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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It didn't work. Nothing they did helped. Tomas drained almost all the blood out of the new body, the one they got from the Moscow haberdasher's assistant. Then he bit open his wrist (after keeping the apparently life giving elixir percolating in his own body for what seemed like a long enough period of time) and gave drink to the pathetic deaf and blind thing. Maybe some of the 'resonance' got through? Maybe he heard, or felt it, for whatever combination of human presence there was in that body took it in. And they did this over and over and over. Doctor Franklin dozed off a few times. He went into his quarters, watched some TV... played video games. He has all the latest versions, even some real good unreleased stuff. One game has these contact lenses. The player needs contact lenses. They create a world. No, they alter a world. You still see what you'd normally see, only changed a bit. Creatures condense out of the ether, mess with you...scare you... touch and move things around the house.... Some of what they do might even hurt. But via motion sensitive gloves and a few voice commands, you can 'get' them. Franklin loves it. He needs help with the contacts. Various domestics assist with that. I can't tell you their names, because he rotates them out of the residence and into other positions on a monthly basis. Doesn't like them to know him that well. I don't know why. It's a phobia. But the recently incarnated one time Russian vampire-oligarch, known as Grigori Usipov is still up Shit's Creek. Vampires are such sensual beings, aware in so many ways . Now here he is, locked in a place devoid of light, imagery and sound. And he's not even a vampire anymore. Not yet anyway. Maybe they'll think of something else. Technicians came and disconnected the trembling, more or less, human thing from all the tubes and crap. Tomas went back to the residence (an extensive area within the complex). Not where Franklin was. Let the old reprobate enjoy his gadgets in peace. The pensive vampire took his leave in the library... a real library, a book lined enclosure, a cozy sanctum, rich in leather and fine varnished wood. Wing chairs... it actually had wing chairs and crystal decanters filled with clear (or nearly clear) distillations just right for a vampire to enjoy. Actually, the space wasn't really that big, just big enough, with cozy corners and glossy, porcelain lamps providing just the right amount of light. They even had hand crocheted afghans, for God's sake. Look, the townhouse very commodious too, but this library is special... so special that Tomas actually cried. And what did he read? Was it something so out of the ordinary? No. Three books... he took three books off the shelves. A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, because he's a sucker for tear jerkers. The Catcher In The Rye, 'cause you know what a do gooder he is. Tomas identifies with the kid. Thinks he's a Sephardic, Jewish, Spanish, vampire version of Holden Caulfield. And some new edition of a men's dressing and grooming thing because vanity, or maybe just an awareness of his physical presence, is a big thing with him. Then he settled in, poured himself a nice, little 'old fashioned' glass of some high priced vodka and began to read. Fourteen hundred heartbeats later he fell asleep. Soon after, someone came in, probably one of the domestics, put his feet up on an ottoman, covered him with an afghan (no, two afghans), freshened the ice in case he woke up and wanted more booze, dimmed the lights (which weren't so bright to begin with) and left. While on the other side of the closed draperies an eighteenth century, autumn winter night played out beyond the multi-pane windows on the realer than real, cutting edge video screens. All vampires should shelter underground, especially in quarters like this. Tomas dreamed of mortal days in Al Andaluz and the artificial heat almost felt like the sun. Usipov spent a different night, strapped in a bed, locked in a damaged shell, buried in darkness. Human... he was human now, after a fashion. Well, he wasn't vampire, but he did have vampire blood in him. Tomas gave him that. He could concentrate. He could focus. You don't know how laser-like night-folk concentration can be. But Usipov does. And he 'prays' and he thinks and he weaves it all together, repeating over and over in Old Slavonic - Gospodi pomiluy. Gospodi pomiluy . (God have mercy). He prayed for the sweet, hot, light of God to find him and set him ablaze. He prayed to spontaneously combust and fade away. Now most vampires don't believe in that. Spontaneous 'human' combustion is an illusion, a mortal explanation of the 'cold' blue flames that eat up all night-folk victims. Sometimes there are witnesses. Sometimes people see things. They try to explain, so a legend is born. But Usipov believes in miracles. And in a world with 'magic' and 'resonance,' how could that not be so? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click ~>HERE to see many past episodes. click ~>THERE to join me on Twitter and for the 1,402nd time, PLEASE COMMENT. thank you. ================<<o> <o>>===============
There was a hangman in our town... a true sadist... a devil much worse than any life-eater (vampire). He had a way to let the victim swing. No snap. No neck break. No quick drop into oblivion. Just a pendulum swinging in the breeze.. They gasp.... They drool.... They pee and shit. The crowd laughs. They clap and throw chestnuts. Throwing chestnuts is a tradition here. If the family of the victim can afford it, they give the hangman three silver crowns. This happens during the final visit. He ushers the victim into a marginally cleaner and brighter cell... No greasy stones... No black soot from eons of cheap, fatty candles wafting smoky dreams to nowhere. Three dirty bowls of stew. Well, not too dirty, but you know what I mean. And the beef is fairly free from mold and mildew. One for the victim. Two for his chief, not yet mourners. Most bring their own spoons. They sit on stools and eat. They talk. Some people cry. The crowns trade hands. The victim mouths a heartfelt 'thank you,' then silence. After a bit the clergyman comes in. What a coincidence... Everyone believes the same as the king and has done so for one thousand years. They even control the souls. Then, when it's time, they do it. The poor soul walks out. Peasants cheer. They throw the nuts. Children caper about, miming 'the hanged man'... lolling tongues.... eyes rolled back... twitching arms... kicking feet. Bawds sing songs and flash their wares. as churchmen take down names. But death will be quick, for the rope is long and wound just so. Does the crowd like that? No, they don't. Dirty faces droop in disappointment. Eyes dart about. Perhaps there's a witch to burn? Or a heretic? Or a Jew? But the Jews were banished years ago. And they burnt their last heretic after the witch flew off. That one really could fly. Pity they didn't grab her feet before she got away. Young toughs began smashing market stalls run by immigrants, Walloons and Lombards and the like...... Oi, what they jibber-jaggin' about? Smash 'er teef.... And they did.... At least she had teeth. I fixed the hangman. I fixed him good. Not that he was the biggest villain in all this. But that night it was his turn. Made him swallow each and every silver crown he had. Kept them in a secret niche within the stout stone wall. Tipped a pewter chalice and spilled them out.... like rain upon the floor. No one heard. His cell was like a fortress, though he possessed the key. And moonlight filtered in to gild the coins. How he cried. Was I a demon, or a witchy-man? He wanted to know. And I just laughed. Sublimation is a special talent of mine and stout stone walls meant nothing to me. Though some of my ilk might have been scared. Condensing in stone is a terrible way to die. And had he lived in a more public venue, say a room over the tavern, I might have passed him by. Night-folk shun notoriety.... Well, back then they did. First I bit his nose and chewed it off like gristle. He moaned and trembled. Then I licked the blood that poured down from the wound. Then he went limp... dropped through my arms and rolled under the bed. I grabbed his legs and pulled him out. He whimpered like a puppy, as I sliced into his nethers and drained him dry. They all expect the neck. They all protect the neck. But me, I like variety. And it's disorienting to the night-meal when the lungs and heart and brain are still intact while the blood is drained away, like a great, internal tide rushing out to sea..... He gasped... He wheezed... The whimpering stopped and then I watched the flames....' Spontaneous human combustion' they call it... When it was over and he was gone, I scooped up all the coins. How greasy they were. So I took them home to wash them and gave them to the poor. 'Saint Francis' they called me, as I blessed them and mumbled prayers... Was I always so honorable? No.... But that night, I was.... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ see more at ~>NIGHT-FOLK UNIVERSE ... visit me on Twitter at~>@wilkravitz ... your COMMENTS mean a lot...
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