SARAH FILLS US IN ON THINGS

Right off, I want you to know this is me talking. It's Sarah. They tell me I have a role to play in all this, but everyone else pushes in front of me. You should see Jonathon. He's going more 'meditterano' by the minute, mixing the Italian with the Provencal with the Catalan. But that's how they do it. That's 'Vahmpeerigo,' la lungua de los Vampiros, the tongue of the vampires. Oh, he strikes poses and waxes poetic. You know how some Europeans get. He's not 'Jonathon' anymore....Now he's Jonathon-Tomas, his Spanish name. And he says it this way. He says 'Yo-na-tahn--Toe-mas, real fast. You know Mandy Patinkin, in The Princess Bride? Well then you know what I'm dealing with. Next it'll be flamenco. Watch, you'll see. He liked that 'cull' the other night. He liked how he handled that ratty, little gangster guy. Not one false move. New-Age vampire central casting all the way. And the alpine breezes blow his hair just so. Mine to actually. It's hard to be plain in an environment like this. We went into a nice, cozy, Euro-contemporaty rest stop along one of the main roads (still narrow) in Il Parco Nazionale del Gran Paradiso (Romantic scenery to die for). Sure, we didn't want the coffee. You know that. We just wanted to look at the humans and smell the sumptuous Piedmontese aromas.  But the humans also apparently wanted to examine us. One woman told me I was 'motto bella,' I think she said. The husband compared me to a  young Susan Sarandon. He was making eyes at me the whole time. Said he thought Jonathon, no, Yo-na-tahn--Toe-mas, was my younger brother. Whew! You know he didn't like that. But always the courtly Spaniard, he just flashed him his best Andalucian sonrisa (smile) and gave him a curt, little nod.

I could exist here for ever. We carry very little with us, maybe a backpack. Sometimes we lose that. It's easy to sublimate through the wall of some cute, tiny souvenir kiosk and make off with a new ensemble, if you like tee-shirts, hoodies and sandals. Jonathon leaves some of the cash he takes from his 'culls.' We're vampires, but we're not thieves. It's important to me that you know that, OK?

The air here is incredible. The moonlight, like magic. I was two feet from a family of chamois yesterday. You know, those white, long-haired mountain goats with the short, black horns? Beautiful. The mother led her two kids right into our cave. Oh, she stopped short when she sensed us. I know she couldn't see us that far back, not with all the twists and turns. But I could see her. I guess it's those cat's eyes we've got. And the little ones were just adorable. One came up and sniffed my hand. Oh, I almost cried. How can humans possibly eat lamb chops? You tell me that. You'd have to be a real animal.

I slip into nearby towns every now and then, to visit the hopelessly ill. I can smell them. It's a talent of mine. I'll sublimate into some isolated niche in a hospital, or a modest, little sick-room in a house and quietly perform a minor miracle or two. This is my routine. This is how I do it. If they wake up, I say - Fear not. I am come to heal your pain......Remember this is a Catholic area, at least culturally. They're used to such things. According to the local newspaper, saints swing through here all the time. Must be on the annual tour or something? So then, when I have their attention, I bite into my lip, just enough to draw a drop or two, go over to the bedside, kneel down and administer 'the kiss of life.' Next morning, when I'm long gone, Nonna's asking for her biscotti and latte and cursing the grandkids for losing her false teeth again. I don't know. It just makes me feel good. Sure, Jonathon does it too. He taught me how to give that 'Fear not...' speech in the local dialect. But with me, it's different. In my case, I think it's why I was MADE a vampire.

Only thing wrong with all this is the smell. It's real weak. Just a slight, little whiff. I pick it up sometimes late at night, right before the dawn. It's a vampire smell. I'm almost sure of it. Yet it's a bit different. Jonathon smells it too. I can read his mind a little better than he realizes. This is 'noxious' territory. There's no way to avoid it. We have to go through it. Who knows? Maybe it's part of our pilgrimage? Maybe it's like a test? And maybe...we're both starting to get a little scared. Well, at least the world didn't end a few hours ago...Right? Thank God for that.........

PAPA'S DINNER DATE

Papa caught his reflection in the eightteenth century gilt mirror. Thick steel colored waves, soulfully handsome face, he still had it. But he's a vampire. He's had it for thousands of years. If you think he's gonna lose it, you're nuts. Still, that don't mean our Richard Gere look-alike never worries. Emotions play a part too. Mood can enter into it. And life with the uber-vampire-bitch, Luna, plus their (what would you call her?) 'problem child' affectionately known as Little Bastard Annie does take a certain toll. Still, things had been quiet lately. Nosey Evelyn, from across the lawn responded wonderfully  to her under-the-table, vampire blood droplet regimine. Her face looked a little less monkey-fied, less upper lip hair, smoother skin, didn't fart so much. Sure, it made her love Papa even more. Now she was completely devoted to him. And that butt-insky didn't even know the reason why. God bless that pizza kid. No, really. God BLESS the pizza kid. No more shitty pizza for that house. Whiney  big mouth kids spread stories fast. So she got shamed into it. Now Friday nights are a lot happier at her place. That slob kid a hers puts away more than half a pie. But (and here's the important part) the kid won't eat no anchovies. Evelyn loves anchovies. She smells like one too. But that might just be early menopause. So, Dougie, I think his name is, comes  'round the back of our place first, sneaks into the kitchen and opens the boxes. Papa comes in, bites into his finger and dribbles a little bit of red 'Papa juice' onto the fishy part. The salty anchovies  hide it real good. You'd never know it was there. But it does it's job. Evelyn is a bit more copasetic. And the cops ain't called as often. OK, so she makes these nauseating cow eyes at Papa now whenever she sees him. But she been doing that all alonng anyway. Edith, our Piney 'seer' woman, says we oughta feed vampire juice (just from the good ones) to all them hard to handle political leaders they got dancin' around  in them 'goofy countries over there.'  Might make 'em more friendly-like. Papa laughs. He says that would only work if the president was a vampire, or maybe the secretary of state. And, according to him, they tried it centuries ago back in Italy. What do you think Lucretia Borgia had in that ring a hers? She didn't go around killing everybody. Some of 'em just got 'juiced up' a little. We asked Papa if he knew the vampire responsible for those dosages, but he just smiled and looked away.

Oh, yeah, what was I talking about? Wait, I know. That gilt mirror. Papa lookin' in that old French object d'art. You see, he was havin' 'dinner' with Doctor Franklin in the former patriot's palatial quarters over at the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau. The threehundred year old plus, jowly human tucked into them premium, all-lump-broiled-crabmeat cakes with extreme relish. A little sickening, if you ask me. Papa tried to ignore the greasy spittle runnin' down the stringy haired bastid's chin. Thank God he had a nice green apple aroma candle (his favorite) in front a him. They was talkin' bout Jonathon's progress over in the Old World. Papa could pick up such things. The old man wanted to know his views on their Pilgrimage and the spiritual efficatiousness of it all. But our twentyeight thousand year old patriarch (in a thirty two or three year old body) said he did not know. Franklin just chuckled. He didn't believe him. But he WAS SURE the world wouldn't end at six pee-em tomorrow, because the old almanac writer had his friends UP ABOVE too. And they ain't never told  him  no such thing.................

THIS IS HOW WE DO IT

Sarah and Jonathon toyed with the idea of goinng into Torino. He wanted to visit the museums. She wanted to look in at the silk vendors. But they decided not to. The museums there are not the same as those in Rome or Florence, or even Milan. And this was Italy, after all. She could see fine fabrics anywhere. So they stuck  to the cozy, alpine valleys, sleeping in deep, narrow caves, or deserted, crumbling ruins. It was all very relaxing.  Once, during his  time of the month, he culled some heartless bastard in a stolen Ferarri. Grabbed the guy when he stepped out to take a piss in the mouldering courtyard of Il Palazzo Riggatore. A would-be mafioso was all he was. And here in a part of Italy that really didn't have much of that. Boy, was he pathetic. Still, the ratty, little , fuck-face had a reputaion as an acid-splasher. And three people suffered from his disfiguring souvenirs.

So Jonathon came up behind him as he was enjoying the urination break. Man, the sticky weasel had a bladder like a beachball, though minus all the bright, colored longitudinal sections, I would guess.But...you never know. The guy's standing there, waiting for that thin stream of 'after piss' to come dribble out and serve as an epilogue to all this, when he hears a whisper.......'God knows your sins.'......That did it. Show's over. Piss stops. Beachball bladder is closed for the night. He zips up and spins around. But nobody's there. Silvery moonbeams drip into the shadows, rinsing the well-worn pavinng with a ghostly luster. Some of the remaining statues appeared almost alive. Still, the stolen Ferarri was close. The rusting, old gate was only ten meters away.  Night can play tricks. And the Italian starlight has magic to spare.The would-be mafioso began a tense turket trot back to his purloined chariot. After two tight, little steps he saw a flicker in the darkness. And he heard the voice again......OK, Punchinello, time to leave the stage........Who's there!? - said the main course..........I am - answered our Spanish vampirino, as he stepped out from behind some not-quite-national gallery-worthy Neptune or another.  The sneak thief smiled. Sure the adversary, whoever he was, looked trim and fit. But Mister Stolen Ferarri had a pistola in his pocket. And he chuckled, as he slowly went for it. Jonathon indulged him, maybe a bit too much. For the bush league Sonny Corleone (no, not Sonny. definitely not Sonny...more like Frodo...Frodo Corleone) leveled the gun at his chest and squeezed off a shot.....The small calibre projectile pierced right through Jonathon's aristocratic, Andalician sternum, coming to rest in the left ventricle of his still beating heart.. Did it hurt? Nooo, cheese cake for brains, it tickled. Sure it hurt. But pain is only pain and a minor distraction to a noble vampire. The man looked on in amazement. Jonathon held his ground. He calmly unbuttoned the shirt. Blood pulsed from the neat wound. He dipped his index finger into the unnatural opening, pulled it out and licked off the red-black, viscous coating. The pistol clattered down onto the fourhundred year old  granite as the skinny bastard collapsed onto his knees. Jonathon smiled. The moonlight knew the script. It knew just what to do, highlighting each sharp, canine with  a vivid dot of cruel, white brilliance. And the man began to cry. Jonathon got  down next to him. He cradled him. He comforted him.....Then he bit into the clammy skin and drank the life away........Oh, he is moral. Yes, he is quite moral...But not altogether helpless...even when confronted by a 'noxious' sort of beast.......He scootched over a bit, as the empty corpse ignited and disappeared, burnt up by the cold, blue flames.....Sarah stepped out from the shadows. And they both watched, as a Mediterranean breeze picked up the glowing embers and carried them, dancing up into the sky.........Lorenzo and that she-bitch will have their hands full.............................................

FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK

Kadeema and Lorenzo lived like animals, nocturnal beasts preying on victims and shattering lives. Did she call him by name? No, he was simply her mate. Verbal communication was not necessary. Vampires, even the least talented, have enough telepathic ability to cover the simple stuff.  Hunger? Lust? Fatigue? Danger? Shelter? Warmth? No need to verbalize that. Do wolves? Well, all right. You have me there. Wolves do howl and whimper and growl, yet so do 'noxious' vampires.. You know what they're really like? They're like werewolves, just minus that thick, glossy coat and dog show good looks. And they hunt like werewolves too.Sometimes just for fun. Not every unfortunate human gets drained dry. Occasionally they just play, flaying skin and flesh from off  the rib cage,  sucking out particularly enticing eyeballs, commiting sundry and varied sexual violations, or maybe just lighting fires. In some parts of the Old World, they ARE vampires, since rarified NOBLE types usually affect a discreet lifestyle and eschew such declasse theatrics.

Now, if we consider our own position in the space-time continuim, that means Lorenzo has been a feral being for about one hundred annd thirty years. Pretty good run for a 'noxious.' They're the ones townspeople usually come after with  pitchforks and torches. True, they are strong and difficult to eradicate.. Still, gobble up a few too many Red Riding Hoods in the woods and people start avoiding those woods. If the pickin's get too thin, the uncouth bastards move on. I don't know too much about Kadeema. She's old, real old. I know that. But she throws up a good veil and it's mighty hard to penetrate. Some say she was brought back to Genoa by a fourteenth century sea captain, a 'wild woman' curiosity locked in an iron cage. Don't know how or what they fed her though. I heard she was from Cyprus, or some such place as that. One truth is as good as the next.

Edith, the New Jersey, Piney Woman 'seer,' lodgin' with the state-side vampires picks up stuff. She worries about Jonathon and Sarah. She wants them to succeed. So she sends 'em stuff. Stuff from her head, from her brain, from her mind. Somethin's out there. She knows it. But can she focus? Can she see them? Lorenzo and Kadeema, I mean?  Who the hell knows? I am just another disembodied spirits they got floatin' 'round this joint.

But our two noble travellers are beginning to notice a certain 'thin'n' out' of the wild life. Empty caves are gettin' easier to find. Golden eyes stare back less frequently in the dark. And even the spiders have gone away. There be monsters here. I know it...........

So wrap that cloak tight around your shoulders. Say your prayers (yes, the nobles pray...boy, DO they). And step carefully through the world. But most of all, listen...listen...listen.........Nighty-nite.....

KADEEMA SETS HER VAMPIRINO FREE

The noxious vampire woman known as Kadeema continued to dig. The light from a yellow moon lighting the way. Her grunts heard only by the moths and night birds. Few humans from the village vemtured out this way. They heard the stories. They knew the history. Strange cargo rests in that ground, bodies unshriven by the church. Souls in thrall to unnamed powers. Children of the dead. And so she toiled unmolested, a night-fiend at her work. Lorennzo heard her voice. He felt her call. It calmed him,  for salvation (of a sort) was at hand. So he fought to compose his mind and lie still. Now a human carbinerro (the local dialect for 'miner.') would have taken three or four days to uncover the crypt. But this somewhat more than human made it in six hours. Cuts and scraps spangled her body. She ignored them. The red hot pain would soon subside. A vampirina heals in heartbeats.

 And as  to Lorenzo? He felt the soft thud of her strong, peasant feet upon the lid. She knelt down. She spoke to him, cooing softly. But each valley has its own tongue, so her words were lost, yet the music of her voice told it all. She found him. She rescued him. And a lonely vampirina had her vampirino now. Oh, but would he stay with her? How could he do otherwise? She could not even imagine it. There are secrets. There is knowledge. He would need her. She could help him. Such is natural. For in the wild world creatures often band together. Look to the wolves. Observe the sharp-beaked crow hordes, as they tear across the sky.

First she clasped her hands before her, as humans do in prayer. Then rearing up on her knees, she steeled herself  and brought them crashing down against the fire-hardened wood with a force and a passion known only to her kind. Ten times. Twenty times. Brittle cracks appeared. Shards of wood flew all about, as the screams from he still trapped below rose up to join her own. Then she found a stone, a hand axe lost when ice lay all about. She hefted it and used it like a true Cro-Magnon woman, making quick work of the almost shattered lid.

Lorenzo gasped, sucking the crisp night air down into the very core of his body. Did he still need it? No. But human comforts die hard. Some vampires never let them go. With a mighty heave she grabbed his arms  and pulled him to his feet. But where were the chains? How had he slipped them?  What magic made it so? Later, he'd  come to understand the talents vampires possess and would become quick and adept at using them. But in these first hours sublimation was a mystery. His body did so reflexively, passing through the chains in a mad, panicked rush. There! See? Look into the crypt. The thousand links still lie there, tangled like a nest. And he kicked free of them, along with the gory, slippery tissue that was once his human skin.

They clambered up to the surface, two feral, naked creatures , running wild through the night. And a new terror was set loose upon the land, a terror our more domesticated twosome would one day soon encounter. 

OLE MISTER NEVER-YOU-MIND

I do not know who they been tellin' you 'bout. But I am not one of them. I am very much nastier. Oh, you don't have to know my name. It won't make much difference anyway. I have had lots of names in many different ways a talkin'. And don't believe that shit they tell you 'bout Noxious vampires not bein' in the United States of Norf America, or in the United States of Canada, or the United States of Mexico either. We been wippin' our asses in them places for many moons. 'Cept we don't exactly gotta wipe no asses. Heh, heh, heh, you know, bein' vampires and all. Sometimes we gotta wipe up blood. Sometimes we gotta clean up guts.  But in my case, I usually make the next tremblin' bastard about to be killed do that.. And believe me, for some reason they are extremely eager to please.

You see, I don't follow that 'one soul a month' crap. The hell wit that. No sir. This vampiolio got hisself an appetite. I take my meat however and wherever and whenever I find it. Some a the old timey tribes used to call me the 'windago,' a cold breath in the night. The hands that pull little children into the darkness. The gatekeeper of Doom. Frontier folks and them as was goin' West, knowed me as Gravey-Davey. Them that had no imagination just called me the 'boogy-man.' Yeah, I had parts in lotsa plays. And I had lotsa secret recipes too.  Don't ask, or I'll have to kill ya. Hell, might have to kinda slaughter you anyway. My specialty was 'farmer on the bone.' That was a vampire culinary dee-lite if ever there was one. You know, always gotta be some loser got his field too close to the trees. Then, come late September, or October, he desperate to rip up all his hoomin feed and chuck it in the barn. So he runs back out after supper to work by the light of the moon. Well, I can't help it. Them's my hours too. And every fall some a them skinny, raw-boned sons a bitches never makes it back. If a bouncy chested, buxom farm wife comes out wif him, or some nice, Godly young son , they get the full treatment too. Wanna hear how I do it? Well, put yer eyes down close to this magic mirror here and I'll tell you.

First I dig a long, shallow pit. You know, like what them Polynesian Hula-Hula people dig to burn a pig.. Then I line it with coals, or charcol and certain kinda leaves. Gotta get a hot, smoky fire goin'. After that, I shuffle off into a cave (noxious vampires do value a nice, cozy cave) where I got 'em all stripped off and trussed up waitin' to get browned up a little. What do those TV cookin' ladies call it? 'Carmelized.' That's it. I just carmelize 'em a little.. Tie 'em to a spit. Plug up the pie-hole with a big, ole, wad a wet leaves (keeps 'em quiet) and sit back to relax, as I wait for my tasty repast. No, I ain't no zombie. I ain't no ghoul. I do not chew the fat, so to speak . I do not consume the pork-like flesh. You know, that was one a the reasons the Lord tole the Israelites to eschew pig meat. Cause the ancient pagans originally raised it in imitation of hoomin tissue? That and the truth bein' pigs is smart. A pig knows its own death. So it was considered cruel and perverse to treat 'em like that. But I ain't eatin' no pig. I'm suckin' on a hoomin. And who cares what they know? Tole you.I am a 'noxious.'  It is just the blood for me. And they are still alive when I slurp it all up. Sure, sometimes an eyelid or two gets burned up, or a nipple or a dingle-dangle or two. Hair gets all singed off. Skin all nice and crispy in spots. Face gets a littlle contorted in agony. They shakin' a lot. Spit drippin' outta they mouth. Vomit steamin' on the coals. Gotta let 'em cool down  a little fore I dig in. Not like I'm that Hitler or somethin'. I stroke 'em a little. Whisper in what they got left for an ear. Tell 'em it's all gonna be over soon. They gonna be all nice and cool with smooth, regular skin and a their nice, little, pink wee-wee back. Sometimes I wait a few heartbeats. Let 'em cry a little. Let 'em pray a little. I mean some of 'em are still technically children. You gotta take that into consideration. Then I juss rip into they neck and draw in all the blood. Now, I don't fricasee 'em for nuthin'. That ordeal with them flames does tend to bring out a certain tang. Hell, what can I tell you? That is just the way I like it.

My name is Never-You-Mind and I am a noxious vampire. The way I hear it, what they got runnin' 'round  that Europe place is even worse. So now you know.

LIFE AFTER BURIAL

Lorenzo wrailed in the darkness, smashing his arms against the thick, unforgiving, oak walls. The casket was small , designed for a corpse, yet 'hardened' for a monster. He kicked his feet. He rammed his head against the lid...but nothing. He cried. He begged. He cursed. He gagged. Blood dripped down from his forehead. He could smell that and fought to grab it with his tongue, as it trickled down his face. How warm, how rich, how salty and hot. It quieted him for a few dozen heartbeats. Is this hell? Is this it? Would he  go on, sealed within a ghastly tomb, with only his own blood  to drink forever?  But then the panic exploded again. He raked his fingernails along the inside of the lid. He pulled and ripped and tore the dead remnants of his skin away from his body, shredding his clothing to get at it all. Then he struggled, kicking it down near his feet, trying to escape the dead, fetid smell.

But there was hope, wasn't there? He would suffocate? His lungs would burst and it would be over! Sweet death, oblivion. Anything but this. How much air could a coffin contain? He did not know. How long had he been burried? He could not tell. He gulped the air. He ate it. He drew it in and forced it out. Time went by. Heartbeats passed, but nothing. No burning. No weakness...No change. A vampire needs no air. His body is preserved simply because some 'force' wants it that way. Breath comes out of habit. It is comforting, yet not in the least bit necessary. Even the blood wasn't a necessity. True, it  could be unbearably compelling,  though it isn't the drinking of the blood, but the taking of a life. All those fables you hear about vampires surviving on squirrels and rabbits and little Bambis are just that...fables, lies, wishfull thinking. They make me sick. There's a reason people call them 'life-eaters.' There's a reason for that.

So Lorenzo embraced the dark. He was blind to all but his dreams, visions of his family, his home, his face. He felt his face. Why? Who knows? He was beyond thought. Maybe the 'force' sustaining him decreed it. But his finger tips slowly discovered the fangs. How smooth. How sharp. How needle-like....And then he knew...He remembered. He felt the Englishman and he wept. Maybe 'they' punished vampires like this? Maybe he was right? Maybe he'd never get out. He began to cry. Not as before. Not as a human, but as a vampire.

Now, it happened that there was another in the land, a female, similarly afflicted. And she heard his call and ran to him. Throwing herself down onto the hard packed earth, she began to dig. Her talons tore into the dirt. Her teeth bit  into it. Her manic tears burned through it. She fought on like a demon, for in all actuality, that is what she was. Her low, deep growls penetrated right through him and he answered in kind. Kadeema was coming. And the sweet, feral freedom of the night would be his...