NEXT BEST FRIENDS

The two mole maids were particularly beguiling. I think they were sisters. One of them had something wrong with her eye. It went a little bit crazy at times and turned out to examine the wall. So Jonathon gave her a tiny tasty-q of his blood and.....IT WENT AWAY! The other sister got jealous. She wanted to be a bit more perfect herself. So she pouted and sulked till he gave her a little gift too. This sister was squeemish and didn't know if she would 'like' it, so she asked him to dribble it into a can of Spaghetti-O's for her and she ate it that way Now Jonathon told her. He did. He really did. I know, for I was sublimating through all three of them (quite a pleasant way to spend a bit of eternity) and it's the truth. He told her that the 'ingredients' in that 'easy to fix' treat might alter the outcome. But she didn't care. This little snip who had never once been up to the surface knew everything, don't you know. So she stirred it all up with a popsicle stick and guzzled it right down. (mole people sometimes have such strange manners). At first nothing happened. She burped a bit. Her stomach gurgled and I think she tooted once or twice. But then things seemed to quiet down. Her sister and their vampire princeling began to tidy up their snug, little alcove. After all, some of the niceities of society must be observed. Then they pulled on a few pieces of clothing, sat down and watched. Jonathon knew that 'something' would happen. He pushed the small. flickering sterno flame close to her and they studied her in its dim, orange glow. Soon she started to giggle

FEEDING TIME

Annie fell back into old habits. Papa encouraged her. She was quite good at sublimating and he loved to see her do it. She would melt into somebody's bed chamber, stand by the foot of the bed ,  and carefully uncover the feet. Then she's lean over, position her wide opened mouth above a particularly juicy looking toe or two, and quickly bite them off. The cut was so clean that victims rarely awakened. And her saliva worked its vampire magic, so the wounds healed immediately. Later, out on the street, she'd spit out the repulsive toesies and giggle. Then she'd skip off with her Papa, heading toward the real meal of the night. Her favorite game was 'third one out.' They'd walk the streets looking at the menu, but would always skip the first two interesting choices. But the third one was 'the winner.' That's the one they'd walk up along side, make vampire eyes at, and guide off into some dark corner. It could be a college kid coming home from a late night job, or a nurse on the eleven to seven shift, or some middle aged lothario leaving his completely disinterested little gold digger. What did they care. Soon there'd be a blue, cold flame. The body disappeared and yet another family  would be left in limbo. It could go on like this for a long time. True, Papa still wanted to confront Jonathon. He still entertained some nebulous idea of revenge. But freedom was good. 'Life' was good. The rest could wait. Still, deep in his underground lair, Jonathon knew how dangerous Papa really was. No one knew the actual extent of his abilities. He didn't truly know himself. So Jonathon stayed away. sometimes he'd sneak up to the moonlit surface and cull a deserving victim. And sometimes he'd depend on what the mole people brought him. It was far from perfect. He missed Sarah and thought of her constantly. But he could survive. There were two particular mole maidens who interested him. Pretty little things they were. Quite striking with their long, wavy hair, wide, shining eyes and quiet, modest ways. Lately they'd begun nesting together, piling their blankets in the same brick alcove and spennding their time intimately exploring the possibilities. It reminded him of the concubines' quarters he'd visited in the villas of certain relations back in old Granada and Seville. And he whispered them little songs, Spanish songs, Arabic songs, fom a life lived long ago. When finished, they'd steal off to one of the ancient, crumbling restrooms and carefully bathe each other by sterno light under the softly dripping pipes. But he never stopped longing for Sarah. So Baylah was safe at the seashore. And Jonathon was sheltered as well. The various humans laid low in the Pines. Our midnight reality ticked on. But Papa's Vatican persuers had begun to discover certain things. They had powers. They had tools. And they had collaborators too. He wasn't the only one sealed off in the dark away from the world. The noose, as they say, was beginning to tighten...

MEANWHILE DOWN AT THE JERSEY SHORE

Baylah could feel everything. She could taste the events in Philadelphia. She knew about Papa and what he did to the others. Did she hate him for it? No. That's just what animals do. Was he always an animal? What does that matter? He is one now. But she knew that Jonathon was safe. And she knew that the humans were actually close by, tucked snug in the Jersey Pinelands. So she waited. That was the easy part. The broker had a nice place. It waasn't directly on the beach, but it was 'beach block.' And the master bedroom deck had a good ocean view. Everything inside was straight out of HGTV, all granite and hardwoods and stainless. Huge, flat-panel TV's held court in every room. The town wasn't deserted, but the pace was slow. It gets like that during the winter. The locals like it. You can browse around the picture perfect shops on the avenue and nobody bothers you. Best of all, there's no 'me first' battles at the deli counter in Casels. If she had to be stuck anywhere, Margate was as good as any. Not that Baylah was purchasing a lot of deli (maybe once in a while for the broker. they did have evening hours after all), but you understand. Though she did enjoy the proximity to Atlantic City. Ten minutes in the car and they were there. She already had her favorite machines. The dollar video Joker Poker was the best. What? Did you think vampires couldn't get hooked? Think about it. They can't absorb as many varieties of nourishment as humans can, so they search for other ways to satisfy their needs. True, the blood (or more accurately, the life) supplies quite a jolt. And contrary to what some misguided hacks want you to believe, they can have sex. Their bodies are preserved in perfect working order, after all. It's just not the way they reproduce. But sometimes they hunger for a little more. And the excitement of a casino can be very satisfying. The broker smiled, he liked to make her happy. Her purse (some fifteen hundred dollar designer thingie) was always kept filled. And she did manage to contact one of the surviving 'familiars' (look, even the broker was a 'familiar' of sorts) who saw to it that a manila envelope neatly stuffed with thick piles of Benjamin Franklin , greenish-gray, engravings was discreetly hand delivered to her every few nights. Considering all that had happened, existence was good. The hunting was good. She could always focus in on some rotten bastard who needed to die real bad. Granted, A.C. was festooned with spy cameras. They were everywhere, in the casinos, the malls, the parking garges, the streets. But it was not difficult to lure the prey to quieter, more remote surroundings. Say a cozy, old fashioned motel just out on the highway and surrounded by wetlands. You've seen places like that. You know. And via some judiciously presented blood gifts,it was not hard to 'make friends' with the night manager. What's best, the worse the bastard, the less they were missed. And gambling towns...any gambling town...grow a lot of bastards. So Baylah waited. And she plotted. And she planned for the day  when Papa would pay. She had a strong sense of justice, this one. As would any soul once forced to work as a slave. Do you like Atlantic City? Do you go there often? Well then, maybe you've seen her? How could you miss. She looks like what the 'contemporaries' call a fashion model. But be careful. Don't get too close. Especially if you're one of them 'rotten bastards,' that she so obviously enjoys, or you just might 'stay' in Atlantic city forever.......

UN POCO DE LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO

There are certain things that you should know. Vampires, for the most part, have little knowledge of their true beginnings. Yes, there are old legends and stories, but they are only myths. And each vampiric culture has their own. Some believe the nocturnal nativity happened in Sumeria, back before the age of Gilgamesh. Others revere 'first ones' who ignited into the physical realm inorder to seal a pact between the Sun and the Moon. I could go on and on. But Papa knows best, for he is, if not the eldest, certainly close to it. Imagine, a being who has seen Neanderthals in the flesh. And yes, there were Neanderthal vampires too. Some of the old ones claim that isolated Neanderthal survivors are responsible for werewolf stories the world over. What does Papa believe? Actually, not much. He knows there were beings like himself, Cro-Magnon or 'modern' vampires at least twenty eight thousand years ago. That's when the last of the Neanderthals died out in some lonely caves, down by the sea, near The Pillars of Hercules. Well, the last truly 'human' Neanderthals, for a minute dusting of the vampiric sort managed to survive. Werewolves? Big-Foot? Anybody ever hear of The Boogie-Man?  Come on, you get the idea. What's it like for a man who has clear memories of mammoth hunts to make his way along the public thoroughfares of a contemporary city? What type of cunning must he possess? Who were his 'playmates' along the way? I can tell you that when I sublimate through Papa's mind, I feel vestiges of an old one, a special one, a feamale one, a soulmate. Her original name, I do not know. But in recent centuries she has answered to 'Renate '(Reh-Nah-Tay), a personal label often heard in Central Europe. She knows he is free now. Why she never came to his aid, I do not know. Perhaps she too was passing through a weakened period. Perhaps she did not care. He waits for her. Not so much waits, as anticipates their reunion. Oh, it will take place. That event will happen. Could be she's on her way........ But for now, he fills his time with the little girl, with Annie. Oh, how she loves to kill. Craves human lives like a toddler craves apple juice. And he makes sure that she gets them. Fresh ones. Fat ones. Terrified ones who squirm and thrash and scream (until they are gagged) and sweat. Nice ones. Bad ones. Old souls shuffling off for their almost hourly, nighttime, pee-pee visit. And teen-betweens insolently cracking their gum. They all think they're being taken over into some romantic land peopled by sharp toothed Abercrombie and Finch models (see, I keep up). But they soon learn differently when the 'light' goes out and they begin to burn. What else did I want to tell you?......Oh, yes. The 'other ones.' The elves, the cherubs and the lovely Sarah. What happened to them?  Let me see. I suppose you could think of it as being in Limbo, or maybe what the Buddists call The Bardo. Are they irrevocably gone? No, they can be brought back. Do I know the means? Well, it's complicated and right now it's not on the tip of my no longer existent tongue. But there is a way. Such a fate has befallen others. They are not the first. Indeed, some of the most artistic carvings and high-relief statues found in cathedrals and palaces throughout the centuries have suffered the like. Who knows, you may have seen them. Imagine what the world will be like when they wake up? Zebulon has enjoyed our little chat. But It must end now. For there are events unfolding in Fostat (what you call Cairo) on The River Nile, in the Land of Kemet (known to you as Egypt) which call to me, as I once spent time there, years back, as a youth.........

STORY TIME

Jonathon sat by the small sterno fire with the mole children. A few of the adults sat with them as well. He had been crying. He missed Sarah. He mourned for her and the others too. Were they gone? Were they gone for good. Who knew? He was in a tunnel far underground, one of the many built in the early days by an over ambitious subway system. It was semicompleted over one hundred years ago. Old tiled walls. Weak electric lights hanging in primative wire baskets. They never really put in the 'permanent' stuff, for work was called off when automobiles took over. Three subway lines proved enough. Now the weak illumination from the bulbs had burned out long, long ago. But the ancient wiring could still be made to leak out a spark or two of wattage. The mole people were adept at knotting up a bit of this and a bit of that, some copper wire, some, I don't know what you would call it (remember, Zebulon's soul stores the memories of many civilizations) and so they managed to milk a miniature ember-like glow out of the antique lines and into a collection of small bulbs scrounged from dollar stores and trash heaps. Water was slowly accumulated from forgotten, leaky pipes in venerable, old fire buckets originally used to hold sand back in the construction days. Mushrooms, pigeons and rats were raised for food. Life in the depths was possible. Some had never been to the surface in years. Some had never been there. Others went up occasionally to beg for coins or maybe pick a pocket or two, buy a delicacy in a bodega and scurry back down. You've seen them. They infest the shadowy places, seeming to overlap with the homeless (from whence they spring). But the mole people have somewhere to go. And with their purloined water, plus the dried cakes of soap found in abundance in a storage chamber meant to supply the partially finished restrooms, they manage to preserve a measure of cleanliness and dignity. Even the rats and fat, flightless pigeons are quite clean by now. Jonathon had sheltered with them before. Sarah too, if I am correct. He could, theoretically exist there indefinitely. But it was not his natural habitat. He needed the moonlight, the wind among the clouds and the stars to keep him company. True, his hosts kept him fed. They were adept at grabbing a deserving evil-doer or two , wrestling them back under the surface and serving them up to their guest. But it was not the existence for him. So he told the little ones stories, of Old Seville and England during the Restoration. And he taught them the true meaning of Ring Around The Rosy, a dancing game used by seventeenth century children to give them courage during the time of the Plague. And he cried. He cried for the plump, gurgling 'cherubs,' innocent too in their own way. And for the 'elves' and everyone else.....

WHISPERS AND GIGGLES

It is I, Zebulon. For the last few planetary rotaions I have been in Egypt, commenting on the unfolding events for readers of other dispatches. But for now, I am back. Let's see. Where are we? There can be no disagreement. Papa is now the center of things. And he's different. In his last local manifestaion, when he was still incarcerated, he came to us as The Shaky Hand Man. Then he sought to undermine society as a whole. He softly crooned into the ears of impressionable people, tempting them to change their ways and follow him into the shadows. Some did. And it was pleasureable for him. He did have Annie. She was already his. Yet he was still buried down far beyond the deepest foundations of Rome and that was torture. But now he is free, in the flesh as well as in the spirit. And he cares nothing for the morals of those around him, human or immortal. He craves killing and the many other beguiling sensations his human parts can feel. Look, now he is with that new, little vampirina (vahm-pah-ree-na). He loves her. At first I doubted it. But he loves her. They have a place, a nest, down in the cellars of The University Museum near the thirty fourth street from the river. Not a rough space. It is actually quite well finished. An office, I think it was and without windows....even better. If I am not mistaken, some of our local vampires slept there once before. Maybe that is how he sensed it. All he had to do was walk through the echoing halls near closing time. It's winter, so that would already be after dark. A dapper, handsome executive, with trimly styled, steel gray hair and the requisite well dressed, little girl. What guard could resist? Strike up a conversation. Sublimate through the man's mind a bit. Find a weakness and you're in. This one had an illness. I don't know. Some sort of human metabolic condition. It was serious. He was worried. That was it. Papa, ever attentive, danced him over into a corner, whispered in his ear and offered him a deal. The man would have health in return for his assistance. Simple and direct You may not know it, but even the breath of an immortal is intoxicating to humans.  That's how easy it is. They had a new familiar, a snug berth and some other ancillary stuff all in return for a few drops of blood. The man must have been a fan of gothic fiction, for he knew just how to draw it in. Annie smiled, as she reached up to his lips and wiped away an errant, glistening drop. Then she slurped it up like a hungry puppy. The three of them looked at each other and giggled. Soon they added another guard or two. Ah, security. A home at last. Each night, after slaughtering the necessary number of people, they'd return to the museum and explore. Annie liked the dim, still Egyptian halls the best. Papa taught her how to sublimate through the glass into the display chambers, where all the quality mummies were kept. They'd lean over the edge of some ancient sarcophagus, discussing the specimen within. Papa was somewhat surprised to discover that he actually recognised one of them, a finne, old gentleman from the time of the Ptolemeys. The mummy was only about twenty three centuries old. Not much by ancient Egyptian standards. Annie asked if they could use their blood to resurrect him. But Papa said that would not work, since they lacked the canopic jars containing his organs. And besides, the man's brains had been thoroughly liquified and discarded at the time of his mummification. Yet he did show her one thing. Papa bit into his lip, allowing a small tricle of blood to drip down onto the dead man's waxy, shrivled, dusty hand. Not much happened at first. But after a few heartbeats things began to change and a few thumb prints of flesh returned to a more or less living state. Annie was intrigued. Her eyes opened wide She sucked in some air and stared silently. Papa smiled down at her. Then she looked up into his eyes and giggled.........

JUNGLE TIME

Jonathon was all alone. The Pineys and Red Paints disappeared into the Jersey woods. wilkravitz went with them. But the honorable Andalusian could sense him and knew he wanted to come back to the city. He wanted to help. So did Edith. Yet this wan't the time. Papa was a new type of vampire, at least for Philadelphia. For the last three hundred years, local vampires had been moral, ' guardian angel ' type creatures. You remember - Cull the wicked. Help those meant to live.....The little blood gifts to sick people in hospitals and all that? Well, now it was different. Papa was a hedonist and a bitter, angry hedonist. Death (other people's) was a special treat to him. It tasted good. It made him powerful. It healed all wounds, especially the one cut into him by his thousand year imprisonment. Oh, do not think that secret forces sent out by that supposedly 'Vatican' faction weren't trying to recapture him. They were. But his current location was still a mystery to them, And so they busied themselves sneaking up on deluded, powerless Wiccans in such places as Brussels and Edinburgh. Maybe they would one day uncover his trail. And then again maybe not. The refuge in the park was soon abandoned. Papa lacked the cadre of loyal 'familiars' needed to keep it going. So he and little Annie were vagabonds of the night, just like everyone else. Oh, Baylah still had her snug berth with the human honey bunch. But she knew the score. She was smart. So she and that stock exchange fellow quickly shuffled off to cheerier climes at his beachfront house on the South Jersey shore. And the toffee beauty soon became quite the fixture at Texas Hold'em tables throughout Atlantic City. None guessed her secret, for she was discreet.......All had to live by their wits. Jonathon reconnected with the mole people. He liked their tunnels deep under the subways. He enjoyed playing little games with the wide-eyed mole children. And when he was depressed and unable to hunt, they always surprised  with a plump, juicy, human n'er-do-well or two..... One night, when he could not sense the presence of Papa in the vicinity, he snuck back to the redout in the park and sublimated in through a wall. But the interior was completely empty. Each and every immortal 'carving' had been carefully chipped from every surface. And the place had fallen back to its old use as a municipal, park service storage facility. Where had he taken Sarah? Where had he taken Jonathon's beloved? Where were the enchanted 'elves and cherubs'? He'd find out...some night, but not that night. And so he wandered through the city, a dark haired, Spanish princeling. His cunning, leather bootkins tapping out a rhythm and occasionally tossing sparks along the way.