Tomas called Doctor Franklin. He got on his armonica thing, trying to detect changes in ethereal vibrations. They picked up the elfin-folk over in Laurel Hill Cemetery right away. Magic folk, or whatever you want to call them, have a certain aura.They give off this 'thing.' So I guess there is a physical component to it all, or maybe that's just the way it manifests in our particular universe? Baylah was back in town, so she came right over too. I don't know how much help Leo and Conrad are gonna be. Sure, they're vampires, but lets just say if vampires had professional representation, they wouldn't be signed by a big agency. And the 'familiars' are just mortals. They can't do anything. Likewise the cops.
The ghosts fingered Pig Blood Annie's husband, Little Joe, right away. Johannon asked Tomas if he wanted him to scare the dirty, runty bastard off. Was all set to drift into his corpse-burnt-in-a-fire phase, which is what he was. That is how he died. No lips. No eyelids. Nose all gone. Skin like a pepper left on the grill too long. But Tomas told him not to.
Sarah, Tomas' consort, took it upon herself. She simply opened the big, red, lacquered door, stepped out upon the white, marble stoop, looked down at the strange, little man and whispered (since it was quite late and very cold) - Can I help you? Can I be of any assistance?.... And she made sure he saw the fangs..... He was flustered, but just a bit. Being spouse to a big, old, powerful born-witch, like Pig Blood Annie gave him some measure of accomplishment. After all, she ain't crushed him yet. So he rose up to his full, substandard height, thrust out his weak, little chin and said - My lady wants her grandbaby back...... Nineteen heartbeats later he was seated by the big, granite island in the kitchen giving everybody nervous looks. What big teeth they had, don't you know. Not 'big.' That's really an inaccurate word. Wouldn't want to give any new readers the wrong idea. 'Noble' vampires have discrete fangs... a tiny bit longer... sharper and pointier. That's all. But a scalpel doesn't have to be a machete and the rustic, Piney 'gentleman' got the point.
Tomas told him they didn't have the dumpling in question and were doing everything enchanted beings could do to get her back. Then he asked - Where are the parents in all this? .... Little Joe sniffed and said - We don't speak about them. .... Why? - asked Sarah. The mother, isn't she a born-witch too?.... She a born-slut. That's what she is. Sometimes it skip a generation. - he said. Wanna be a whore. Sent her to the best whore school money can buy. But she flunk out once already and look like she fixin' to do it again. How you know that baby ain't dead?..... Sarah said - In a house filled with supernatural beings we feel things. I walk through her room, the place where she slept and I know. Your granddaughter is alive. And it looks as if she wasn't taken...... She ain't my granddaughter. She's my step-granddaughter and what do you mean? - the really rather sad, little man asked.... Well - said Sarah, It looks as if she just left...... Little Joe put his head in his hands and cried..... She gone kill me. She gone kill me. My sainted wife gone bust my head like a sausage casing.... And he cried some more. Edith gave him a mug of tea. But he say he want Sprite and a doughnut instead. They don't have no Sprite, 'cause only ones what drink soda is Edith and Billy and all they go for is diet iced tea and diet Coke. So she give him diet Coke and a TastyKake. That like a Philadelphia Twinkie only better. Chocolate cupcakes, I think it was.....
Meanwhile, seven miles away, in the freezing, winter woods of Laurel Hill, the nine or ten month old born-witchling named Boopsie clapped her little mitts and made warm, orange light orbs to keep away the chill, as she and the elferinas and elferinos ( including the new one, Peter) passed around two, old, disoriented drunks, taking little blood drinks from each. Would they live? Probably, but don't ask me to guarantee it. That 'Peter' make 'em do things a little bit different. Not the drunks. The elfin-folk, I mean.
An' folks what got telescopes 'round the city get quite a show, watchin' them hills they got in there, 'cause them warm, orange light orbs seep out a that snug, little, never-used mausoleum an' go floatin' all over the place, just like 'ghosts' an' 'aliens.'
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They got lots a dark places in The Pines.... that pit back in a cave where the 'Talk-To-God' man sit.... place where they had a 'Throwing Of The Bones'...... shit stinkin' pond where flesh-lovin' snappin' turtles live. Pines is @weirdnj (yeah, you can click it) central. But you ain't seen all what they got. You ain't seen Pig Blood Annie. Some say she jus' half in this world an' half someplace else. Guess it gotta be like that, 'cause a how putrid she is. Full aroma liable to make folks lay down and die.
You gotta do crap if you wanna see her. An' I can't tell you what it is, 'cause five or six in-bred maniacs what got f*cked up brains'd have to chew you up. That an improvement over what used a happen. She sit in one a the dark places. Look like it in a cave, 'cause like there no light, like where @CharlieRose (yeah, you can click it) sit. 'Cept he wear a real nice Ralph Lauren suit and she a bit, fat, crazy, naked white woman. But y'all ain't gonna see too much. Pig Blood Annie set herself down in a big, old sink hole full a hog blood. She cackle. She splash. Greasy, black hair all wet. Drip in her eye. Drip in her malf. Run down a tittie. Some time she drink a little on purpose. Mostly her husband, Little Joe, feed her. He scrawny-like. Used a be a jockey, but not on no horse. Rode them giant capybara down in Brazil. It like a rat what think it a sheep. And yeah, they real. Beat them dingoes in baby-eatin' contest any day. Got nice fur though. I do gotta say that. Little Joe an' Pig Blood Annie met real cute. She have her teef in an' everythin'. ( the good set where the top match the bottom) But we not gonna talk 'bout that now.
Little Joe shove earth worms and Doritos down her throat. She like that. An' he get to lick off all the crumbs. She a 'born' witch, Pig Blood is. Not like Edith. Not no witchy-women. Don't never need no lessons. It come natural to her, like step dancin' to them Irish folk, or pickled herring eatin' to them Jews. (she make good fart noised under her big, old arms, but that not come natural. She took lessons. Pay a guy five dollar an' twenty nine cent, but he learn her real good. They gonna put her on AMERICA GOT TALENT. But producer say she gone wear like a brassiere an' hose off some a that pig blood. She say - No.... They fight. He tell her to go to hell an' spit out part a that corned beef sandwich he brung her. So she make him into a turd. But not no regular turd what float in gutter like they 'sposed to. She not no monster. He a special one what blink its eyes an' eat ice cream cone.
But what you gotta know is she Boopsie's mom-mom an' she want her little grandbaby back. Mama not want her. Daddy not want her. But she do. An' Little Joe out lookin' for her now. He no 'born' witch. He no 'born' nothin'. He jus' Little Joe. Look like Michael Jeter in GREEN MILE, 'cept punier and not so purty. He jus' a step pop-pop , but he want her back too. I do not know what for, but he want her.
Pig Blood give him toe nail clippin's. Her toe nail clippin's. Body parts got power, like a magic ring, but in this case not so fancy. He got 'em in a little, brown, suede, drawstring sack. Wear it 'round his neck on a thong.
Right now he hidin' outside the townhouse. Crouched down by some steps. But he lookin'. Oh, he lookin'. Got hisself a hippy-girl hat like Janis Joplin used a wear. Got like a old pea-coat, 'cause it freezin'. It also a lady pea-coat, but he don't know that. Think it jus' button funny 'cause he drunk.
Mostly night-folk what live in townhouse not know Boopsie gone til jus' now. They screamin'. They runnin'.
Little Joe not know what for..... But he lookin'.
I your favorite disembodied spirit narrator. I Mister Never-You-Mind. But them what read this know that... OK, I done now. Good night.... Lemme alone.....Oh, one more thing. You know @questlove (yeah, you can click on it) from TONIGHT SHOW wit' Jimmy Fallon used a play clubs right by here? Still come by on weekend. I sneak in for free... Heh heh heh heh heh..... That a ghost joke...
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The February thaw was over. Icy shadows dripped through the silent, winding foot paths of the old necropolis. Laurel Hill.... a crowded 'country home,' though still in the city, for dead people. One hundred and seventy years ago this was Beverly Hills for corpses. Mausoleums, some Greco-Roman, some Gothic, some Moorish lined narrow, little, private drives just wide enough for a glossy, black, horse drawn hearse (incongruously decorated with jet black ostrich plumes... what the hell were the plumes for?) And they used to save carefully trimmed locks of hair, wound or braided into cords which were coiled into black onyx lockets or knotted into earrings. In an age before anti-biotics death was a leitmotif that never went away.
Peter liked this place, a veritable cadaver playland to him. He carefully inspected the stone facades, lightly running his fingers over carefully chiseled details and finely fashioned vines...... What is inside? How do they do it? How are they arranged? - he asked..... In his day most dearly departed spent their 'down time' cheek by jowl in damp, moldy, underground catacombs or jammed into painfully narrow coffins and planted in old churchyards, sometimes two and three deep. Like individual cigar humidors for the dead. Imagine being buried alive in one of those. No room to bend an ankle or raise a head.
Marianne said - They sleep as if in salons. Wide, stone, bench-like platforms line the walls, bearing perhaps two tightly sealed caskets on each side and one across the back. Extra 'guests' simply lie on the floor. Some crypts have little floor room left, like a juvenile, mortal girls' 'sleepover' that never ends. The walls are thick and strong. Few have windows. Some might have a high, thin band of clerestories under the eaves....... She was like a regular tour guide here.
Roland said - I think the one's with windows, small as they are, are the worst. The thought of tiny shafts of daylight tracing dim paths across so many dead boxes, spiders here and there, cobwebs, maybe a mouse-ling. It's horrible. The dust and all. Sometimes the wood cracks and buckles. A skeletal hand pops through. Who wants to see that?....... Peter said - I do...... And he sublimated through the faux stone wall (actually molded, or embossed concrete) into the mock Rhineland slumber chamber of a mid-nineteenth century beer baron. About two hundred and ten heartbeats later he came out giggling.
How could you see in there? - asked Albion (the second elferino).... Peter quickly passed a hand before his face and said - Like this..... Seconds later a muted amber light shone forth from his eyes, as if lit from within...... Can you teach us? - asked Celeste..... But Peter just shrugged. Yes he was an elferino, though he was also other things too.
Little Boopsie, recently delivered via peregrine falcon (and I want you to know a normal peregrine falcon could never support the weight of an ordinary nine or ten month old baby, but she has powers of her own) snuggled in Marianne's arms. Such a wide-eyed little thing she is. Looks at everything. Gurgles. When Peter came out of the crypt she reached out with her arms, opening and closing her little hands saying - Me. Me. Me........ No, baby doll. Not you - said Marianne and she kissed her. But the witchling struggled to break free..... Peter said - Why not her? Let her go. no, don't put her down. Let her go...... He reached toward her. Marianne didn't want to do it, but she knew he really meant it, so she did.
For a moment Boopsie floated there. They thought she'd fall, but she didn't, thrashing about with her arms and feet like a child thrown in the sea. Then she steadied herself, gurgled some more and clapped her fat, little hands.... Peter said - Come, baby. Come here...... And she did, following the light in his eyes. He held her, a strange 'twelve' year old and his 'baby sister' there in the cold, dark land of the dead... She pointed to the mausoleum wall and said - Me. Me. Me. In. In. In..... None of the others felt that he should, but he did and five heartbeats later a barely visible aura enveloped them both, as he tucked her powdery head into his chest and passed back through the icy wall..... The bones of an ivory, white hand reached through a crumbling casket. The baby was entranced. Her gaze never left the macabre scene. And Peter indulged her, setting her upon the stone platform, so that she might get a better look. He knelt down beside her, radiating just enough light to cut the darkness. A ring sparkled in the gloom, upon the third finger of the partially revealed corpse. The baby said - Ooh, pretty...... Peter whispered - Do you like it?.... Babykins nodded. So he took it for her, a square cut amethyst set in gold. The dead girl got it on her sixteenth birthday, two years before her passing. But her essence, her soul, made a clean break from this world long ago, so she didn't care a bit.
Peter did things the four, original elferinos and elferinas never would. And they noticed. A bit later, when they holed up in an old, but never used mausoleum, way in the back, built into a little hill (the well-fixed owners all went down with the Titanic, even the children. not all the rich folks made it to the boats) Boopsie fussed. She wanted the ring and he gave it to her. That made her happy. She went - Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
But the others didn't like it, especially when she put it in her mouth...
Peter closed his eyes. The bare, stone space went dark and they slept.....
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There was a mouse in the kitchen. Tomas didn't care. Sarah felt sorry for it. Conrad right away started to projectile vomit. And Leo, his hyper, ersatz step night-folk brother (they came into the 'family' at the same time) said - You're a vampire, you crazy son of a bitch! Stop bein' such a pansy!... And then he slapped him right across the back of his head. Edith said - I'm sorry. I'm not gonna have it. I cook food in there. I eat. Billy eats. You all drink tea and coffee and broth and all. No, I'm not gonna have it...... Conrad said - You forgot the baby. You didn't say 'Boopsie.'........... That set her off. She smashed a plate on the granite island and yelled - Ok, ok, ok! Boopsie! Boopsie! But what the hell's a mouse gonna do to a God damned little rat like her!? And I don't think she's a baby! Do you know that!? I don't think she's a BAY-BEE!..... Tomas said - What do you want me to do, drive her out in the country and set her free? We're stuck with her now.... Sarah added - Look, she's a baby, a witch-baby, but a baby. So that's it. And you're a witchy-woman. You have some of those abilities. What do you care?..... Look, don't judge me! Go read a book. You don't talk. You don't say nothing. Go read! And I am not a' born' witch. I just know a few things and can do a few things. That shitty, little bundle upstairs is something else. - said Edith. And she was really serious. Last week, Boopsie gave her cooties. No, really, she did. Who knows where she got the idea. Sarah pushes her around in the stroller. Walks her through TOYS R US. Maybe she saw something on a shelf? But still, how would she make the connection? Only now, tiny, barely visible, multicolored, plastic, mite things are eating Edith alive and what do you do to kill something what ain't even organic? Sarah has to groom her like a monkey. Ghost boy from the basement won't go neat her, 'cause one night she 'froze' him like a stationary translucent 'cloud' and levitated him outside. Looked like a 'crashed' hologram. People were passing their hands through him and looking for the projector. He don't like it. I mean he's a nice, littler boy, after all. It's a shame that he's dead. It's a shame he had polio. No, it really is. But living with vampires and all the rest of the unusual guest stars makes me philosophic. Even if science gets us to the point where people live for like two hundred years, we're still gonna be dead a lot longer than that. And I believe too, just like the rest of you. But it still makes you think sometimes. Tomas used to sit and look at 'Papa' and say - Twenty eight thousand years old and he still can't solve a cryptogram. ..... You know, time is just time, unless you do something with it.
And while they were all downstairs gettin' real with each other, the little bundle up in her crib did something else. Climbed out, crawled over to the bureau, hoisted herself up on top of it using the draw pulls as stirrups, padded over to the window (ain't got no attached mirror up there. got a cheval, Second Empire mirror off to the side. Sarah worked with the decorators and attached, bureau mirrors are officially 'yucky.' Decorator says - Raymour & Flanigan are worse than Sacco and Vanzetti ), 'witched it open, gingerly stood up, stepped out onto the narrow brick ledge (it was night. their street was pretty much residential, so nobody saw) and reached out her little mitts, as she baby gurgled to a peregrine falcon (you see them in the city from time to time), which understood a bit of (born) witch-baby talk and flew over, laboriously hovering just beyond and above where her head was. Boopsie leaned forward ( a true test of faith) and grabbed hold of its legs. How strange they were, like ridged sticks of polished wood. In a moment they were off, sailing over the roof-tops and on toward adventure. Earlier, when Sarah dressed her for bed (Edith was too itchy from the plastic cooties and all), Boopsie used her inherent talents, causing the maternal vampirina to dress her in two pair of winter-weight, fleece snuggies, not to mention a flannel 'one-sie' underneath, so she was quite prepared for the flight.
And the elfin-folk (see last night) over at Laurel Hill knew that she was coming.
Now the mom who feeds her kid shitty pizza was supposed to be in this, but she had cramps and didn't do anything worth writing about anyway, so let her wait til some other time.
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They raced through a dark and shuttered Lord & Taylor's. Troublesome guards and cameras easily befuddled by Peter's own brand of old Renaissance magic. .... Such treasures you have! - he said. Grab a few more of those cashmere what ever they are's.... And his (at least for now) dedicated acolytes, Philadelphia's four original elfin-folk, jumped to it. They had fine, leather slippers, trim blue jeans and glorious, rich, cotton shirts. Roland suggested some bright, graphic t-shirts, so they grabbed those too. I think there were sweaters, socks and handfuls of designer underwear thrown in some of the bags. And the newly freed juvenile vampire (that's basically what 'elfin-folk' are) palmed a bottle or two of high priced scent as an after thought. No, wait, the last after thought was the watch. I'm told they took a Breitling or Tag Huer. I don't know. Must retail for five grand, at least. Peter wanted gold chains too. They were big in his early days. Young blades up and down The Veneto were regular Mr. T's. But Marianne changed his mind. Peter likes her. He trusts her. She's the first 'modern' elferina he saw. You know how ducklings imprint on whomever they see first? Well, it was like that.
They stopped by the large, bronze eagle, mounted atop a marble plinth in the center of 'the grand atrium,' a Philadelphia meeting spot for well over a hundred years. Peter looked up at the massive casting (maybe seven feet tall) and said it reminded him of similar 'marshal' statues in Venice. I think the image also appeared on the last series of true silver dollars minted in America too. Celeste (the second elferina) quietly asked - Where do we shelter this morning, Peter? ..... But he didn't know. It was obvious he didn't know. He blinked. He looked. He turned to Marianne and whispered - Are there catacombs here abouts?..... She said - No, not like over there (meaning Europe). There are crypts, but they're clean, empty spaces. Nothing's down there. Maybe an entombed arch bishop or two...... Dead? - asked Peter..... Yes, dead - she said....... Peter knew he had to do something, or lose them, so he animated the eagle. The stern, graven image opened its beak, revealing a red meaty tongue, gave out with some raptor squawks, spread it's burnished wings and vaulted toward the heights. The elfin-folk were truly impressed...... Peter said - Stand back...... They hurried off the plinth where they'd been sitting, retreating to ladies accessories, the better to watch the show, as the huge bird traced figure eights and other moves stolen from the Winter Olympics (Peter had seen a TV, after all) before gracefully returning to it's eternal pose on the marble platform..... Albion (the second elferino) said - How can you do that?..... For elfin-folk, though adept at sublimation as well as possessing true flight, have limited abilities to alter and enchant physical matter. But Peter didn't answer. He just smiled. Then the eagle suddenly 'ruffed' it's feathers and they all laughed.
Marianne said - Come, there's a place in Laurel Hill (vast, old, mossy, forest-like necropolis) we can go..... So they filed out of the almost dark atrium toward the original, (also bronze) revolving doors, hugged their parcels to their chests and sublimated out into the night.
When they were gone, the electronic security devices crackled back to life.
But the watchmen never did. For each and every one of them was dead....
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The family room was dark. Night-folk like it that way. The vampirino, known as Tomas sat in one of the big, leather, wing chairs watching a film. He likes films and this is his favorite. A regular Kubrick aficionado he is, ever since Paths Of Glory, or whatever the first one was called. The elferinos and elferinas were there, but now they've left. Peter, the new one, is quite the firebrand. The others think he's Jack-The-Lad. Wants to dig out a hidey-hole down in the tunnels. And maybe an ancillary abode, up in a long forgotten attic atop some grand, old hotel.
Tomas is hurt. Vampires feel pain and disappointment quite keenly. He likes their little establishment. Edith in the kitchen. Billy at the keyboard.... and night-folk everywhere else, not to mention the occasional 'unusual' house guest from 'The Pines.' Baylah might have her cozy piano bar and her little, jewel-box apartment upstairs, but even she , when not there, or with her wealthy mortal boyfriend at the shore, stops by for hot toddies and conversation.
Vampires seek permanence and hardly ever find it. Times change (boy, do they ever see that) and 'enchanted' souls join other communions. Crypt-mates rest their bones in novel tombs and dream with other friends. Tomas had a 'family' before.... more than one. But a certain assemblage back in the time romantics call 'the gilded age' was special. He rarely mentions it. I don't know about it. ( yeah, it's me, Billy). The disembodied spirits, like Mister Never You Mind, or Zebulon , or the others are ignorant too. Them whats passed on don't know everything. I think the reason he likes this movie is the music. He likes the waltzes. I hear him talk about the waltzes. Subscribed to assemblies and cotillions. Knew everybody in town.... all the old, Rite-of-Spain families from the ancient synagogue, which I'm told, back then, wasn't too far from here. How he loved conversing with them in the soft, cultivated accents of Old Castile. They'd been here even longer than him..... Saint Charles families from 1654. Tomas came later, 1682, on The Welcome. Don't know if they knew he was a vampire, but he sailed on that ship. Must have had a 'familiar' among the crew. Had to, or else he couldn't have done it.. He knows Doctor Franklin since 1727, I think it is. Imagine how many people he's lost since then. And now Peter wants him to lose more.
Edith says they'll come back. But even though she's a witchy-woman she's still mortal. She don't know. Witchy-women can do a lot. Still, it's not like she's a born witch. Just knows a few 'gee-gaws' and 'pow-wows.' .... Sarah thinks 'Mister Edith,' her current husband, is the powerful one, only she can't prove it.
So Tomas sits there watching an alternate take on early twenty-first century technology. Maybe he knows what the monolith was?...If not the object in the movie, at least 'things' or intercessions like it. You know, some of them night-folk really do think 'alien forces' played a hand in our evolution. Seem to recollect channeling an 'arc' 'bout that not too long ago.
Funny, Tomas being a 'believer' and all. I asked him about that 'alien intervention' stuff. He said - That doesn't mean God didn't do it. That just shows us 'how' He did it...... Then he goes - Our hands are God's Hands.
Everybody else out walking around doing night-folk stuff. But they'll come back. Just wish them elferinos and elferinas would too....... Got a meeting with his 'New Junto' crew coming up. Tomas, I mean. This is like the third one. Kevin, or Liam, or one of the kids wants to take it on line. Got it set up already. Think it's a hashtag on Twitter.... #StarLight or something like that. You know, from the old rhyme.... Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish you may. I wish you might, grant the wish I wish tonight..... People go on and make a wish, add the #StarLight hashtag and hope somebody out there's willing to help. But Tomas says there already IS a #StarLight and #StarBright thing that helps kids, so why not start one for young people and adults called #GimmeABreak? And it's not that people can't help. They just don't.... even if it don't cost a thing. In many ways a 'gatekeeper' is also an executioner. Artists aren't always good salesman.
If you like, here's a clip from Tomas' favorite movie down below. God bless You Tube. They grant, or at least facilitate the granting of a lot of wishes. Voice to the voiceless and all that.
Tomas likes this part.... Go see..... and if you want to read more #VampireWonderland stuff click on THIS .... If you want to join me on TWITTER click on THE OTHER THIS ...Now, like we always say --- Cue the music.
I do not wipe my name about your world like a dirty rag. My existence is unknown to you, just as the ant knows little of the boy who sets it afire. And the night-folk who live among you in your Philadelphia are lesser incarnations of what I am. My 'meals' are legion. My capacities unlimited. 'Fiends' comb dark places gathering morsels for my table. Who are these 'fiends'? They are my 'familiars,' mortals bewitched by hot, rich, rivulets of my blood, or rather the blood that washes through my body. Your Jonathon in his 'Biblical' rantings calls me 'noxious.' But I call him and all like him weak. How they cower o're the truth..... pathetic deniers. Does the lion spare the gazelle?
Look for me in violent places. Death throws are my dancing and screams, or even tiny, little pleading moans, the music. I walk the streets of Kiev, Homs and Aleppo. Traveling is a passion. And if I am not where you are now, how lucky you are..
They drag the near dead to my pit. And it does not take long to dig one. 'Fiends' are not free-agents in my world. They are slaves. And they do as I say or they die. I whisper 'dig.' They dig. Forty 'fiends' with forty shovels make quite a deep, dark whole. Then while they are still in it, I leap down.... tantalizing some with kisses and caresses ... while others go 'into the pot.' Like a terrier let lose among the rats I am. I tear. I crush. I bite. I taste. They scream and plead and cry. And the strong climb up upon the weak, shattering skulls, breaking necks, gouging eyes and dislocating mandibles. At times I let them go, clambering up over the brink, hastily pulling on rags and coverings, as they fall out into the alleys and run away. Where do they go?... Anywhere.
I need no wealth. I have no cache. I 'eat' therefore I am. My halls are draped with entrails and skulls my blood filled cups. Bones, bones, I love the bones. Perhaps they are my 'gold?' There are subterranean caverns filled with vertebrae. Like nature's 'legos' they are. I play with them and count them, though I never reach the end. And the blood dries on my skin. It crusts up in my hair, 'liming' back my locks like some old Celtic warrior.
Time is such a different thing to me. Once I slept for centuries beneath an Olmec temple, never once stirring to gnaw on 'the leftovers.' Though my essence did soar free to hunt with jaguars and 'dine' with army ants.
Call me what you will. I'll kill you in the end. It matters not to me.
Disguises are such fun. I peel my lips off, top and bottom, the better to show the teeth, eyelids too, if I feel like it. I like the sound of ripping flesh. It grows back. At least mine does. Occasionally the nose goes too. Sometimes I start at the nostrils and pull up, or use a straight edge razor.
I've been known to sublimate into houses, quietly creep up to the sleeping chambers and stand there by the bedside watching the 'meat pies' breathe. Such cunning things, you humans are. Like big, toy dolls, just ready for a bad boy, like me to break. Careful, your 'Barbie' heads don't wind up 'neath the couch.
I like the sound your heads make when I pull them off.... Like rubber snapping, if tires had bones. ...Wheeeee!
Maybe one night I'll see you in the pit?
Oh, what am I talking about? Eventually I'll see every one in the pit
'Noxious' indeed..... I am the genuine article...... You don't want to dream about me.
Shhhh, (whispers) I'll touch you while you sleep
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