MEMORIES OF THE PAST

Jonathon felt himself shifting. He was pivoting around a magnetic center point. They could do that. They could control him and change his position by adjusting the electron field. His eyes were opened now He could see as well as hear. There was a finely made young thing out there in the shadows. Her hair was tied back into a no nonsense bun and her lab coat was particularly white and crisp. She studied him with a cold dispatch, just like a microbe on a slide. From time to time she'd tap something out onto a keyboard and certain vapors would be added to his chamber. Then she'd observe his reactions and whisper something into a recorder, all quite clinical. One substance had an immediate effect. It excited him. And she noticed. She stared. It took her about twelve or thirteen heartbeats till she refocused and whispered something into her machine. Jonathon smiled at her. She swallowed and pretended not to see. But she saw. The light coming down from above grew just a tiny bit brighter. And she pushed the cart bearing her equipement just a tiny bit closer to his 'cage'. He spoke. He said - I am called Jonathon. What is your name?.......She did not answer......He said - I am no demon. This is not an exorcism. You may address me. You may use my name....This time she smiled. He could see it. Just a little one, but it was there. He focused on her name tag. God bless his vampiric vision. It said - Dr. Hadleigh Bailey. Jonathon said - How should I address you? Are you Doctor Bailey, or are you Lady Hadleigh?.....She laughed, a small laugh, more like an audible smile. He smiled back, attempting to nod his head in a chivalrous salute, but the electron field made it extremely difficult to do so. The doctor went back to playing with her buttons and he just hung there, waiting for their next interaction......Some time passed. New aromas and substances trickled into his presence. A shiny,little drone hummed its way down from the darkness, landed on his buttock and bit off an ever so tiny piece of his skin. Then it tucked this  precious cargo into a small slot, as it hummed its way back up into the void. Apparently, it was able to escape the magnetic field, for he saw it slowly fly over to his jailer and  come down for a soft landing right into the palm of her hand. She snapped open the lid and sniffed the contents. Then she closed it and put the drone into a drawer on the cart. Jonathon said - I hope it was to your liking?.......She smiled. And this time she spoke. She said - We shall see. We shall see. .... The doctor came closer. She stopped at what he assumed was the beginning of the field. She was about to speak. Her eyes looked different. She wanted to tell him something. But it was too late, for from somewhere in the shadows, he heard another voice. It said - Now, now, Tomas. Are you attempting to 'worm' your way into the good graces of my assistant?.....Jonathon felt the breath catch in his throat. He knew that voice. It had to belong to somebody who knew him as Tomas. An old friend perhaps? Someone from long ago? Who?......And then he found out. One of those electronic scooters, of the type used by humans in their dotage, rolled out of the darkness and into the light. And seated upon it was an old gentleman. He seemed to be approximately eighty or eighty five years old. His wispy hair was long and pulled back like some passed his prime rock promoter. Small glasses rested upon his nose. He wore a bright green, Philadelphia Eagles sweatsuit. The cunning, little vehicle rolled its way up to the edge of the field. The old man motioned towards the young Dr. Bailey and she lowered her head and left. Then he spoke again. He said - Well, Tomas, it has been quite a long time. Hasn't it?......... Jonathon (often known as Tomas) looked into the aged, jowly face and whispered - Can this be? Doctor Franklin? Is that you?......But the old reprobate only chuckled, as he turned around and rolled away......

EL RIO VAMPIRISMO

Thus flows the river of vampirism, at least in these parts. The human retainers are snug in their Jersey Pines refuge. Baylah still holds court with her rich 'husband' at the shore. Sarah and the 'children' (the elves and cherubs) lie suspended in their nebulous limbo, prisoners of the mysterious 'Papa.' But Annie, the six year old child vampire (one who should have made common cause with the younger elves) enjoyed her new existance as Papa's favored princess. Their lodgings deep within the bowels of the University Museum on 34th Street had been somewhat enlarged and beautified. There was an old bed in storage. I believe it once belonged to the spoiled daughter of a Roman noble. Annie liked it. Just like Goldie-Locks, she knew it would be just right for her. So some of their new 'familiars' dragged it out, dusted it off and set it up in another little  used space that opened onto their lair. Other what-nots and gee-gaws followed, till the chamber glowed like a robber's den. She loved it. And if she loved it, Papa loved it. They still went out every night, ripping people apart, stealing bling from burnt up corpses and in general just having a grand old time. Papa would tell her stories as they strolled through the city, or rode in their shiny, black car. He shared tales of his life long ago. Being privy to such tales was like witnessing the arc of all human (and not so human) history. She heard of mammoth hunts on the frozen plains of an ice-age Europe. And arcane rites performed deep within the torturous caverns buried under the fertile woodlands of some dark, rich forest. Papa was the Blood Lord then, a revered seer, who shepherded his tribe through the centuries with a wisdom gained over millennia. He saw things, strange things now unknown to every other soul upon the earth. The thickset, sturdy ones, the gnomes and trolls of the mountains, the ones we now call Neanderthals, were his neighbors. And he became adept at their method of communication, built on melodious trills, simple words and fluid gestures, heavily leavened with a layer of telepathy. To us, it would be magic. To them it was only natural. They hunted the great aurochs (or-ox) a massive, ivory colored bovine standing seven feet high at the shoulders and with horns like Odin's spears. Papa would go out with them, if the hunts were by the moon. He'd race over the plains, vaulting through the air and landing secure upon the back of the giant beast. Gragging hold of the horns, he'd lean forward and give it a little nip, just a bit, right on the neck, to show it who's boss. And it would slow down, snort a few times and begin to circle. The mortals would eventually catch up and reverently surrounnd it. Then they'd offer it bunches of fragrant grass, spiced with certain compounds known to bring on a type of sleepy euphoria. The beast would lay down. Papa would slide off its back, join the others and lead them in a few prayers designed to thank the gods for opening up their larder. One by one, they'd approach the animal and with sharp, flint blades slash practiced cuts deep into its hide. The blood would flow. The great, watery eyes rolled back, as the noble aurochs passed over into the spirit world. Then they'd howl like wolves. And the women who were with them (some, hunters in their own right) rushed forward to begin butchering the dead carcass. After a while, Papa would lead them back to the village, accompanied by haunting melodies issuing forth from an assortment of horn flutes and simple drums. thus was the creation of human culture. And he was there for it all. At times, when the stories were over, he'd think about Jonathon and discover that his hatred was beginning to temper. It was beginning to lessen. He was free now. That pain, at least, was over. and he was starting to mourn the 'loss' of his son. He suffered feelings of contrition about his treatment of Sarah and the children. Who knows? Maybe some night he'd do something about it. To lessen the pain, he'd drop Annie off (she loved poking about in the museum) and then go ravish some waiting beauty alone in her carefully decorated apartment. Lately he'd been allowing them to survive. I guess that's a sign. I guess he's beginning to mellow.........

LIFE WITH PAPA

Papa and Annie watched from a distance. They saw the men from the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau take Jonathon away. Annie just looked. Papa mouthed a silent - Good for him. His face didn't register any emotion. But he was glad it happened. They were dressed like any other pair of well off Center Cityites. He had on one of his cashmere overcoats, the designer suit, the silk scarf, substantial shoes, the whole works. She looked like the real life baby doll of some over indulged fashionista. Everything said quality, but with a dash of taste and style. No one would ever suspect a thing. They strolled away from the police action. She raised her mittened hand. He took it . How would they entertain themselves? What manner of mayhem could they cause? Papa asked her if she wanted to terrorize a few more naive, single career girls, but she didn't want that anymore. It was too easy. Besides, this was a Saturday and none of them were home anyway. How 'bout a cop? Nah, too obvious. Some stupid, little wannabe thugs out for a night of trouble on South street? She stopped, admiring her reflection in a window. Being a vampire agreed with her. Look how thick her hair was now. She flipped it back, as she adjusted her stretchy, headband-ear-muff thingie. Then she giggled. Papa said - What, you like that idea? She shrugged. He said - You do. I can tell. Come on. It's South Street then. He hailed a cab, not too difficult when you looked like some buff, polished Richard Gere. Or was that Alec Baldwin? I don't know. This contemporary crop of players all seems so alike to me. Now ask me about the actors they had in those old 'divine' epics back in Babylonia. The lives of The Gods and all that. They were something. And the action sequences! Those guys knew how to use a sword, let me tell you. Hands flew. Heads flew. Slaves were cheap, you know? So the money men didn't care. Just so the crowds were happy..No, just so the king was happy, if you know what I mean.  And the crowds waiting just inside the Ishtar Gate (that's where they staged it all) were unbelievable. And the falafel wasn't too bad either. Aaach! Those were the days. But Zebulon digresses. Papa and his little girl had a very enjoyable time on South Street. They knew just how to troll for dinner. Some cheap, little nobodies swigging beer (probably brought from home, for they could ill afford the tarriffs on this thoroughfare) started with their usual repatoire of taunts - Yo, dude! Yo, look at the faggot and his rat faced (urppp!) piece a shit kid there...... Sure they were drunk. Sure they were bitter. But remember, this is Papa we're talking about, not Jonathon. He doesn't care. You walks the streets. You takes your chances. So he lowers his gaze and makes like he's trying to rush off. Annie acts the part of the frightened child. She looks down at her feet and holds on tight. They turn down a pitch black alley. The juvvie hall alumni follow. Papa starts to trot a little faster. Annie 'struggles' to keep up. The junior varsity mafia gives chase. Soon everybody's running. Papa slows down. The alpha-roach catches up and slams him into a brick wall. He starts shoving his hands into the cashmere pockets of the coat. Into the fine worsted wool pockets of the suit. Annie makes like she's going to scream. One of the other two slaps a greasy mitt over her mouth to keep her quiet. They pull off the watch (a knock off). They snatch the fat wallet (filled mostly with singles).  The leader makes a move. He goes to smash Papa across his chops. But the hungry vampire makes a quicker move. His strong, kid-gloved hand grabs the skinny weasel by the throat. He lifts him up off the ground and squeezes. He squeezes real hard. You know he's good at that. Blood begins to dribble out of the kid's ears. He starts to kick. Papa smashes his head against the brick wall. And that seems to make him remember his manners a little. Annie spins around like some tasmanian devil. No, I mmean it. Just like a tasmanian devil. She sucks the nearest eye right out of its socket. The former owner crumples down onto the piss-slicked concrete. Number three makes to run. She vaults into the air, locking her arms around his shoulders and her teeth into his neck. Then, like a cat, she settles down to enjoy her nightly repast. And Papa finishes his stringy morsel too. Some old crone slams open a third story window and yells - Hey! What you doin' down there,  you lousy kids???....Annie yells - Drop dead, you old bitch. Then she hurls up a rock. The prune-faced hag slams down the sash and douses the light. The two killers giggle at each other, lock hands and wander off. Annie will go back to the museum, where the guard-familiars let her fiddle with the mummies (both Egyptian and Incan), while Papa continues on for shall we say a 'more stimulating' encounter. Who knows? Perhaps tonight  he'll even let her live...... .

A PRISONER OF THE NATION

Jonathon focused. How long had he been out? Not long, maybe a few hours. He could do that. He could detatch himself from events around him and drift off into a snug, balmy state. Many vampires had that ability. I suppose it comes from the long years spend entombed 'alive' suffered by many of the breed. A kind of life-eater hibernation. He was completely bare and susspended within a magnetic field. The room was dark. He could not see the walls, but 'felt' the space to be very large. A beam of weak, tenuous, watery illumination coming from above bathed him in a milky glow. He could feel the tingly hum of the electric field as it danced through him.And he listened and he waited. There were others in the room. Their whispering voices came through to him - Is it dangerous? Will it hurt him?......No, that doesn't have any effect on him. His cells aren't alive. Relax. It's better this way......What do we need all this for? I don't get it. I don't get it......Well, you want him to break free? You know a lot of 'em can pass through almost anything. 'Sublimate' I think they call it. But they need something solid to push against or push on. And this brand new piece of technology doesn't provide him with that......Look at him. He just floats there, like, like a fly in amber.......Exactly. and hopefully he's stuck there just as tight.......How old is he?.......Well, from visual examinations, surface indications, the docs say he's about eightteen to twentytwo.......No, no, I mean how long do you think he's been a vampire?.......We're not sure. Now they did notice that little tattoo he has on the inside of his left wrist. Somme good luck symbol, an old one. Wait, let me bring it up (tap, tap, tap) Says it was popular around the Mediterranean Sea approximately one thousand years ago and, here's the kicker, hasn't been seen since. Contemporary historians know of it from recentlly discovered, mummified corpses found in the Atlas Mountains of North Africa...........Shit! So you're tellin' me that Antonio Banderas looking dude is over a thousand years old!?..........Well, I think he's more like that kid from Entourage, but yeah, I am. And not only that, we think he's from Spain.........How do you know?.........Look at his skin tone. Not too dark. Generally Eiropean. Probably a Muslim or a Jew...... Come on, how do you know that!?........ Jesus Christ! Take a look at him! The guy is 'cut' for God's sake. Ain't no Christians doing that one thousand years ago. Christ!!......So where does this all lead?........What do you mean? We learn from them. They had a couple a few years back out west.............Where? You mean Area 51?............No, Elizabeth Taylor's house! Where do you think I mean? They learn from them. They learn. We got some information on severe weather hibernation techniques. We got other stuff. We'll get some from him too........And then what? What do we do with him? What, keep him like an exhibit or something?..........Yeah, exhibit. We could show him to all the big contributors. Man, that would be some ticket. Wouldn't it?....Do they do that?...........No, you dim wit. They don't. The last ones, the ones at 'Elizabeth Taylor's house,' they burnt 'em. They incinerated them........Why?..........I don't know. Who cares? It was just a hobby.......................And Jonathon heard the whole thing.

ATTACK OF THE SLAVERS

Jonathon and the girls were lingering over their nightly sponge baths. Aura looked particularly fetching in her new, gold choker. It went so well with her rich, olive skin. Sylvia's was a bit different, her skin I mean. She had a rosy glow and for that reason prefered jewelry of a lighter shade, say white gold or even silver. She wasn't fussy. He dipped the cloth into a bucket of warm water and dribbled it over their skin. Then he took special care with the sensative places, so they'd be clean and fresh. The sisters appreciated his ministrations. And they were equally diligent when it was their turn. Bath time was a happy time. On that, they all agreed. What would they do tonight? How would they fill the hours? Silvia wanted to visit the book shops. Trips to the surface were special treats. Aura felt the same way. She favored pizza joints, any pizza joint. Red hot and cheesie. That's how she liked it. Not too much in the way of calzones and pepperoni specials underground. You can  bet on that. Their mole-daddy didn't exactly approve of their nocturnal safaris. He understood just how dangerous it was up there. But the girls were good girls. So let 'em have a little fun. Jonathon dried them off real nice. And they covered their nakedness with sharp, little outfits he'd brought down for them. Not like hookers. Well, not exactly like hookers. They tidied up their semi-secluded refuge, blew out the sterno and were about to leave when they heard it. Off in the distance, probably at least three city blocks away, came a sound. Footsteps, it was footsteps. Lots of feet in strong hard boots. And voices, loud voices. They were shouting - OUT! OUT! EVERYBODY OUT!!.....The cops were clearing the tunnels. They came down every once in a while and made a big show of it. The city had a squad devoted to 'homeless management' and the mole people came under that banner. But the 'grubs' (what the city called them) knew what to do. They'd just scammper a little bit further down into tunnels even the cops didn't know about. Only this time it was different. After a few heartbeats, Jonathon picked up more invaders closing in from at least two other directions. He hurried the girls on and they began to run. It was hard in the dark, but this was their home and they were pretty sure of themselves. Other mole people were making for safety too. Some tunnels, the old, narrow ones, filled up fast. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Why can't some people just move!? But they couldn't go any faster. Some of them were old. Some of them were sick. Others were crippled. You don't get too much of that 'altruistic' medical care when you're a mole-person. The cops, or whoever they were, closed in. Kids began to scream. Tear gas bombs went off. Others collapsed. But their tormentors never flinched. Come on. Come on. Herd this cattle along. They were being driven up toward the surface. Up toward the vans. And this time, there was no escape. Sure, a couple made it down to the inky black, hidey-hole level. But only a couple. Soon the first victims stumbled out onto the street.They clambered up through some sort of open manhole and stood there coughing and shivering in the cold night air. Snot ran down terrified faces. Mothers grabbed children. It was impossible to wander off. They were surrounded by police vans, fierce, barking canines (who were in fact just a type of slightly domesticated wolf) and bully-boys swinging clubs. Well dressed Center Cityites stood just beyond the yellow tape, clucking and sucking their teeth to their heart's content. Tisk, tisk, tisk...about time. Now Jonathon could have escaped. He could have torn off and sublimated through any one of them...more than one. He could do it. He was sure of it. But he'd learned his lesson. No more big gestures, especially public ones. No minutely shredded bodies, lingering upright for just an instant before splashing down onto the sidewalk. No free shows. Not since what happened after that big 'spiritual' hoo-haa he and Baylah staged. Let 'em wallow in their own hypocracy. They want God? Let 'em find Him on their own. In truth, he didn't really think they wanted him at all. He heard a whisper. Some guy was sharing a secret with one of the cops - That one. The trim one. The one with the loose, black, curly hair... One of the bully-boys raised his club and pointed it at him. He shouted - You, in the leather jacket! Over here!!.....Jonathon turned to reassure the girls. Then he walked over. Some men wearing dark glasses materialized from out of the glare and shadows. A cop bellowed to them - This one?!......A dark glasses guy nods. Then a beef trust in blue strong armed him into some van. Not a police van. This was a bit larger. And it was square and black. The walls were made of lead. They threw him in. Locked a thick, heavy metal collar around his neck. Whacked him with the clubs a few dozen times and left him in the dark. He felt the powerful engine spring to life. He felt the vehicle move. They took him away. A few seconds later, the heavy ring around his neck started to get hot, real hot, red hot. He screamed in pain. A tinny, little voice came forth from a speaker placed high up just under the roof. It said - Just wanted to give you a taste. That's all. We could burn  you up, if we wanted to. But we don't. So calm down and don't make any trouble.......Jonathon calmed down real fast. The neck ring cooled off. In fact it  got real cold and soothing...... The voice started up again - See? No harm done. I think you're gonna cooperate real nice.......especially if you want them two, little tootsies of yours to come out of this with....all their body parts intact.........Then silence, only silence. He slumped against the side of the van and sat there, as the men from the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau sped off with him into the darkness.............

OH BLAH DEE OH BLAH DAH DEATH GOES ON

Jonathon sat in a small ice cream parlor. It was a cozy, traditional space on a little street in Center City. It was easy to fake eating ice cream. It melted so fast people could hardly tell. But he went in there to look at the humans and to think. The death rate in certain hospitals had gone up lately. Blood gifts were hard to come by. The elves no longer made their nighttime, bedside deliveries. No more happy endings. No more 'cured' grannies. No more 'healed' children. Funerals, funerals, funerals.  The magic had left the world, the 'good' magic anyway, at least in his part of it. He did manage to provide  the occasional vial or two. But he was scared. Unknown forces (or at best, slightly known) were abroad in the city. The people from Rome were determined to recover their 'possession' and the U.S. government agents, the Anti Enchantment Bureau, knew how to make their own kind of trouble too. So Jonathon spent most of his time underground with the mole folk. He had his harem. That wasn't hard to do. Yet every once in a while he rose to the surface and culled a 'baddie.'  Sure, he could just rely on the mole men to catch him a worthy meal or two. But the chase was the thing. He enjoyed the tightening of the noose. And it is not as if those so condemned did not deserve it. So he got up, threw his cup into the trash, straightened his seat (most vampires are neat freaks), zipped up that sleek, new, black leather jacket and walked out into the night. The scent was already upon him. He knew exactly where he was going. And he knew exactly who was going to die.......Now approximately thirty or forty miles to the east, the Piney folk and the Red Paint folk had another problem. They could not decide whether to come back out into the world, or to fashion a more permanent retreat from it. So they stayed snug, deep in the evergreen forest, securely hidden in their unexpected, mysterious woodland. They and the Jersey Devil. Evenings were spent sitting by the wood stove, listening to banjos (yes, banjos) and arguing over the efficacy of such obtuse rites as a 'throwing of the bones' or some old Pow-Wow spell.  It  was not a case of one group against the other. There were 'inclusionists' and 'isolationists' in both camps. Still, it was difficult to read the Red Paint folks, what with their supposedly collective mind and all. Who was talking, the individual, or the clan as a whole? I'm telling you, it drove the Pineys crazy. But they were good to the vampire 'familiars' hiding with them. The humans, I mean. And wilkravitz started keeping a journal. He wrote it all down, even learned a little banjo pickin' too......Now if you go a little bit more to the east, say twenty, twenty five miles or so, you come to the sea shore. That's where Baylah is. She's still there, shacked up with her financier 'husband' in his showplace, beach front home. And she passes for human. Does a good job of it too. Those neighbors wintering over don't suspect a thing. So she stays out of the sun. Well, that's just because of a severe drug interaction. She doesn't want to. She has to. And she's become quite adept at miming the act of human dining. Cut, cut, cut. Push, push, push. Smear, smear, smear. And when absolutely necessary, she manages  to swallow a morsel or two. It makes her sick. Could you take a bite out of a moldering human corpse and enjoy it?  Well, you know what I mean...most of you. But with frequent trips to the restroom (always solitary. believe me, the other wives picked up on that) for much needed barf-breaks, she gets by........And what's up with Annie? Just the usual. She manages to entertain herself. Likes to sublimate into bedrooms, stand by the side of the bed and listen to the snores (I guess she learned all this from Papa). Single parent households are her favorite. She gently pokes the mommy or daddy in the belly. Then she whines - I wanna drink a water..... The victim grumbles, but sleepily shuffles off to get it. Then, when they come back, fully awake from the bathroom light and see her clearly for the first time they freeze and say - Hey, who the hell are you? You ain't my kid.......That's when she innocently shrugs and smiles. Only the smile isn't so innocent. And they can see the fangs. That glass of water usually drops to the floor and she's on them in a heartbeat. They go fast. You know the drill. She waits for the blue fire. She watches them burn......Then, from somewhere down the hall, she'll hear - Mommy?.....or....Daddy?......So she wipes her lips, smooths her dress and happily skips off to finish the job............

WITNESS TO A KILL

This is what it is like to face a nightmare. This is what it is like to confront a 'demon.' I automatically relate these events from the vampire's viewpoint. But not tonight. This is what it is like to die at the hands of a fantasy.He had a nice home. It was one of those trim, stylish 'trinity' houses they have in the old quarters of Philadelphia, three relatively small floors (hence 'trinity'), each done up to polished hardwood, stone fireplace and premium granite perfection. The atmosphere was rather contemporary, yet with a veneer of 'georgian' charm. He paid a lot for it. Genuine, federalist, red brick properties don't come cheap. Granted, it didn't have parking, but you don't get that in the city, so the Porsche had a snug, little condominium of its own. Heated too. Twenty ten was a good year. Lots of forclosure proceedings. Just the thing for a real estate lawyer. Desperate people, willing to pay plenty (and up front too) to save their homes. Too bad it didn't always work. Too bad for the dumb assholes. Too bad for their innocent children. But real nice for him. You could pick up quite a few bargains in a market like this. And he did. So what was he worth? I do not know exactly. Modern money seems so abstract to me. Wait a heartbeat or two. I will sublimate through his computer and find out.....There, there...I have it. According to his 'personal' records, he had a total net worth (cash and properties) of thirteen point four million (I assume dollars).  Is that a lot? I would guess so. In my day, when my feet last touched the earth, we spoke of shekels and talents. They were tangible. You could hold it in your hand...a certain weight of silver and that was it. But now? Who knows? I hear some measure wealth by 'kilos' of cocaine. I wonder how much cocaine a child must bring to school to pay for his midday meal? .....The man, the 'victim' had dined alone on a dinner of 'take out' shell fish (some sort of unclean crustacean I suppose) a starchy, baked root vegetable smothered in butter and a plate of fresh, cold greens drowned in some sort of milky, eggy sauce. In my day, that sauce would have been used for a poultice. But who am I to judge the diet of these 'contemporaries'? They torture their chickens into growing massive, voluptuous breasts via all manner of dangerous potions. And then they wonder why the dangerous potions (passed on by the sacrificial birds) cause the same voluptuous growths in their own bodies. Yeech!! If I ate like they do, I'd be running to the mikveh (community baptism pool) everytime I took a crap. Ah, but Zebulon digresses. The man got up from his seat at the granite 'breakfast bar'  rinsed his plate and utensils in the polished, stainless steel sink and put them into a matching, stainless steel sanitation device. Then he belched, scratched his belly and collapsed onto a leather couch positioned before a magic mirror where he was going to watch some 'game'. I have seen this game before, but I do not know too much about it. It must have started in Nubia, for all the players (or most of them anyway) appear to be from that venerated country. But the athletics in the mirror failed to hold his attention. He pulled a cunning, little hand-held magic mirror out of his pocket and proceeded to tell it about all the 'shit, nobodies' he was going to destroy tomorrow. Then he got up, poured himself a tall, frosty mug of some fermented grain beverage, went back to his seat, gulped it down and fell asleep. Oh, yes, there was a communication from his former wife (who I suppose is the caretaker of his 'former' children), but he told her to go to hell and drop dead. Now, I would think it imperative for her to do the later first, but customs here still baffle me, so who knows. A few thousand heart beats later, some magic jinn turned out all the lights. The magic mirror went dark too. The man slept on. That is when it happened. A vampire, in this case it was Papa, sublimated through the kitchen wall. He chose that spot , because it was unseen from the street. And he walked through the residence fingering and examining all the fine, glossy, decorative possessions. Funny, but he was almost a mirror image of his intended dinner. Then he pulled up a matching, leather ottoman and sat down, studying the victim in the dark. Oh, I suppose I must repeat this information yet again, but what is darkness  to a vampire? It is nothing. They can see! They can see! All right? In truth, he sat like that for quite a while. Then he reached out a finger and ran it along the sleeper's nose. A slight snort, but nothing. The victim slumbered on. Papa tapped the belly. He pulled off a shoe. He tickled the foot. But nothing. Papa exhaled. How long must a life-eater wait? And it's no fun to eat them in their sleep, especially for a person like Papa. No, he liked to see the terror in their eyes. He liked to smell the sweat and in a majority of cases, the feces too. So that's why he did it. That's why he reached out, delicately pinched one of the man's eye lashes and quickly yanked it out....The sleeper yelped and instantly sprang to life, clutching his red, watering eye........Shit! Shit! Who the fuck are you! Who sent you?- he yelled.... Papa smiled, but did not answer....The 'toy' went on - I don't have to take this crap!You know Fat Sal!? You know Fat Sal!? .....Still no response......Well, the hell with you, you shmuck!.....The 'toy' started to tremble. He went for his little, hand held magic mirror. But Papa just took it from him and crushed it into a splintery plastic, metallic mess. The 'toy' desperately pressed back into the couch. He started to scream. No! No!  No! No!....Papa calmly extended his arm, taking hold of the victim's wind pipe, which he proceeded to destroy as delftly as he had the little mirror thingie. The toy choked. He gagged. He coughed up blood. His hands flew to what was left of his throat. Papa grabbed each wrist in its turn and broke it. Then he did  the same with the ankles too. The toy slid down onto the floor in a sobbing heap. Papa got down  and craddled him in his arms. Then he rocked him as he began to softly whisper in his ear..... Shhh...shhhh...Soon it will be over. Soon the pain will end.....The toy just whimpered. Papa brushed back its hair. Then in one,last violent move, he smiled, leaned closer and bit off the victim's nose. A little portion of the cheek came away too, but really, what did that matter now? The toy shuddered in agony. At first, Papa contemplated tearing off the eye lids too. That was a trademark of his. But he wanted to kill a few more people before the night was over, so he had to hurry. How fortunate for this victim. So he contorted the neck and moved in for the kill. The man hardly noticed when it happened. Papa waited till the body disappeared into the usual cold, blue flame. Then he quickly grabbed the toy's fine watch from the greasy residue and left. Ah, the fresh, cold air felt good. He checked the hour on his new time piece and smiled. Plenty of time for more....Plenty of time for more.....