OLD FRIENDS SINCE THE GOOD SHIP WELCOME ....... A Vampire and His Enemy.. 4/09/13

The Maxwell family had a legend... about a strange soul who traveled with them when they first crossed over to the New World.  The first Maxwell, in America, at least, sailed with the Lord Protector himself on the good ship Welcome. Those on board were Quakers, members of The Society of Friends and gentlemen of worth in Britain, though hampered by their faith. For that reason, these plain people braved the Atlantic, secure in the expectation of good lives beyond the sundown. 

But there were always whispers. Stories about cargo brought on by night and stowed in the dark, deep hold. Some said a rich pirate, traveling incognito, sought freedom and solace as a gentleman farmer, far from the gallows at Tyburn. Others named Jews fleeing Inquisitional fires in Portugal, though distrustful of spies and collaborators among Jacobite   strongholds in the ever shifting English capital. Few knew the truth... not all of it anyway. Captain Greenway was sworn to secrecy and also the recipient of a potent drug, sealed in a small, carved bottle. Cinnabar, I believe it was. And destined for a sickly child in Portsmouth. 

Now a young son born to the Maxwells loved the sea. And while other's laid curled in their berths, or huddled on a chill, wet, slippery deck, this junior Ulysses made friends with the ship and looked into each dark nook and cranny. There were glass beads destined for aboriginal chieftains. And casks of nails, more dear than rubies in the rough wilderness lying ahead. But beyond all that, buried far below the rest, was a casket roughly five cubits long , three cubits wide and two cubits high. The oaken exterior sealed in black pitch and bound by iron bands. No label named its contents. No smell its secrets told. 

But the boy lay down upon it. And there in the dim bowels, he slept, rocked by the waves, though calmed by something else. He had strange dreams and saw foreign places. He heard whispered tales in other tongues.  

Later at supper he told them, speaking of a cultured young man in the hold. And when they asked the captain if such a passenger existed, he denied it. After that, when they lit lanterns and clambered down below, no such soul was found. Though Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon, was with them, safely entombed in an old Spanish chest and hidden amongst the bilge. 

The Maxwell boy never returned to the hold. They watched him and kept him close. His mother taught him letters. His father spoke of God. The seamen watched the sky and he watched with them. 

Ten weeks to cross the sea... that's how long it took. Gray days and cold nights wrapped in rough woolens down below. Salt beef and hard tack. Weak beer and stale water. Perhaps some sour cabbage. Perhaps some hymns and psalms

Thus did a vampire cross the sea..... And the Maxwells always knew it.....

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SCIENTIFIC TRUTHS THAT MAY EFFECT THINGS..... 4/08/13

This is not the only time we'll talk. There may be another post later on. But conditions are right and so I speak. Do not ask for my name. It vacillates and changes. Do not ask for my form, for that too is fluid. Am I a 'god?' No, I am not, nor am I a divine messenger. But I am old and I have seen a lot.

Do you think your few thousand years of advanced sentience explains everything? Please, don't be so self limiting. We were old and done with physicality before your star was even born. Listen to what I say, for I know. 

The celestial carousel you call 'Milky Way' spins slowly. And the 'horses' go up and down. Right now (a singularity for us, but ages to you) the stead you call Earth dives through the galactic plain, a region thick with plasma and quantum possibilities. 

You are 'in the soup' so to speak. Is it a bisque, a broth, or a stew? Even I can't say... not with any acceptable measure of accuracy. 

Smaller, though more localized changes happen too. The poles are shifting..... Your poles..... What's up is down and what's down is up. ..... The last time alterations like this took place, you still had tails and fur. 

Look closely at the 'witches' and the night-folk. Study them. For their pores leak 'magic' into the world. At least you call it magic.

Open your eyes and see what can be seen. There are mer-folk in the seas, yet you refuse to believe. And they are but one example of all that you willfully ignore.

Oh, LIVING SOULS, hear this...... The meaning of life is POSSIBILITY.

What have you done with yours?

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I retreat now through the circuits and the keyboard and the fingers and the neurons and the mind of he who 'typed' this..... Back to my place in the space between corporal things.

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LET FLY THE BLACK MARIA!!! ... night-folk enemies fight back.. 4/07/13

One hundred and thirty seven years ago, America hosted her first world's fair. Some of the buildings, not many, but some, still exist, lost amid the vastness of Fairmount Park. Alexander Graham Bell debuted his telephone there. The emperor of Brazil made the first call. A steam driven 'aerial railroad,' actually a monorail, whisked legions of amazed gawkers over the gas lit midway. 

They called it The Centennial.... America's one hundredth birthday. Forty six million souls scattered over thirty eight states, plus a handful of rough and ready territories. It's estimated that one fifth of the population walked through the gates.  And quite a few were criminals, necessitating the birth of America's first 'modern' police force.  Paddy Wagons appeared. 'Black Marias' they called them. Jonathon says there's a book with that title, by a writer named Mark Graham. I'm told it's very engrossing.

Two of the selfsame, heavy conveyances still exist, locked away in an old garage in University City (college district in the 30's), part of a collection owned by Tobias Maxwell, the ninety four year old standard bearer of an ancient, pre-Revolutionary dynasty. And standard bearers hate to die. That's why he wants a vampire and what better time to go hunting than during the current confusion we have now? He had one refitted... a 'maria' I mean... sheathed in lead, inside and out. Vampires can't sublimate through that. You might say it's their krypton.  Brought in specially bred Percherons to pull it. Strength and speed. That's what he wants... strength and speed. 

Oh, Doctor Franklin and his people at The Anti-Enchantment-Bureau have lead thingies, but they're friends. Tobias Maxwell is not that. He wants the blood. To be truthful, at this time, whether for periodic, minor infusions to keep him going, or for a complete, vampiric translation is still up in the air. 

How he intends to catch a vampire is still a mystery. But Marianne was caught once. Google ~~ MARIANNE IN BRITCHES by Billy Kravitz and scroll around. You'll see. Though I don't think he's fishing for an elferina or elferino. Powerful types like him stalk big game. And in his God intoxicated state, Jonathon (also known as Tomas) has grown quite careless.... He talks to people. He cries with them. And he gives them things. The mother of a sick child gets blood, if she'll take it, and cash if she won't. You know how much money baby healers take? Hard working individuals find gold coins in their pockets after wee hour talks at bus stops. And waitresses in coffee shops get stocks and bonds. Titles to Bentleys... old diamond broaches... I've seen them all.

I am Johannon. I saved him once. Please, help me protect him again....

Now he walks down pitch black alleys, sweeping them clean. Cut throats and thieves beware. Our fit, young Andalucian in fine leather bootkins stalks the night.

But one, much more desperate, stalks him...

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SATURDAY NIGHT on the STREETS OF A CITY TRANSFORMED... 4/06/13

Jonathon and Sarah strolled about 'town.' He wore his pea-coat against the April chill. She had her long, black trench. The bars and bistros were filled. And there was a quiet grace about the place. The vampires were doing their job. Night-folk patrols combed the streets picking out the nits. No shadowy drug deals. No shake-downs. No burglaries.... or at least almost none. A guitar player sang sambas on the corner. And a magician conjured doves.

The tables weren't out. It was still too cold for that. But spring was in the air. So our life-eater enamoradas turned into a small, cozy spot for something to drink. Baylah was at the bar. This was her place and she was very proud of it..... Good evening - she said. What can I get you?...... Jonathon smiled and said - Surprise us..... So she came back with a venerable old, wax sealed bottle of Spanish sherry and two small antique glassed fashioned from green, Czech crystal.... Her 'man,' Rudy, came out to pour. Then the three of them sat there listening to the piano man, sing Kurt Weill..... Baylah said - It's quiet all over. Not just Center City, but other places too. Even 'the badlands' are safe. Kids can actually walk to the corner for a Slurpee and not get all shot up. I've been out. I know. That guy over there... the one with the crew cut and the young, pretty wife... he's a detective. He knows me. He knows what I am. You know, Jonathon. He's always known. Says burglaries are way down. Checks with the alarm companies. Nothing 'gone off' tonight.  Old ladies living alone can actually sleep.

Sarah said - But what do they do with them? The hoods, the thugs, the bad guys, I mean. They comb the streets. The pick them up. They got to put them somewhere...... Where?

Baylah said - Eastern State Penitentiary, the 'dungeons.' You know, where the tourists go? They put them there. Just them and the ghosts..... Two hundred years of voices in the night. Sort of like 'Scared Straight' for bastards who should of been scared straight years ago. And they call for their lawyers. They got cell phones. It's a mad house in there. A lot of them are crazy, as it is, you know. But it's dark. They don't have the lights on... Just flashlights. Vampires and flashlights. You can imagine. Some of them must be shitting themselves...

And it's funny how the media covers this. They talk to people. They interview a vampire or two. Never use the real name. Never say that. Oh, and they are so respectful, but always with an 'out.' Always with a little 'believe it or not' disclaimer at the end.  And they know it's true. They know..... Same like they do with aliens.

The younger ones are a little better. They get it. They're not so threatened. Carson Daly is still in town. He's pretty good about it. Vampires like him. And the elferinas love him. Charlie Rose wanted to interview Jonathon, but he doesn't want to do it. So they got this psychology guy instead to talk about mass hysteria. 

But people are catching on. They see! Some of them see! They've seen a killing, or a 'culling,' or whatever you want to call it. And you know what's funny? They know we got vampires in town, but they still don't know where Doctor Franklin's got his bureau.

It'll get out. You'll see. Soon all of them are gonna know. Blackie wants to do something at the first Phillies night game. You know Blackie. He's cool. They don't deal with him much. Jonathon and his crew, I mean. But he's all right. He's out there.

Sad thing is, there's a flip side to all this. Vampires hide from the sun, you know. The sleep, or at least rest during the day. And the cops can't take up the slack. They can't operate like night-folk do. Gotta stick to the rules. Can't hit nobody. Can't pinch nobody. Not real hard, anyway. Not out in the open. So now they deal drugs outside the SAVE-A-LOT. And old ladies hide in the toilet when PRICE IS RIGHT is on.

You know how it is. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

And for every thing, there is a season. And a time for every purpose under heaven. And Whopper Juniors are only a dollar twenty nine now. That's it. OK? It's done. We're done for the night. Go watch porn, you sons a bitches... Just lemme get outta here...

Who am I? I am the disembodied spirit of the guy Johnny Jump Up devoured alive up on the rooftops under a cold cheesy moon a few months back..... Yeah, I'm working as a narrator  now. So? You don't like it? Go to hell.

Hope he kills you too, you bastard.

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HOW TO CRUSH A HUMAN THROAT ... 4/06/13

I forgot my duct tape. Ghouls always carry duct tape. It comes in so handy when you have to restrain desperate, agony ridden assholes. I never spoke like that. Indeed, I rarely spoke at all, preferring to transmit my coo coo ca choo telepathically. But this 'new age.' This vampire 'complete the universe' thing has weakened me. I feel their presence. I know they hate me. Negative vibrations press down on my body. Don't they know that ghouls have feelings too. 

The girl on the bed sees me. I know she sees me. I can smell it. I can smell her pee pee. It's all over the mattress now. I think she had asparagus for dinner.... and perhaps a bit of salmon, or tuna something or other too. 

I wave.... a sly, little finger wave. She chokes. Bubbles froth up from a wound in her neck. I'm sorry, but I had to work fast. Damn, I wish I had that duct tape. Then I could have been a connoisseur. Then I could have taken my time.

No noise. I do not like noise. Nor do I like Dorito breath. And, boy, did she have that. The taste of it is still in my mouth. I bit her. I bit her throat... right in the front.... real fast and real hard with my razor sharp, triangular teefies. You know it only takes thirty three pounds of pressure to crush a human trachea. And eleven pounds of pressure severs the esophagus.  A mere bagatelle to one such as I. 

At first she didn't feel it.... so quick... so clean... Almost surgical. But then I smelled that stink welling up from her belly and almost gagged. Odd, most semi-digested slop doesn't faze me. I can tear through an abdominal wall and bury my head in steaming, human offal. It's just those God damned Doritos. They smell like dog paws.... dirty dog paws. Do you have one where you are? Go smell. You'll see.

I did shear off her fingers though. Hate it when they grab. And for some reason, finger blood tastes so good to me. But she died. So fast. She died so fast. I think it was her heart.  Or perhaps the fact she could no longer draw in air.... the ruptured trachea, you know. 

But cool bodies hold no charm. I hate them. So I shattered the small sky-light in the bathroom and let in the rats. They aren't as fussy. Soon she'll be just bones. They may leave her scalp, though. 

Tomorrow would have been her birthday. I saw a note on the calendar. You know how well my eyes see through the dark. But what was I to her? What did she see? What did she think? A cadaverous wraith in a moldy black suit? A drawn, angular face? A skull with a tight, leathery husk? And the smile.... the large, curved, crescent grin.... A shadow... A ghost.... A nightmare.

What would you see? How dark is it where you sleep? Such a vulnerable state. You know there were times I've crept inside, stood over the bed, sniffed the physicality of the flesh therein and decided not too? And there is no reason for it. I'm fickle that way.

Ah, the night creepers... But you don't want to hear about them. Listen for the noises... the little taps... the tiny creaks. Is it a neighbor from next door, or is it something else? Tell me something. Is your bathroom en suite, or must you run out through the hall? And how many times have you lain there, struggling to keep your bladder closed til dawn?

Do you sleep with a light on? What is it you're so desperate to see?

But I will have my satisfaction. I will have my hot meal. Look at the rats, like a living, writhing, chinchilla blanket.... Shhh, I can hear them scrap the bones.

Now I walk through the hall and enter the bathroom. Twenty four inches through the wall, a baby sleeps. I believe the neighbors also have a son. But I feel restless and want to prowl. So I hop up on the vanity and raise my body through the broken glass..... Moonlight becomes me.... a gilded, lank, 'Sir Death.' 

The baby hears me scamper 'cross the roof. She wakes up. She whimpers. The mother comes. But still the wee one cries..... 

She knows.... She knows.... She knows.....

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HANNIBAL??? I DON'T THINK SO.....says Johnny Jump Up .. 4/04/13

I am under a bed. Vampire vigilantes silently sweep through the city looking  for 'evil doers.' The one called Jonathon, or sometimes Tomas, likes this. It is his way. Perfecting the world is hard work, whereas my pass time is only a hobby. I have no agenda. I have no plans. I simply destroy. 

This one has laminate, hardwood patterned flooring. She laid it herself. I know. I've been watching. I've been listening..... Who walks the roofs by night?.... I do. Sometimes I lie down, flat against the gritty tar paper. Sometimes I peer through skylights. The image is foggy, but quite adequate for my purposes.  Peek-a-boo, I see you. And I have seen many people. If you reside in the old quarters of Philadelphia, we may already have a rather one sided relationship.

She reads books, this one. They're stacked by the bed, a crooked pile of other worlds and other places. Paperbacks mostly. She is on a budget. Shhhh, she moved. The bed is old. The springs are worn. They squeal like little pigs. I like little pigs, especially ones with fingers and toes. 

This one doesn't like spring. She craves iciness. Chill nights under the covers. Wrapped in dreams. Secure in a small flat, behind three locks and various 'protective' religious talismans. I opened her refrigerator. Magnetic seals are so quiet. She never knew. I tasted certain things. Well, I licked them anyway. Tomatoes were 'poisonous' in my day and crunchy granola bars were science fiction. I'm told my saliva has a cold, dead corpse-like taste. Perhaps she noticed? Maybe she thought it was mold?

Once I played a game. We tried something, I and a certain strange physician transfixed by the work of Mary Shelley. There was a room...a hidden place, far beneath the public gallows. An inlaid, bronze and granite compass rose, in the midst of City Hall courtyard marks the spot today. But this was long before that. We climbed down a rickety ladder to a chamber once used for treasure. Doctor Franklin organized it. The same one frequenting our city today. He collected gold and porcelain and paintings... anything of value.... anything easily sold or traded for guns..... The Revolution, you know..... After that, The Junto used it. Franklin's group met there to talk of theories best kept under wraps. Then it lay forgotten. But I knew... and I whispered in the dark. 

The physician carried down his tools... flasks... bottles... wires... candles and blades.. I procured the guests... two boys... twins, they were.... lost on the teeming streets of our red brick, cobbled metropolis. I lured them with pies... meat pies, fashioned from rabbits' feet and whores ears. Most things grind up like beef, you know. And almost anything tastes good when it's hot. Some cheap madeira helped too. They called me 'Mister Jiggity.' I was their magical friend.... a tall, impossibly thin man, in a tight, black worsted suit. They never heard my voice. I never spoke, but communicated via gestures and nods. They giggled and tried to touch me. But I backed away, melding with the shadows. 

One night, they were cold, freezing actually... and others of their ilk denied them shelter in the dust bins and abandoned crates littering the commercial alleys of the city.  Nine below zero, they said it was. The thermometer tacked to the stones of the Old Curiosity Museum cracked. Beggars and fools froze hard on the paving, like so many gruesome statues.  Men came by, in daylight, to scrape them up. 

But I lured the boys with drink.... and they took it. Gin, I think it was... plus a small sack filled with 'cracklings' made from fried bits of meat and skin garnered from unclean places.  A bit for one. A bit for the brother. Around a corner and down a lane. Like Hansel and Gretel. ... Very much so, actually. 

Then I caught them in the dark. It's easy sweeping children off their feet. Little necks make such sweet handles. Feel the blood.... Feel it throb.... A taste of death... But just a bit. .... Who confronts ghouls toting Santa sacks in the dark, especially with beggars lying frozen in their path? Even the rats stay in. 

I dropped them on a table in that secret, buried room. The doctor lit a candle fashioned from the rendered fat of exotic and sundry lunatics. Then he got to work, stuffing them into thick, heavy, large glass jars... one to a customer. He stripped them down, binding each into a fetal position and slid them into their respective chill wombs. Next came the 'gravy,' up to the shoulders. Then came the lids, heavy, almost cookie-jar, apothecary style. He sealed each with wax, leaving one or two tiny gaps along the rim for air.  All curled up like human escargot encased in see-through shells. And I watched as he whistled through it all.

The first Siamese Twins were big then. Chang and Eng, I think they were. Every broadsheet and review featured drawings. The doctor read them all. And now he had the meat to cook his own. 

Two cuts along the spine. Strip off the useless flesh. Some cunning needlework, a dab of salve.... a little hand cranked current. Electrical generators were all the rage. Perhaps a heaping cup of leeches? Maybe even more? Good for swelling, you know. And the specimens were twins to begin with. 

We both thought it would work.... Janus reborn... Mister Past and Mister Future... 'sitting' back to back.

Shhhh, she's asleep now... my meal in the squeaky bed. Please leave me as I go about my task. 

I'll show you when I'm done. .... Do you know how sharp a coiled spring can be?

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TINY BUBBLES... a flash fiction for DEATH THROES WEBZINE

The ground was gray and flat and featureless, a vast metallic expanse. And the sky reflected that sameness in a smooth, milky, dirty-white dome. There was no wind. There was no sound. Nothing ever changed. 

But I was there (wherever 'there' was). I breathed. I walked... and every footfall was the same. The light, more a weak, universal, ambient glow, never changed. And the only thing to see was the horizon.

Sometimes I sat, cross-legged, 'Indian Style,' and waited. Perhaps a bird or even an insect would fly over the long sharp line? The sky might change. A cloud might form. Some rain might fall. But I never saw such things. And I never felt hunger, or thirst, or anything, save the cool, pore-less, silvery plain beneath my body. I called it silver, but it might have just been nickle.

I'd stare at my shirtsleeve for hours... I called them hours. I studied the weave. Each line became a street. Every cross point an intersection. Some had trees. Some had buildings. Some housed people. Some hid monsters. But it was hard to focus and soon I would forget. 

It was possible to sleep, but considering the 'bed.' the experience was hardly restorative. The surface had no 'give,' and my bones hurt.

I am a microbe... a sub-atomic particle, on a huge ball bearing rolling nowhere. 

But once, it was different. I drank iced tea and saw moonbeams. I said things and people answered. I read books and brushed my teeth. 

Yet the universe plays tricks. Tiny pin pricks of rare singularities exist there. Sometimes they hit things and gobble them up. I was such a meal.

Once I was 'there,' and now I am'here.' I suppose tiny germ-things wriggle on my skin. But I can't see them. I lay on my stomach and taste the ground. But my tongue is dry. I sense nothing. Even my nails fail to grow. 

Dreams? I do not have them. 

Perhaps I'll go blind and lose the horizon too?

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