Edith knows I'm here. I left word with a trusted 'familiar.' He sent her a message. But I haven't been back to the town house yet. Still walking. You know what I'm like?... a lucid wanderer. Mentioned that term last night, but didn't explain it. Some of you may recall it from earlier epistles, however, I'll elaborate for the benefit of newbies.
Vampires, werewolves, ghosts and zombies aren't everything. There're other creatures in the forest, my friends... and lucid wanderers are one of the most tragic. I am not sure of their nativity, but I've seen them, so I can tell you what they are.
Picture a normal (or at least rather ordinary) human walking down the street. Well, that's what lucid wanderers do. They walk... boy do they ever. Thing is, they can't stop. For if they do their bodies effervesce into a frothy mass and disappear. One by one the pink, tiny bubbles pop til nothing's left but a filmy, viscous residue on the ground. Even the bones are gone.
Most night-folk and other adepts feel a spell is involved, or some manner of psycho-kinetic projection. Doctor Franklin thinks harmonics play a part. But he thinks harmonics play a part in everything. The Grand Armonica... his life's work, if you will. You can Google it.
They're eternal pilgrims, one step in front of the other. Eyes front. Mouths closed. If you touch one and maintain contact for more than a fleeting moment or two, you catch it. The magic or the energy, or whatever it is gets you too.
I don't think they eat like normal mortals, but they do eat, not much, but they do. Sometimes they graze supermarkets late at night, picking up a grape, or a beef jerky, or a juice box. Kids who stock the shelves get to know them. Word gets 'round, especially if they see an infected friend stand still and go all foamy. Not a pretty sight. Occasionally the eyeballs remain intact and bounce down on the ground. The teeth too... blood and gristle around the roots and everything.
I used to see a girl lucid wanderer move through the streets of Old Philadelphia. This was back in Federalist times. Maybe late Federalist. I don't know. What would you call the years after The War of 1812? She wore one of those long, high waisted gowns like Josephine Bonaparte. Her hair was up in curls. When it was cold she had a cloak. I think it had a hood. Such a pathetic thing she was. So sad. A French baker on Arch Street gave her rolls. He left them in a little covered hamper 'round the back. A vintner gave her wine and I believe cheese and sausage too, although he didn't sell them. And she walked. Now I've never seen one pee, or shit, but I suppose they do. Dim, secluded alleys are so forgiving. And I'm guessing the occasional piece of laundry left out to dry goes missing. Or maybe they have 'familiars' like we do? Yo no se.... Enchanted souls tend to be private creatures. I once saw her wash herself behind a bath house. The matron passed her a white, enamel basin filled with warm, soapy water and a tattered, natural sponge. She quietly sopped up all the water and squeezed it over her body, all the while shuffling from foot to foot. If I have to give you a physical, or scientific explanation, I'd say the cells, the muscle cells, the bone cells, the skin cells of their feet, lucid wanderers I mean, grow and regenerate very rapidly. Otherwise how could they do it? They couldn't. And they micro sleep, a few heartbeats here, a few heartbeats there. What's the purpose of it? Why were they made? Why do they exist? I don't know. There're theories, but I don't know. One version says they began during The Plague, the big one, the Black Death of thirteen forty nine. Almost half the people in Europe died and it happened fast, within days. Children, men, women, old people, all of them gone. Imagine being a two year old left in a house filled with reeking septic corpses. I saw that. That I saw. Flagellants, simpleminded superstitious bastards who thought religion was magic, marched from town to town, chanting prayers, hurling curses and beating themselves with thick, heavy, lead tipped whips, sending bits of flesh, blood and skin flying through the air. And they were all over, spreading the contagion they sought to destroy. You know it was a vampire who rescued me from a burning synagogue during The Crusades. Well, about three hundred, maybe closer to two hundred and fifty years later, I returned the favor, for they lit up such prayer houses all over Europe and threw little children into wells. Old people thought to be witches perished too. They say an alchemist, perhaps more than an alchemist, branded a witch and about to be welded into an 'iron maiden' while still alive, hurled the first 'spell,' .... Pilgrims you are!? Devils you are! May you walk without end til Saint Michael redeems you! - he said..... Well, the archangel still hasn't come. But that's just a story, for most of the 'wanderers' walking today are not devils.
I know I was going to tell you of strange encounters under an arctic moon and hell hounds in the Adirondacks. I know you've been reading 'bout wolf-folk for the passed few weeks, so you know what they are. But I am fatigued. Even vampires experience ennui. So excuse me while I retreat from the world for a few hours and sleep in the dark, cool shadows...
Come back. I'll tell you more...
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It's me, Billy channeling this tonight, not one of the disembodied spirits, 'cause they have this big Yahtzee tournament, or something. That's a major activity in the next world. I don't pretend to understand. Them what passed on got issues.
But let me tell you what happened with Tomas and the Center City kid. Our night-folk hero took him to a rooftop redoubt he had. I think it's up on an old, what do they call them? not a warehouse .... Where the 'yuppies' live.... A LOFT! A LOFT! Yeah, he took him up on top of a loft. Kid was almost dead. Cruisin' down 'the tunnel' and everything. Saw Eleanor Roosevelt. Saw that dead guy from The Rolling Stones. Saw Sir Francis Bacon... Hedy Lamar. Was really getting into it. But Tomas laid him down and dripped a few drops of his ruby elixir (that means his blood) onto the kid's lips. Guess it tastes like hot, rare steak, or something. 'cause the Center City kid licked it all up. Three heartbeats later WHOOSH! He ain't mostly dead no more. Sits up... starts searching for his wallet. Goes - Shit! Shit! Shit! W-w-where's my fuckin' money!?.... Tomas goes - Is that how you talk?..... Kid says - Who the hell are you? Where am I? What is this?! Where the hell's that Brian guy from The Rolling Stones!? My money! Where's my money!?... Tomas goes - Ai! Dios mio!.... He remembers... He remembers sublimating through one a them bastids down in the alley... And if the bastid got 'liquefied' or pulverized to a gruel-like state, so did the money, 'cause the money was in the wallet and the street-corner roughie-toughie was holdin' it.... Kid sees his face and knows. He goes - What are you? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.... But he wants to know. Tomas can tell, so he exhales, grins just a little bit and flashes his fangs. Not big, gross, thick ones, like that Dracula poser has in them TV commercials. His are sharp and finely made and discreet.... like what an ocelot would have if it was in a movie and played like a vampire.... Kid jumps and feels his neck. Looks down his shirt. Runs his hands over his arms and legs.... Goes - What'd you do? Did you bite me?! Oh, God, please say 'no.' I can't be no vampire. I got an interview in New York next week..... Tomas goes - Relax, I did not drink from you. And it would take much more than that to make you as I am.... Then he whispers - I saved your life.... Kid goes - Thanks. What'd you do with the money? Am I allowed to ask? Is that OK?..... Tomas looks contrite. He says - Of course it's OK. I destroyed it. I accidentally destroyed it and don't worry. I'll make it up to you.... He thinks for a moment. After all, this is his first night back in town. Hasn't checked in with his 'familiars' (mortal facilitators), seen Edith, or anybody. He can get money. He can always get money. All he has to do is 'cull' some rich, low-life bastid on the street. But he doesn't want to do that. So he takes off his watch (the kid's watch got pulverized too, only he don't realize it yet), a Rolex Submariner with the 'Presidential' bracelet and hands it over. Says - Here take this. You can sell it in the morning. I believe it's worth four thousand dollars, but I may be a bit conservative..... The kid takes it. Not much light up there, but this thing gleams. He hefts it. It's heavy.... Says - Really? You sure?.... Tomas nods.... Kid studies the timepiece and absentmindedly licks his lip, tasting a bit of the blood. He reacts with an almost electrical tingle, but he looks puzzled... Tomas says - That's how I did it. That's how I saved you. You drank from me, not the other way around.... Kid whispers - Wow...
They climb down from there using a fire escape in the back. If he was by himself, Tomas would have sublimated. If you forgot, or don't know what that is, it's this 'thing' vampires do. They 'energize' their bodies. The very molecules move away from each other into an almost vaporous state. In that way they can pass through things... walls... people... air. When they move through living people it cuts them into a trillion bits and they die. Just like happened back there in the alley with that bastid guy. When they sublimate through air it's like flying, only faster.
You got to get used to these things, because the vampires are back now and they got a lot of tricks.
Tomas takes the kid for coffee. They look a little worse for wear, considering what they been through and all. But the guy in the coffee shop don't say nothin', 'cause he knows Tomas. Don't know all the details, but he knows. Kid gets a scrambled eggs special. Vampire only gets coffee. He likes the smell and can tolerate small amounts of human fare, mostly the liquids.
Vampire says - Are you all right?... Kid stares off into the middle distance and goes - Uh huh..... Tomas says - So, what day do you go to New York?
Kid shifts his gaze to the pre-dawn traffic outside (Center City is Philadelphia's really very respectable answer to Manhattan) and goes - What?...
But Tomas knows the drill. Once they see the 'magic' the real world don't mean shit no more....
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He was back in the city walking up and down the nighttime streets like a lucid wanderer...seeing... thinking... and feeling. No one knew he was here. Things went on as usual at the town house. Edith bustled about preparing sleeping chambers and fluffing pillows. Sarah wasn't home yet. She was still abroad in the world. But Tomas, also known as Jonathon was.
Now he'd thought a lot during his time away. And he kept coming back to the same thing. The world wasn't ready. Doctor Franklin knew it. The man who gave mankind electricity still thought of us as greasy, swarming cattle. So he retreated to his complex under the old Philadelphia Navy Yard and conjured new toys. Well, Tomas was beyond that. No toys. No gadgets. No gimmicks. Just him, a fit, young 'eighteen' year with thousand year old eyes.
And he perfected 'the' look. His black, leather bootkins were still there, topped by trim, black jeans. The shirts were simple too... short sleeve t-shirts for summer... long sleeve t-shirts for the cold. Same shade as the jeans. Maybe a black leather jacket for those nights when someone without one would look strange. Did he steal Blackie's act? Come on, you think Blackie was the first? What was Zorro? He was the first 'black knight.' And Tomas, also known as Jonathon was also Spanish too.
He killed somebody right away. He did it the first night back. Two guys were beating a kid on a dark, little alley off South Street. They were guys from the neighborhood and they hated Center City kids... too artsy... too rich... too (aw, look. what can I say? do you think they need a reason?). So he stepped out of the shadows. One of the guys says - Get lost ass-hole.... But Tomas doesn't move. The second guy smashes his fist right through the kid's nose. He moans and crashes to the concrete. Scraped his face... his chin. Then they turn on Tomas, but he just looks at them with that look he has. You know some of the other night-folk call it his 'Crow' look. You know that movie? I forget who was in it... Bruce Lee, or his son, or somebody. But the eyes... it's all in the eyes.
First bastid says - What the hell's wrong with you, you creep. Other one sucker punches our slim, trim vampirino right on his ear. Would a busted the eardrum of a normal human. But Tomas don't move. He just stands there and turns and looks. First bastid kneels down and goes through the kid's pockets. He don't see what's gone on... Takes a wallet... snaps his watch off. Other one makes like he wants to smash him again, but BAM, that fast... Tomas ain't there. Guy goes - Jesus Christ!... looks up and sees him crouched part way up an old brick wall. First bastid looks up too, catches on and goes - Fuck this shit... pockets the wallet and warily backs off. But Tomas does that thing vampires do and whips himself down off the wall in a flash. Then he runs toward the first bastid who throws up his arms and goes - No!... Half a heartbeat later Tomas flickers into a nebulous state and sublimates right through the first son of a bitch, who stands there for a moment, sways a bit and then slides apart into countless shreds that rains down on the ground like gruel. The other one emits a pathetic, nervous laugh, pees hisself and plops down into the gutter. A nano-second later Tomas instantaneously solidifies, hikes up his jeans, throws the Center City kid over his shoulder and races into the shadows.
I suppose he revived the kid with tiny droplets of his blood, not enough to bring him over... not enough to make a vampire (not nearly enough for that), but just enough to make him whole. And then he was gone.
Now one a the low life guys lived. And the Center City kid lived too, so the story got out. Yeah, I know, some people in town know all about the vampires and everything that happened. But that don't mean they all do. To most Philly people this is a whole new thing.
And so far it ain't got a name...
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They began to prepare the townhouse. A grandmother vampire and her eighty or ninety year old mortal grandchildren moved out and into a large, commodious pre-war residence in The Tourraine. Neighbors thought she was the offspring and the old ones her elders. Humans are so easy to confound. But the townhouse was not empty for long. Edith came back to set things right. She knows how Tomas, also known as Jonathon likes things. And the city during winter suits her. Vampires like the cold months. The nights are so long and the bracing temperatures so refreshing.
The elferinos and elferinas are all there. They never left, occupying their usual haunts in unused old, stone outbuildings scattered throughout the venerable, mossy warrens of Laurel Hill Cemetery. And they have other nests too. The space above the ancient filigreed ceiling at The Academy of Music. Not in the theater, but upstairs above the banquet hall. Underground in the ruins of the old Gimbels Department Store, amid the dusty remnants of Santa's Workshop. Elves, indeed, but of a different sort. Well, they await the return of Tomas too.
Familiars (helpful mortals) arrange many things. Rug beaters clean antique Persians. Clock makers quicken an assortment of tick-tocks scattered about the old Revolutionary structure. Even the ghosts are happy. But I should not call them 'ghosts' for I am one of them, a disembodied spirit floating through the narrow, cobbled lanes of this fine, dear, old town. Papa hasn't come back. And to be truthful, I lost track of Annie. Is she dead, or deader than usual? I don't know. But Sarah's on her way. Baylah's coming too.
Edith still wants to do something about the referrer spammers. She confers with witchy-wimmen on both sides of the Atlantic, even practitioners in Moscow. Baba Yaga was a Russian, you know. And they have a bead on a certain young man occupying an apartment on the Nevsky Prospect, the glittering avenue at the heart of St. Petersburg. Haven't been able to reconstitute the oligarch-vampire known as Grigory Usipov. The powerful Chinese entity, called Madam Shang apparently still has him obfuscated between the infinite singularities we term 'reality.' She can do that, you know. It's a hobby of hers.
Edith does all this from the townhouse kitchen, an expansive space tricked out in the requisite wood and granite.... stainless steel what-nots too. She doesn't use any props... no junk.. no doo-dads... no 'throwing of the bones'... (that was sickening). It's all a matter of mind control. We are but particles... collections of singularities suspended in an infinite ether spanning every possible place and every possible time. You've been dead forever and you've lived forever. No big deal. That's just the way it is. Open your eyes and see. Magic is a simple thing, once you know the drill. But that young man in St. Petersburg will have to wait. Mikhail I think he's called. What exquisite tortures lay in wait for him. Everyone dislikes referrer spammers.
But Tomas approaches. I believe he's in the Catskills now, silently drifting through autumn valleys... sublimating when he can... walking when he can't... an eighteen year old traveler upon a public highway. Can't tell you where he sleeps by day. But he is very resourceful. I'm sure that's not a problem. Old forgotten root cellars abound, as well as ancient mines.
Tomas approaches and the being also known as Jonathon has many tales to tell.
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They're worse than what passes for zombies. From insidious haunts in (primarily) Eastern European hardscrabble redoubts their slimy tentacles reach out to ruin our stats and foil our dreams. Referrer spammers are modern day pirates, invading the sites of innocent people for their own low life scams. Sticky hootchie mamas and get rich quick swindles abound. Few ever stop them, not effectively anyway. That's why we went to The New Jersey Pines. They got 'witchy-wimmen' there... and they got 'means.'
Edith, our own Piney Woman, who sometimes keeps house for the vampires, gonna throw a hoo-doo. She real good at it too. Once made meat fall off the bones of a real bastid what lived down on Delaware Bay. Don't know what he did, or how often he done it. But never gone do it no more. Settin' in his boat he was.... little flat bottom sixteen footer. Gettin' drunk with 'Smash-Foot.' Everybody know 'Smash-Foot' what got his foot all torn up in an old wooden escalator in the big old Lit Brothers Department Store. They give him two thousand dollar for 'bout three toes and few other bones. Feet was a lot cheaper back then. Get hisself a iron tipped boot with a lead weight in it. He become a professional rib kicker, breakin bones for the bastid what owned this here boat. Sometime he crack a head too, like to break up the monotony.
They settin' out there raidin' crab traps and drinkin' 'Jack Bennys.' That what you get when you mix Jack Daniels and cream soda. Give you diabetes and liver problem all at once. Sky all silver an' hot. Water all gray and heavy. Look like it wanna rain real bad. Thunder storm comin', but not yet. They not out far. They in like the marshes. Green-heads bitin'. They the real mean flies. Big ones. Got dead, dull, green, round eyes. Look like they fill a snot. When you sqeeze 'em, they is. 'Smash-Foot' say - Shit, they eatin' me alive. Look all these bleedin', red welts I got. One got down my pants and bit off part a my ass too! Let's go in. We gotta go in....... But that bastid what owned the boat don't wanna go in. He wanna steal some more crabs. Think he once 'did somethin'' to some gal from the Pines. Think she was twins. He don't care 'bout no flies, 'cause fly don't bite no bastid anyway. It like a deal they make wit' them what own 'em.
But that when the hoo-doo get him. Drift out a the Pines and down over Cumberland County like a genuine soul crushin' miasma, only nobody see it. Some can feel it. They can smell it, jus' can't see it.
Hoo-doo kiss that bastid all over. Snake down his pants. Crawl up his shirt. Wrap 'round his head. He doan even know it there. But then, after 'bout thirty five heartbeat, it start rippin' in.
Bastid start goin 'aah! EEE!!'.... Start tearin' off his clothes an' dancin' 'round. Smash-Foot doan want no part a this. Jump overboard and swim to where the dirt get more solid. Then he hop on the road and run all the way home.
Bastid start scratchin' at big, old, red welts tracin' dark pink, puffy smiles all over his body. Cryin' too. That when they commence peelin' open... all the way down to the bone. And he jus' lay there, flat on the bottom of that skiff, as his flesh rip off, slip over the side an' go swimmin'. Crabs get most of it. Some kind a little worm eat the rest. Bastid just lay there starin' up at that hot, gray sky. Jus' a skeleton what got eyes an' a few globs a internal organs in where his belly used a be. Ten minute later he go 'guhk' an' die. Must a been a pretty rough ten minute.
Don't know what she gone do to them spammers. Edith, I mean.
Bet it gone be somethin' good.
I let you know...
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What I'm gonna say here really happened. This isn't one of our esteemed, weird and wonderful characters, or one of the helpful disembodied spirits. It's 'me'... Billy. And one night, a few years back, I had an encounter with something exactly like the 'hell hounds' in the current story-arc. It was like this....
An April night in Atlantic City. Didn't drive. Got a ride. Played video poker for a few hours at The (at that time) Hilton. Ate a rather good burger in the coffee shop and left. Thought I'd take a bus to the 'Downbeach' area (nice residential stretch... contiguous 'independent' towns ) tourists rarely see and stay over. But A.C. bus schedules, especially in the 'off season' are notoriously speculative. Sometimes they come every five minutes. Sometimes they drift along at a more leisurely pace like corpses on the River Nile. That night, they were few and far between. So I walked back to Pacific Avenue, one block off the Boardwalk and took a 'jitney,' the small, traditional local baby-buses in service for ninety eight years. They run every minute. That's good. The bad part is they stop at the forty eight hundred block and I had to go two or three miles passed that. So I rationalized and thought to myself - Eh, it's not a bad night... fifty two degrees (11C) clear, crisp, a little damp maybe (OK, so it wasn't so crisp), misty... Look, if I'm gonna tell you the truth it was a little sinister looking, but I wasn't gonna admit that. Clear case of whistling passed the churchyard. I picked up my overnight bag and walked. At first a few cars went by, but it was late (for April) and after several blocks they disappeared. Total silence, save for the quiet sound of the surf. Dark, shuttered houses... cozy bungalows... big, white stucco multi-generational affairs. Some streets were pitch black, brooding stage sets awaiting the arrival of the cast come Memorial Day. I made my way down Atlantic Avenue, first street inland from the beach. Think it's one of the yellow ones in Monopoly. Now every once in a while there'd be a light on in a window. Some old retired lady staying up late to watch Kings Row (which really is a good picture) or maybe HGTV... but they were few and far between. And then I came to a stretch where there were no lights at all save for widely spaced street lights, a few of which had the unnerving habit of winking out as I quietly walked by. Sometimes vibrations can cause that, but I blamed other things.
Thank God I had on sneakers, 'Chuckies' I think, and could pass by on my way without making a sound. But you know how it is. Every quarter block or so you turn around to look behind you, 'cause anything could be there. And the pool of light from the lofty poles is oh so very small.
That's when I saw them... two large, low, black shapes drifting through the shadows.... rather nebulous and undefined and quite possibly hallucinations. At least I hoped that's what they were. No sound. No nothing. Just the quiet, distant whisper of the surf.
I crossed to the other side of the street. for a block or two I lost them. Then I passed a line of properties bordered by tall, dense hedges. That's when the 'mumbling' started. Something was trailing me. I never saw it. Perhaps there were two? There probably were. But they stayed hidden beyond the hedges, loping along and panting. Then they mumbled, or vocalized some more.... like dogs do when they almost sound human... almost. But quiet... extremely quiet. Occasionally one would get tripped up by a piece of lawn furniture. I could hear it. That was the worst part. Something would bang. Something would creak and the low mumbling would start again accompanied by an even lower, practically sub-sonic growl.
Then I heard the laughter. Well, it sounded like laughter. I didn't know canines (or lupines) could make a noise like that.... all quiet and breathy and sinister. Believe me when I say I didn't make any sound at all. Native American trackers had no lighter footfall. Thankfully the noises stopped. After maybe two dozen heartbeats I forced myself to pivot my head around and look at the hedge.... just as I passed a relatively sparse part.
That's when I saw them... two, large, unblinking, red-orange eyes, silently stared back.... not as high as mine, but plenty high just the same.... Think I might have moaned a little. Lucky I didn't pee. But that's not my pattern. That's not how I react. If anything, I get stomach cramps. Could I see anything else? Could I see a head? Could I see a face? Could I see a body?... No, just the eyes. And when the hedge thickened up I heard the breathing.
But then I crossed the street, proceeding on to a tiny commercial stretch, maybe three or four small shops, right by the MarVen (how it's really spelled) Gardens neighborhood, which really does exist. A tiny convenience store was still open. Someone walked in. Someone walked out. The next few blocks had more permanent residents and weren't so dark. The spell was broken. I hurried on to my destination, unlocked the door and entered. Then I locked it up real good, checked all the closets and under the beds... peeked behind the shower curtains (a phobia from The Shining) and turned on the TV. Kings Row was still on... and I was never so happy to see the 'Gipper' in my life.
The next morning they found a strange mangled dead thing on the beach. No one could tell what it was, or how it got that way.....
But I knew....
Seashore towns have a lot of 'off season' tales like that, but this one's mine.
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Please excuse this diversion from the adventures of Romulus and the Cajun Wolf-Folk. But we suffered much at the hands of Russian spammers today and I (Billy) have been charged by some of our venerable enchanted souls with their dispersal.
A telepathic epistle was sent to representatives of the ancient Chinese entity known as Madam Shang, for we believe she possesses a Muscovite vampire-oligarch known as Grigory Usipov and (if he still exists in the corporeal realm) he may be our best chance. I know he's a fiercely proud son of Mother Russia, but he's also still a vampire (as far as we know) and quite naturally dedicated to their cause. No other site shares true insights into the paranormal realm like we do and the night-folk value this two-way conversation.
Attempts will be made to triangulate the location of referrer spammers. 'Adepts' such as Edith and others (Jersey Pines witchie-woman) will throw off a hoo-doo, an emanation (energy aura) able to flush out hidden parties. Those who resist will be rendered sterile or worse.
The 'family' always gathers for The Holidays. Tomas de Macabea, also known as Jonathon ben Macabi is already in the vicinity. Disembodied spirits from New York State's Adirondacks reported his presence three nights ago. God bless the disembodied spirits, in many ways the true eyes and ears of the night. Some of them narrate this very blog.
For the uninitiated, Tomas-known-as-Jonathon is the facilitator of our group and the founder of the feast. He was, as far as we know, the first Old World vampire to enter Philadelphia. Most records indicate a crossing on The Welcome with William Penn, but we're not sure of the circumstances or if The Lord Protector completely comprehended the unusual character of his shipmate. Jonathon is frozen in the body of an eighteen year old Spaniard, a Sephardic youth from the Moorish city of Sevilla, however the family had holdings in Granada too. For those who don't know, Sephardic indicates believers in Spanish Rite Judaism, a faith he was born into just prior to The First Crusade. In fact he was on pilgrimage to study with learned clergy at a noted Hebrew Scriptorium near Narbone at the time of his translation and has been a vampire for approximately one thousand years... maybe a little less.
You'll like him. Quite vain, you know, with his long black wavy hair, clean jawed face and trim, lithe form. How he dotes on those black, leather bootkins and specially tailored blue jeans. Quite a decent soul, actually, not counting that vampire thing.
Sarah, his American born enamorada will most likely be here too. And she has her own charms. I'll talk about her next time. Picture a twenty eight year old Susan Sarandon. You'll see.
For now we have to vanquish the dastardly Russian spammers. And I do hope the Muscovite vampire oligarch known as Grigory Usipov will help.
FADE TO the exterior of a red brick, Society Hill town house. All the windows are dark, save for one, just under the roof, on the third floor. A small bit of light peeks through the draperies. We FOCUS ON it a moment, til it slowly disappears.
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