 'Papa' feels. Age renders everything pointless. It's not as if we face death. There are no deadlines in our world. That is where I am now. I kill mortals because they are mortal. How short their lives are. What difference does it make when they die?... I pass an old 'trinity' row house on a narrow street. They're called 'trinities' since they have one room per floor... a kitchen of sorts... a sitting room and a bedroom. The good ones had a hand pump in the kitchen. The bad ones had a four handled community pump in the alley.... A family named Glaston lived there. This was after The War of 1812. I 'culled' the father. He was a rough sort. Part of a gang. A cutthroat. Used an old straight razor. All they had back then. Some used knives. He didn't. Those familiar with my life know I almost always 'culled' only the wicked. ... Not now. Believe me it's hard to control my passions and talk to you. The blood lust is unimaginable. Don't ask me how I get these words out. Just know young people with cunning little laptop-like tablets are plentiful, in coffee shops, I mean... I go in. I nod. Sit down. We talk. I beguile them. They follow me and I use them. My current 'typist' is a grad student who shall never graduate. His eyes are blank. His jaw hangs slack. We're in an old small, private mausoleum in Laurel Hill, the dark, leafy, mossy necropolis northwest of Center City. The elferinos and elferinas know I'm here. They give me wide berth. Opening the heavy bronze door is beyond what mortals can do. But a vampire applies constant steady pressure. Our bodies rarely tire. The effort never stops till the task is done. Thus the door gives way. We enter. He retches. I kick the moldering ancient coffins and the dried husks within off to the side. Moonlight through a mausoleum door can be so atmospheric. I have a small packet... a tiny envelope... some cheap street nostrum the cattle use to dull the pain of being cattle. I open it, lick two fingers and dip them inside. Then I grab the young man, force my fingers through his teeth and whisper 'swallow.'... He does. I say record my words. He sits down among the dust and dry brittle bone bits, opens his device and makes ready. I turn on a few battery powered candles. I keep them in my usual haunts. The stink of real flames in confined spaces offends me. I put two down by his small keyboard. The screen gives off its own ghostly light. I close the door. I speak. He begins to tap the tough sensitive keys.
What was I telling you?... Oh, yes... how I killed the senior Glaston bastard. He patrolled the border regions south of Chester. Not all the time, but perhaps five nights each month, around the new moon, when slaves tried to reach the north. Trussed them up like pigs, he did, when he caught them. He and his gang, I mean. Then he transported the sad cargo to the nearest southern town. Sheriff only too glad to lock them up. Slavers only too glad to buy them. Made no difference if the real master got them back. Somebody'd get them... and they'd go right on slaving. This was before telegraph lines and all that. Communication was difficult. How I relished his death... A generation later I took another Glaston, a son or nephew. Who cares? They were all shit. Human generations fly by so fast. Maybe not to you, but vampires think so.
Now I'm going to kill the typist..... (he stops momentarily... I chuckle and muss his hair.... he exhales and resumes tapping away... but I kill him, just the same...)
click HERE ... to have access to all 2,000 episodes of Vampire Wonderland.
click THIS ... to join me on Twitter...
thanks to all...
What was I telling you?... Oh, yes... how I killed the senior Glaston bastard. He patrolled the border regions south of Chester. Not all the time, but perhaps five nights each month, around the new moon, when slaves tried to reach the north. Trussed them up like pigs, he did, when he caught them. He and his gang, I mean. Then he transported the sad cargo to the nearest southern town. Sheriff only too glad to lock them up. Slavers only too glad to buy them. Made no difference if the real master got them back. Somebody'd get them... and they'd go right on slaving. This was before telegraph lines and all that. Communication was difficult. How I relished his death... A generation later I took another Glaston, a son or nephew. Who cares? They were all shit. Human generations fly by so fast. Maybe not to you, but vampires think so.
Now I'm going to kill the typist..... (he stops momentarily... I chuckle and muss his hair.... he exhales and resumes tapping away... but I kill him, just the same...)
click HERE ... to have access to all 2,000 episodes of Vampire Wonderland.
click THIS ... to join me on Twitter...
thanks to all...
