A NINETY FOUR YEAR OLD BILLIONAIRE SPEAKS ... 4/19/13

I sit here looking at that damn cat and I think... how vividly pink the insides of her ears are. I wonder what blood actually tastes like. Not the little trickles we suck up from rare steak or cut fingers... I mean thick, red rivers of it. But I am not a common slob. Those elevators filled with human life fluid in THE SHINING looked like melted sherbet.... Like ruptured cartons of loganberry sauce meant for the dessert table at a cheap buffet. 

I want quality...smooth firm skin and protein fed goodness. Soon I'm, going to stick him... that Jonathon you all love so much. He will be crucified and pinned in place like beef on a three dimensional shish-kabab. Like Saint Sebastian, or one of those other dreamy eyed, Counter Reformation poster boys.... While my carefully constructed apparatus drains him dry.... Then he will have to bite me, for I'll be filled with it... his crimson elixir, I mean.... 

But should he try to take too much and send me too my death, the roof will retract and he will burn... Sunlight, you know... Oligarchs are witty. We have many tricks.

And my necromancers can see him. They can taste him... right through all that lead. Such talented 'manipulators' they are.... an Inuit shaman.... a Highland Druidess.... the facilitator from a Long Island Weight Watchers' Meeting who discovered her abilities while hunched over an Atlantic City video poker machine. Five royal flushes in a row, don't you know... Even 'The Donald' took note. But I grabbed her first.

Soon they'll roll me into the dining room and feed me savory tid bits.  Alexander Hamilton once dined here, you know. So did Totie Fields. My tastes are so diverse. 

I gaze in the mirror imagining what I'll see after the transformation.... tighter skin... clear eyes, perky, youthful testicles... Tonight I'll have my liposuction. Dangerous for a ninety four year old... but 'billionaire' ninety four is like fifty six to you.

I wonder if my hair will grow back?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha (cough... wheeze... guzzle some pomegranate juice) ha...

Tobias Maxwell has spoken!
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Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: MARIANNE IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: MARIANNE IN THE CHAMBER OF DEATH: The housekeeper is all right. We laid her out on the little sofa in the morning room  and ladled some Jack Daniels ( spiked with a few drops...Here's a bit of what MARIANNE (our elferina) told high paying mortal guests, assembled in a plush, Society Hill townhouse, about her encounter with Inquisitional vampire catchers. Torture, intrigue, pain and superstition in dark, sinister places....

THE FUROR HUMANICUS PREPARES TO POSSESS ANOTHER WORLD..... 4/19/13

Conrad tapped away at his p.c.. Actually, he could have blogged for them, but the thought never crossed his mind. wilkravitz did that. It was already a done deal. Why rock the boat? Vampires are like that. Oh, they can adapt. They just don't like too. You see this when you've known them a while..... a really long while. The same individual may move around every ten to twenty years. People begin to notice the youthfulness, after all. But somethings never change... a penchant for Handel..... antique tall clocks... a certain Spanish sound upon the tongue.... references to the court of Timbuctu. We are all creatures of habit and some 'creatures' even more so.

But he saw something on line, a reference to a certain program, an organization promising to establish a human beach-head on Mars by 2013. @MarsOneProject they call it. And he wondered how soon it would be til night-folk made the trip. In all probability, not until the population reached a certain point. Life-eaters gotta eat too, you know. Yet the thought of such a thing intrigued him. So he pulled on his jacket and went outside. 

His block, a very tiny space, was quiet. But it was always quiet. The small, curbside trees were in bud. And even in the darkness, he could see them 'neath the streetlights. Two sleek cats prowled the shadows, sniffing out disoriented pigeons.... Last night they had rodent. Most other windows were dark. An old lady near the corner was still up. She liked the old black and white movies on that cable movie station. But so did Conrad. 

He thought about Jonathon, as he turned the corner onto Chestnut Street. Twenty somethings left the clubs. Old City closes up at 2am.  Last drinks morph into coffee and sticky buns at all night diners for those not hobbled by jobs. And he nodded to a few tipsy baby-ladies heading toward a cab. They self consciously tittered back. 

Edith said they'd find him. She had a feeling... a hoo-doo (frisson of magic). Tomas, known as Jonathon wasn't lost, but merely detained. Baylah said so too, though she and her friends still looked, searching the night with blood-fed dogs.

While not far away, the 'young' vampirino dozed, lost in ancient dreams. Tobias, his nonagenarian captor, waited. No lengthy needles pierced preternatural flesh tonight. It just didn't 'feel' right. The old man was funny that way, superstitious in a subtle, sober Quaker way. Though in all truthfulness the family hadn't followed the creed for years. So he sat in the keeping room, a small cozy space off the kitchen, staring at the tiny flame in the small brick, corner hearth. Soon they'd take him upstairs and arrange him in his bed. But he still felt out of sorts. 

Let it be known that Doctor Franklin caused that slight malaise via precise refinements on his Grand Armonica. His large, vaguely 'steam punk' harmonic apparatus could do many things. Vibrations are power. And the old reprobate had plenty of that. So Jonathon remained unmolested. His blood was his own for a few hours more.

Yet the movement continued. People remembered his sermons from that place under the bank building. After all, it's only been a couple nights. Food banks were fill. Out of town vampires here for the spirituality of it all gave out money. All night-folk have cash. And cleaned up, formerly homeless souls slept soundly, between crisp sheets in fine hotels. Even the sequestered hoodlums stuffed into the dungeons of old Eastern State Penitentiary had pizza... pepperoni... donated by a consortium of well known chains. So the resident ghosts shrieked for naught. Good, hot, runny, tomato pies take precedent, don't you know. The guards got their share too.

Conrad met a man sitting on a bench, deep in the shadows, near the perimeter of Washington Square. The man looked at him and said - You're a vampire fella, aren't you?..... Conrad said - Yep... The man said - You ain't gonna eat me? You ain't gonna make me go 'guhk,' are you?..... Conrad said - Nope.. The man said - I like the way things are now. Vampires... Magic. Met a witchy-woman just before. Got rid a my headache. She was real good. Sang real nice too. Think her name's Minerva. You know her?..... Conrad shook his head 'no.' ...... Man said - Sorry. Didn't mean no offense. Don't mean that all you hokus-pokus folk know each other. Sorry..... Conrad gestured as if to say 'Don't worry 'bout it.'.... Then the man said - Wanna go for coffee? Coffee shop at the Omni's still open. My treat. Come on. Tell me some a your vampire stories..... So they got up and went. But Conrad told him he hadn't been a vampire very long and didn't have all that much to tell. The man said that was OK. He'd tell all about the army.

But that stuff we told you 'bout @MarsOneProject a while back is true. They gettin' ready to go. Human beans all set to plant theyselves in another garden.

Let's hope they tend it real nice this time...
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Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: GHOSTS ARE NOTMONSTERS

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: GHOSTS ARE NOTMONSTERS: When the last of her ashes rose up to the sky, the vampires came back inside. Sarah was quiet. She felt bad. Tomas repeated the prayer for ...Ghosts are just people who've lost their bodies, but managed to hold onto the good stuff..... please click on to that little sentence up above for a really nice episode you might enjoy...

THE MAN IN THE LEADEN BOX....... 4/18/13

The old man studied his hands. And they looked more like a grotesque panel in a gothic, graphic novel. So he called for a stethescope and they gave him one. Then he scootered over to the chill, metal wall and listened. But all that came back was white noise. Vampires can be quite still, like waxen figures in strange museums. It's instinctive. No practice necessary. Their joints don't lock... muscles don't cramp. Nothing happens. They just sit there, or stand there and that's the way it is. 

Jonathon wandered the markets of  Old Cordoba... the Street of Rubies.... Book Sellers' Lane... Apothecary Square. He loved that place. Spices from Serendip. Gossamer fabrics from far Cathay. Silver menorah from the Caucasus. And Johannan was with him. Mortality was his. Those words may sound incongruent to souls faced with such a prospect. But vampirinos feel different. He purchased a parrot. He liked parrots. Some rabbis, especially they who believed in 'the arc of a death,' as well as 'the arc of a life,' thought they might be spirits mistakenly (if such mistakes are possible) incarnated in avian form. And our eighteen year old aristocrat was eager to find out. So his servant (Johannan) bore the bright eyed, irridescent beastie on his forearm and they proceeded on their way.

Now the leaden box had certain features unknown to the prisoner within. Apparently, Tobais Maxwell's billions could work subtle magic even a vampire couldn't 'see.' There were sharp, tiny tubes protruding from the exterior of the trap. And the Maxwell patriarch had to be careful when he approached its surface lest one didn't pierce him. Via a system of intricatly installed magnetics (plus a cunning, little remote control device) he could 'push' these needle sharp hypodermics far into the black interior.... like a magician's box bristling with many swords.  And in this way impale the vampire on multiple axises. Then other needles, coming in from other angles (but not going all the way through) could syphon out the blood.  What he had was basically a 'milking' machine made for reluctant donors. And Jonathon was certainly one of those. 

But blood, taken in this way, might restore health and vigor, though it could not grant immortality, for there is no give and take. A certain closeness... A certain agreement is necessary for that.

Jonathon approached the stream... dropped his clothes and walked in, savoring the cool, fast moving current. And then he began to swim.

Blessed be the power of dreams...
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A VAMPIRE PRINCE IN THE LEAD LINED ROOM ......... 4/17/13

Jonathon awakened. His mind cleared and he had absolutely no idea where he was. First of all, it was dark...beyond dark. This was absolute darkness, unseen even in the vastness of space. He carefully moved 'round, using his hands like a blind man. The floor was smooth and cool, so were the walls. No seams. No bolts. No nothing. A cube... He was in a cube, roughly fifteen feet square. And it was made of lead. Escape was futile and he knew it. So he sat down with his back toward a corner, hugged his knees and thought.

Other night-folk, 'younger' ones faced prisons like this. Elferinos and elferinas knew. Many of these pubescent vampires crossed the ocean sealed in cramped, leaden casks, tossed by the currents and lost for decades before (finally) touching shore. Imagine sensing the crushing weight of the abyss just beyond the metal. Luck ones came to rest on their backs, or maybe (second best) on their sides. Some faced years upside down, wedged 'tween a rock and a hard place. A few never escape. 

But the 'elf' folk have tools. There are things they can do. Magical thoughts envelope pathetically trapped beings in clouds of 'reality.' Other times and other places congeal 'round the victims like mold on a berry, til they see better things and taste salty blood. And in this way time passes. Occasionally friendly whales nudge them on their way. The night-folk have a treaty with the princes of the sea going back to the days and nights of Lemuria. Or was it Mu? Indeed, some true vampires cross the sea on cetacean steeds. But that's a whole other story.

Jonathon cried. At least his tears were salty. And after a time, he too had visions... of plant filled courtyards and tinkling fountains.... of poetic troubadours and well formed horses. He was home, safe, among the sunny hills of Old Al-Andaluz, surrounded by the poetry of classical Arabic, Aramaic and liturgical Hebrew. Then he took up the oud and he played. How sweet the Berber song.

But what would he do when the moon came (his time to feed)? How would he find food then?

A few miles away, in the town house, Edith told the others she 'felt' him. And the twenty eight thousand year old (though resembling a thirty two or thirty three year old Richard Gere) being known as 'Papa,' smiled. For him, at this time, that was a lot.

Yet other beings 'felt' him too... and they were much nearer. The ninety four year old sickly billionaire sat staring at the dense, gray wall. Then he raised a palsied hand and a functionary wheeled him closer, so he could reach out and feel the cool, unyielding surface. He thought of the treasure within. Vampire blood does many things. It can heal wounds, cure melancholia and confer immortality. And the old man, known as Tobias Maxwell savored each sweet possibility.

While sealed within his six sided shell, the vampire, known as Jonathon went riding.... 'Drinkers of The Wind,' they called them..... Horses of the desert.

And the young, mortal Andalusian aristocrat rode for miles.....
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ON THE NIGHT OF THE BOSTON MARATHON BOMBING ... 4/16/13

Jonathon helped us make some progress. The streets of Philadelphia are a little safer. Nights are quieter. Thugs and drug dealers squeeze into cracks, even during the day when the vampire vigilantes aren't out there. But Jonathon didn't rise tonight. He's been taken. And no one knows where he is. Some people went to hear him preach (what else would you call it?) in that place under the bank building on The Avenue of The Arts. But he wasn't there. So they discussed all the things they could do to help humanity and then they went out and did them. A few went for pancakes and sausage instead, but even they left a nice tip. 

Sarah doesn't know where he is. She saw the heavy, lead-clad horse drawn van. She saw the men in the  strange black suits. But she was drugged too. Vampires can be drugged now. Someone figured it out, or at least rediscovered it. Sure the alcohol tinged blood of certain victims provided a little tingle. But this was different. This was helplessness. 

So she went back to the townhouse and slept in their special chamber... alone upon the rose scented sheets.... Edith knew she was there, they all did. Conrad whispered to his eight year old mother in her six and a half or seven year old body. He said - Where's the other one? Where's Jonathon, or Tomas, or whatever he wants us to call him? But Annie was busy coloring..... Wilma Flintstone cracking giant eggs in a rustic, lumpy pan... it calmed her down. So she told him to shut the hell up and leave her alone. 

All the vampires in town, locals and others come to hear  Jonathon's speeches, obviously know about the Boston bombings. I don't know. I hate to call what he does sermons, because if they are.... I don't know, but that makes it a whole other thing. Small bands of night-folk quietly walk passed the town house. They don't want to attract too much attention. They just want to see if he's there. 

Edith, their Piney Woman friend, clairvoyant and housekeeper, called one of the 'familiars.' He arranged for more security. So now some guys with dark windbreakers and concealed guns, chew gum and hang around the place. Must be retired or off duty cops. Night-folk nod to them. They nod to the night-folk. Everybody's cool. Edith runs out with this hot apple cider (hard cider) drink she makes. The guards take it. Too cold for beer. Even some of the passing vampires have some. You know how they are with alcohol?

Baylah wants to mount a posse. She knows where they can get some dogs. Conrad knows to from when he was an almost monk. The brotherhood he belonged to had these hounds. Used to mix vampire grease in with their Kibble n Bits. You know, the fatty residue that's left when a vampire dies? Claim it makes them demi-vampires or something. Trouble is, no one feels like doing much of anything. 

They're thinking 'bout what happened. 'Make the world a better place.'..... That's what they were trying to do. And I'm talking about vampires. Yeah, some humans too, but mostly vampires. Moral ones, 'noble' ones just are that way. Look, I can't tell you every night what 'noble' vampires are. You gotta be a regular, or at least like a semi-regular 'round here. OK? I do not mean to jump on nobody, but you know how it is. 

Barbarity rules the range, people. And what are you gonna do about it? I will repeat that Kabbalah thing Jonathon likes, or at least the Coke commercial version of it ~~~ You give a little love and it all comes back to you. You're gonna be remembered for the things that you say and do..... Right versus wrong. Who you gonna vote for?

'Downtown' Boston's all roped off. Patriots' Day is changed forever, or until people start to forget. Who remembers Pearl Harbor Day, right?

I once sublimated through this place, it was a death camp somewhere in Europe during the 1940's. Saw a big vat, just like a giant tin shoe box, right out in the open. Thing was all filled with dismembered human body parts. Some looked neatly amputated, like the heads. Some looked ripped off. Like a turkey leg what got twisted off a still intact bird. Big old thigh bones stickin' out a whole mess a white, people-hams. That is just what they looked like.... strange, skin-covered chunks a meat with skinny human calves and feet glued to 'em. Torsos to... not with arms, but with all the man and lady parts intact. Well, judgin' by size, some were boy and girl parts. And they were just there, floating (although packed very tight) in a salty brine, so devil-doctors could fish 'em out an' have fun with 'em. The sky was grey. The buildings were too. A few pathetic still breathing martyrs walked around. A few devil-people laughed and tortured 'em. And that was how it was. I couldn't do nothing, bein' a disembodied spirit and all.

Thing is, you gotta ask yourself... are you disembodied spirits, or do you have hands?

Make things better.
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Tomorrow night they'll tell you what that ninety four year old Maxwell guy wants from Jonathon, but this night is different, so we won't talk 'bout that...
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