In Old Cathay they made mah jong tiles out of the bones of prisoners. I never saw that happen, for I was not there much. But I saw the sets, mostly in the collections of Muscovite aristocrats, or wealthy, merchant, Persian families. Beautiful, lacquered chests, they were... like small bureaus. Most are black, but not all. I knew the 'ivory' was human. Vampires can taste such things. I could even tell the sex and age of the victim.
According to what I heard, limbs were removed prior to death. Rather like a surgical procedure it was. Arms severed at the shoulder. Legs at the hip. After a period of recovery, the donor was made to watch, as all vestiges of flesh, by that point mostly dry and rigid, were meticulously sliced away. Then, expert lapidaries, often in service to the imperial household, carefully ground femurs and ulnas into small, rectangular veneers.... maybe thicker than veneers. so that they might be polished and decorated before being affixed to ebony beds. Such beautiful things they were.
Some maintain the Chinese never did that. They say the bones were gathered by local suppliers who then hired, or coerced artisans from among their own peoples to create such things. Mah jong, basically a variation of consecutive rummy, was all the rage in the late medieval and renaissance world. Queen Elizabeth the First had a set, so did the poet, Dante. I met an armless man once. Claimed his appendages were now cunning little bijou owned by the heirs to the Aztec throne, who were, at that time, Dukes at the court of Charles the Fifth.
People did those things... mortal people. Of course vampires committed crimes of their own. I know I did, but no worse than what the 'others' were doing. You might say ours were crimes of passion, whereas theirs were exquisite perversions performed by bored, powerful humans.... Ahhh! Help me! The bored, powerful humans are after me!.... Can you imagine such a thing?... They say Jack The Ripper was a bored, powerful human. I know a few things about that too. Sure I was in Philadelphia when it happened, but via occasional forays back to London (my friends at the Hermetic Order of The Golden Dawn) I learned things. Ruling class Britons move in terribly small circles, you know.
But now I sit in The Pines, a refugee from a crumbling civilization ... not just here, in Philadelphia... a splotchy growth the world over.... Art works have been defaced... buildings destroyed... whole populations ground to dust. Mah jong tiles would have been a better fate.
I want to be what I was. I want to sublimate. I want to swim through the night. I want the blood.
They say what keeps a vampire alive isn't the drinking of the blood but the siphoning of the life. Could be that's true, especially if we really are members of 'the demi-angelic host.' But, oh, the 'gravy' tastes so good.
I miss that...
Perhaps tomorrow, I'll be a 'bored, powerful, human' and play a little.... If I do, eventually, return to the fold and become a vampire again there'll be more than enough time to repent.
(He sits on the porch staring out into the black, forest night, as we pull back. A small candle, illuminates his face.... and then he's gone.)
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This is one of the disembodied spirit narrators. I'm just some guy who got shot in a hold-up in a men's store under the El tracks in Philadelphia. Maybe you know me from BINGO BOY? I think the same one who channels this channeled that too. Never said my name. That's OK. You don't have to know. Let me tell you what's gone on here. In the Pines, I mean.
I picked red because it's late and that Billy Kravitz is probably sleepy. Red wakes you up.... The Jersey Pine Barrens are nice. Not like in the city. City's all messed up. Can't get no coffee. Can't get no medicine. Well, you can if you got valuables. People still use money. Government's still around somewhere's. Once in a while you see leaflets, or maybe a jet goes by overhead. Warlords ain't got planes yet. They say some got suitcase bombs.... atomic bombs you can carry in a backpack. Dora the Explorer went off ten days ago. Took out some place in Michigan. They say the ones who get vaporized... the ones close in, feel their bones turn white hot just before they go poof. Bet that ain't fun. Dumb bastids further out just fry. Eyeballs drip down like rock candy. Skin looks like the black stuff you rinse off from a grilled pepper. Dogs race round like comets. Crazy people laugh. But all a them still die, 'cause the radiation does it. Like a sunburn from the inside out. Only you can chug Solarcaine til the cows crawl home (you ever see crawlin' cows?) but it won't do no good.
Mole-folk tunnels under what used to be the subways are crowded now. People feel safe down there. Got their mushrooms. Got their pigeons. Got their rats. Tuna fish is money. Cans, I mean. Last cans from the stores still got like three years on 'em. After that you can use them as rocks and throw them at people.
Pines is where you wanna be. Can eat turtles or muskrats or some kind a fish. Got greens. Got acorns. Some feral pigs runnin' round too. Edith got like twenty cartons a Sweet Tarts. Don't know where she got 'em. But she got 'em. Think she found a truck somewhere. Got three dozen gross of 'I'm With Schmuck Face' t-shirts off another truck. Pineys real good at findin' trucks. Every kid runnin' round there got Schmuck Face shirts. It's like a uniform.
They're out on the porch now. Edith and Tomas, I mean. Still dark. Forest folk like the dark. They sit. They talk. Drink homemade wine. Eat dry Fruit Loops. Cereal keeps. Milk don't. Sometimes a ghost come by. They say something. Edith, bein' a witchy woman knows all about that stuff.
She got a nice, big folding beach chair they give away fifteen years ago from some casino in Atlantic City. That's her seat... Gotta stop for a minute... Billy Kravitz (who channels and types this) wants some peanut butter crackers...OK, he's back. Peanut butter cracker-time (and ginger ale) is over. Took fifteen minutes. Got Game of Thrones on over the fireplace. That's like Shakespeare only with lot a naked titties. Think they supposed a be ancient Irish people on drugs...
OK, now we back in the wee hour pines. Tomas gonna say something.
TOMAS - (slaps at a mosquito) And now the little vampires feast on me.
Edith chuckles and nods...
TOMAS - I feel so exposed. I feel so weak. Even gravity rests different on me now...
EDITH - Each 'phase' has its charms. You wanted this. You could have stayed dead, you know. And I mean true death, human death.
TOMAS - Was I dead?
EDITH - (shrugs) Who knows? You want some Fruit Loops?
TOMAS - (shakes his head) Fruit Loops... What crap you humans eat. I don't remember it like this.
EDITH - What you remember was a thousand years ago. They had crap then too.
TOMAS - No, not us. We kept the dietary laws... clean meats...fresh bread... 'Take not for your table the eaters of carrion' and all that.... Can you roast a goose?
EDITH - Are you crazy?
TOMAS - (looks up from under pensive brows and nods) How will you find 'Papa?' I need him. I need his blood.
EDITH - Sweetheart, I don't even know if he's out there. Not where we can find him anyway. But I'll try. I'll look... throw some hoo-doos... sing some songs. You know. But if I can't... you gotta make do with some other vampire. OK?
He doesn't want to hear that.
EDITH - You don't like Fruit Loops?
TOMAS - No.
EDITH - I'm sorry, sweet heart.
TOMAS - (whispers) I know.
And then we pull up and away (a crane shot, I guess) revealing two small souls in the dark.
<more next time>
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this must of necessity be a rushed post. web hook-up is still screwy. lights on xfinity modem or whatever they call it blink on and off. I've asked some of out disembodied spirit narrators to slip into the digital realm and see what they can find. But some of them were last 'in the flesh' centuries ago and think manual can openers are high tech. so we're 'broadcasting' via a secondary hook-up. Hope I don't lose it. the net access company is a doodie head. even a cop would agree. but they're sort of a monopoly around here and short of a revolution, we pay and cry and they laugh and spend.
BUT...
Back to our story...
SMALL CLEARING IN THE DARK, NEW JERSEY PINE BARRENS
EDITH (the witchy woman) strides through the dense trees, which appear to make way for her. The RED PAINT PEOPLE self consciously melt back into the shadows. TOMAS stands there...
EDITH approaches him and caresses his face.
EDITH - How mortal you are. You smell so human...
TOMAS sighs and shudders. She hugs him. He cries.
TOMAS - I want it back. Help me. I want it back..
She gently rocks him from side to side.
EDITH - (whispers) Come with me.
She takes his hand and leads him through the trees, which momentarily move out of the way as they pass.
CUT TO - another small clearing. EDITH'S cozy cabin occupies the central position. Sort of like what Jed Clampett had before he struck oil, but less crude, less rustic. Well placed moonbeams gild the gray, slate roof. They approach the porch. HORSEY SKEEZIX, a juvenile, rather equine faced human with bat wings and smooth, short, glossy fur (a JERSEY DEVIL) gets up from the stoop and moves out of the way. PIN HEAD MEL, his teeny headed playmate titters from the bushes.
EDITH and TOMAS climb up onto the porch and go in.
INT. CABIN seconds later...
They sit 'cross a rough dining table. Neither says a word. Then Tomas speaks up...
TOMAS - I want 'Papa.' I want him. He's gotta do it.
EDITH - (sighs) I knew you'd say that.
TOMAS - You been 'watchin'' me?
EDITH - (nods) I ain't no 'born' witch, but I got my talents.
TOMAS - Then where's 'Papa?' Where is he?
EDITH - Can't you feel him?
TOMAS - No. Not now. Not like this. I'm a vampire, not a witch.
EDITH - Honey, you ain't even that. And I don't know where your 'Papa' is. I have no idea.
They hear staccato farts from behind closed door.
TOMAS - What's that!?
EDITH - Don't be scared. That's my husband. That's Mister Edith. He's sleepin'... doing his digestion. That's all.
TOMAS accepts that, but sinks back into silence.
EDITH - (reaches for his hand) He may not be there, honey. May not be anywhere. Might have 'sublimated.'... You know how them old ones 'give up the ghost.'
TOMAS contemplates what she said...
They sit there in the flickering glow of a small oil lamp... Tomas lays his head on his arms.
EDITH - (whispers) Don't be scared. I'll do somethin'...
More loud, staccato farts from beyond the door...
EDITH - (yells) Shut yourself up, you old bastid, you! You wanna poison everybody!?
Farts stop.
EDITH - (smiles) There, I did that.
Tomas doesn't respond...
And the cricket rhapsody takes over, as the low light from the oil lamp fades away.
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The New Jersey Pines Barrens is a funny place. Some parts don't have any roads... Maybe a few deer paths, or still used, old Indian byways, but nothing a car could use. I guess them old spirits like it that way. Miles and miles of endless pines. They say forest rangers go in from time to time, but I don't know anything about that.
Tonight it's dark. Big thick band a thunder boomers came through couple hours ago. Lightning like white hot, lethal Silly String. Air still got that ozone smell in it. Crickets still singin' 'bout it, the dumb bastids. They got shit for brains. Place has little clearings. The Pines, I mean. Maybe enough room for like a rough, little house or two... a chicken coop... some apple trees. All tumble down and homey like. Some clearings are just empty. They're stompin' grounds... dancin' places. Red Paint folks uses them. Red Paints is an old tribe. Not Indians. Folks what know skeletons say they come from 'cross the 'Lantic Ocean. Dried up skeletons say which ocean you crossed over. Not you, 'cause you still livin', but your people... your dead people.... all them 'generations.'
Red Paint folks ain't got much magic.... just strange ways. Right now, they catch a guy... not like they run after him and grab him. They just find him, put out like a present... duct tapped to a tree. Mafia fellas does that. Drive out from Philly. Stow the car on some little fire access road and tote the guy into the woods. Then they jus' truss him up, wearing nothing but that gray, shiny duct tape. Let him set his bare ass down in the mud, though. Pour pancake syrup all over him and go home. City all torn up now, but Mafia guys is always busy. They jus' never sit still.
Pancake syrup brings in the critters... bitin' critters. They little, but they determined. Everything gotta eat, even mousy-ratty-buggy things. Trussed up guy screamin' when they find him. He beggin.' He cryin.' He go - Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!... but he not rescued. He jus' discovered. Red Paint folks not hungry. They already ate. But still wanna have fun. Everybody gotta have fun. 'Sides, they know he a bad fella, or Mafia dudes wouldn't a done him like they do. So that make it alright. Red Paint folks ain't no savages, you know. They jus' pin him down and commence slicin' him open with specially sharpened banjo picks. I think they banjo picks. Maybe guitar picks. I not sure. Kids make 'em to keep busy. That way they have like a little business... make some money.
Picks peel that skin right off, jus' like cleanin' a possum. Guy stop screamin' 'cause they got all kind a shit stuffed in his mouth. But he tremble and his eyes go all crazy-like. That how you know he don't like it. After eyelids ripped off he REALLY look crazy. He REALLY don't like it.
That when they start the 'stompin.' Make like a circle. Do their dance... Stomp to the left. Stomp to the right. More like shuffle, actually. Eyes glaze over. Some guy play a little Hawaiian guitar. Keep it up til Mafia bastid look like pulled pork.
What happen next, I do not know, 'cause that when Tomas come. Big, old timey hearse he locked in clatter to stop on little fire access road. Werewolves pullin' it starts howlin' and yelpin.' Red Paint folks shuffle out through trees to see the show. Not like they ain't got a show a they own, but you know how it is. Folks jus' gotta see. Always somethin.'
Hearse doors fly open. Tomas jump out. He coughin'. He pantin.' He go - Edith! Edith! Where Edith!?..... Red Paint woman go - Shit.... 'Cause she know witchy woman don't like makin' pulled pork out a people. It like 'a thing' with her. So they real quick bury the guy and clean up. Werewolves jus' wander off, 'cause they conceited bastids.
Then Edith march through them trees like a big, ole virago queen sayin' - Who call my name!!?? Who call my name!!??
Tomas go - I did.....
And she start cryin', 'cause she like him a lot.. Missed him real bad too...
<next time... Tomas and Edith make plans>
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They quietly walked to the edge of the great, wooded, forest-like necropolis known as LAUREL HILL (a real place) and waited for 'the man' to come. Its hard to get around. Travel is dangerous. Bandits and street vigilantes are everywhere. People hole up at night around hand cranked flashlights. They hide behind blackout shades eating cold cans of soup and tuna fish when they can get it. Lot less cats than there used to be. And you got to have those little tablets that purify water. Some guys rig up labs to make them. But they have to be real careful. If word gets out... if they sell to many, or somebody talks... BOOM! You know a warlord's gonna grab them. Keep them locked up. They got places. Make them work. Make them cook up a whole mess a them tablets. What? You think they ain't rediscovered slavery yet? Warlords control all the drugs. Bad drugs, good drugs, they got them all. You pay. You live. You don't pay. You die.
But that's another thing. Right now, we're waiting for 'the man.'... Tomas doesn't say a word. Nobody does. Street's empty... deserted. No more traffic lights. No more street lights. The absolute darkness of a medieval night. Sometimes you hear somebody mumbling in the blackness. Don't go that way. Just don't... Marianne took his hand. She's 'elferina.' She's vampire. So are the others. They can see... a little. They can fly... true flight. Elferinos and elferinas can do that. They can pick him up, Tomas, I mean and take him there. But they can drop him too. So they don't take the chance.
They stand there waiting. Heartbeats go by. Then off in the distance they hear something... wheels clattering.... hard wheels... iron rimmed wheels. But no sound... no engine... no hoof beats... nothing..... Then rat noises, as even the vermin run from it.
Soon they see something... the fleeting glint of starlight on polished, lacquered ebony... silver bits.. trimmings... glass. Eyes glow in the darkness... hard eyes... 'animal' eyes. They hear panting. Steam rises from unseen backs.
Marianne whispers - Here, follow me. Put your hand on my shoulder... She leads Tomas to the back of the vehicle, opens the doors and helps him climb up into what seems like a large, upholstered cabinet. Satin... he feels satin. The doors lock. He can't get out. Albion strikes a match, just for an instant. And Tomas sees him. He sees him through the wall of the conveyance. It's glass. The walls are glass. He's in a hearse... a great, black, nineteenth century hearse. But where are the horses? What pulls this thing?
Then they're off. Twelve, huge, midnight, third caste werewolves (human intellect, but always in lupine form) streak through the night, bearing their precious cargo out through the city toward a bridge, a steel and concrete artery
spanning The Delaware. Are bridges patrolled? Of course they are. But few confront true lupines. In a time of chaos, old fears die hard. Even warlords pretend not to see. And the guards cower in their guardhouse, as the fearsome 'meat wagon' speeds by.
<coming next time - Tomas reaches the Pine Barrens and reunites with Edith, the 'witchy' woman>
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One of the brightest most inspirational numbers in American Theater. But picture a future place... the United Worlds of America... Huge star ships enter our space via the eye of a GIGANTIC hologram of The Statue of Liberty.... Vast, Ellis Island-like sorting center... immigrants pass through full body scans...like cattle in a cattle chute.... lots of yelling... scared, desperate families... some essentially human... some humanoid... some a little bit squishy for my taste... But FUTURE AMERICANS ALL! Pushing and jostling to this song.
I picture it as a scene in EL RANCHO TEXACO, my How The West Was Won epic (I hope) on Mars. Can't help it. I got dreams too, you know. If you like, google EL RANCHO TEXACO by Billy Kravitz and poke around. No vampires, but we do have a few chupacabras out on them red plains of Mars. Go see~>
Would have posted a regular narrative episode, but had to do a lot of #ff stuff on Twitter and want to be fresh for Labor Day Weekend activities tomorrow (means I gotta sleep). Can't rely on sugar rush to stay awake, 'cause I ain't got no cookies. And somebody 'messed' with the apple pie in the refrigerator, so that's off limits (torture knowing it's in there though).
Watching AVATAR on FX... Really like that movie... Now, I'm thinking it's Disney's POCCAHONTAS (can't spell Old Algonquin) on Pandora instead of Virginia...Humans should re-evolve tails...prehensile ones...just like monkeys.
Hope you enjoy I LIKE IT HERE IN AMERICA.
<more next time>
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Imagine the poor, little soul... a small child... half human and half ape.... What father would let his essence be used that way?...What mother her womb?... But such things did happen. I saw them. Pathetic, mewling wee ones, kept in pits for the entertainment of curious boyars and other Eurasian nobles. They always blame Stalin. But that monstrous branch of animal husbandry predates him. Arab traders and explorers reported such things centuries ago. Some were hearsay, gathered 'round hearths in rude inns on frigid nights. Others were true.
In the Urals they embalmed them. Little halflings, I mean. Sold them as relics...Siberian Demons, they were called. And not just in the Urals. Certain medieval Scandinavian kings had their own specimens. I saw a coupling once. There was a woman. They had her in a pit. The Bride of Kong, so to speak. I see movies too, you know. She screamed. She prayed. She clawed the dirt walls with her nails. She shrieked and cackled like a banshee. Caked with dirt and naked, she was... an older woman, known for her fecundity. The potentate wanted healthy 'cubs.' For ten days hence they fed her liver and rice, occasionally mixed with strongly pickled pigs feet. A suitable diet for those about to conceive, or so they thought. Such low, brutal people they were. Wolf meat... they actually ate wolf meat.
A powerful wizard, they thought I was. Night-lore was new to me. I wandered. I witnessed. I explored. Basically, I had one good trick... curing the sick with tiny droplets of my blood. But they didn't know it was my blood. I couldn't tell them that...
<Tomas sat and regaled his adolescent vampire companions, as they waited for a man willing to take him to the JERSEY PINE BARRENS. He wanted to reunite with EDITH, his friend, ally and 'witchy-woman.' She'd know how to contact the one who 'made' him... the one known as 'Papa.'>
Called it the 'red elixir,' I did. Said it was liquified rubies stolen from the hoard of a Hindustani king. They 'oo-ed' and 'ahh-ed.' Tried it on a sick, condemned slave first. Brought from Pomerania, he was. Caught with a royal daughter and for that he must die. But he had a case of the 'flux.' Don't ask me what that was. Everything was 'flux' back then. He coughed a lot. I know that. And his stool was loose and bloody, so 'flux' it was.
We laid him on 'the groaning board'... the huge table where all the 'A' Number 1 rapists and pillagers ate their meals. I gesticulated a bit. There's no business like show business, you know. Then I carefully tapped a few drops from what looked like a silver eyedropper into his mouth.... Nothing happened... The rapists and pillagers waited. Some mumbled a bit... Then he hiccuped. The coughing stopped. His copious farts grew a tad less noxious. His breathing grew less labored. He relaxed. He even sang a little prayer ( to some outlandish, South Baltic, pagan deity. I don't know). Then he sat up and laughed.... The grease smudged assemblage cheered... Two minutes later they summarily pulled off his genitalia with white hot pinchers and threw them to the hounds. But I was safe, a valued member of the ruling class.
Getting back to the dirt-caked naked older woman in the pit... she soon met her groom, a broad, hulking, vaguely Neanderthal/Gorilla looking gentleman with the red pelt of an orangutan. She froze. He sniffed her... examined her breasts, then knocked her cold with one sharp backhand. The aristocratic audience (snacking on crisp, fried seal hide) nodded their approval (though some of their womenfolk seemed none too pleased), as he threw her to the dirt and sealed the deal. ... Nine months and three weeks later (yeti-like beasts apparently have longer gestation periods) the little thing was born. The mother loved it. How could she not? It was hers. But I saw the sadness in its eyes.
As one born to vampirism in a likewise violent way, I understood that all too well. Though nothing is devoid of charm and I soon learned to see the good of it.
<then he stopped>
Marianne, one of his closest elferina friends, offered him a clear liquor and he drank.
Then they sat, waiting for the man to spirit him away. No one comes to the old, woodsy cemetery after dark, so they were safe, staring up at a new crescent moon. The city was quiet that night. They could even hear crickets, as God's silver Thumbnail climbed higher into the sky...
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