Grantham House was built in 1849, on a prime parcel across from St. James Square, the ranking aristocratic district of London. It dates from The Restoration and since Regency times till now ( 1926 ) has been a bastion of inherited wealth and social position, either nobility, or gentry. No parvenus here. Don't even think it. Well, maybe a fabulously successful financier might sneak in if he played the game correctly and supported all the right institutions and causes.
Everything about the place was spruce and scrubbed. Everything glowed with posh urbanity. And the young man standing across from the glossy front door saw that. He tried to be discrete. He tried to fit in. Most passersby didn't stare. Some did. You know how it is. People want to know. Is he Hindu? Is he Sudanese, or perhaps from somewhere in Latin America? The top coat was obviously bespoke and the shoes from Jermayne Street. But the complexion was all wrong... a little too swarthy... a little too 'foreign.' Then he found a seat on a bench and sat, studying the house and thinking..... Who were the people inside? What were they like? What would they say?
A woman came out with three English children. A younger person, seemingly a nanny, or someone filling in for a nanny went with them. They walked to the curb and waited, fresh and sharp in their fine melton coats and coordinating caps... the two little girls wore tam-0-shanters... the little boy sported a black, velvet, child's version of a formal riding helmet. How well behaved they were. A gleaming Bentley rounded the corner and stopped. The chauffer jumped out, smart as any cavalry officer, snapped open the door and helped his betters enter. Then they sailed off into the crisp, January sunshine.... the Countess of Grantham, off for a day of shopping, with her three grandchildren... her three junior aristocrats. Of course there'd be a break for tea at a fitting venue. Why wouldn't there be?
Lucas saw it all (that was the young man's name) from his front row seat. Then he got up and walked off, passed the impregnable facades of innumerable gentlemen's clubs, till after a bit he found himself among the crowds and sights of Piccadilly. He stopped to watch a Pearly King and Pearly Queen do a dance, even tossed a few pence into the cap. Then he entered a pub (after waiting to see if any other 'exotic' types went in first) for bangers and mash, washed down by a pint.....
'England'.... He had family there... in a manner of speaking... In a way... Who knows? We'll see...
Later that day he went back to his spot on the bench. The sun was setting. The earlier, winter warmth gave way to chill. Lights went on around the square. He focused on an upstairs window, possibly a bedroom, in Grantham House. A pinkish glow illuminated the interior, perhaps from a boudoir lamp with a rose silk shade. Then a man looked out, stepped back and closed the drapes.... Lucas thought he might be Lord Grantham, but he was only a footman. The room wasn't even a bedroom... just a small, rarely used study.
Would there be a meeting?... Of course... but that would come later...
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They shared a Spartan meal, sliced ham, bread and cheese. At first neither man spoke. They didn't even look at each other. They chewed and swallowed. Daisy silently entered with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses... cool lemonade, not icy cold as you have it in 'The States.' British people are far too disciplined for that. At least they appear so. But then Daisy left and shut the door behind her. If any other member of the household suddenly needed comestibles, they'd have to make do with whatever they could find in the pantry.
Soft, winter light washed in through the large windows. Bates poured. He offered a glass to the tall, gentleman with the eye patch. The man nodded and drank. Bates just watched him for a bit, then spoke. He said - How long has it been? Since Stellenboch, or Capetown?... The man said - Perhaps one of the lagers? ..... Bates didn't respond... They ate a little more... The man with with the military bearing said - How did you know I was coming?.... Bates didn't say a word. Few knew he paid one of the errand boys to constantly watch the driveway from an upstairs window. The Earl knew. No one else did.... The man didn't press him. He knew better.
The kitchen clock ticked on. Bates winced. The man said - I see you still have 'the leg?'... No response, but then Bates asked - Why are you here? There were inquiries. It's all been settled. It can't be because of the war?.... 'The war' - said the visitor. Do you think those events had anything to do with the war, or do you think the war simply provided a convenient way to hide them?..... Bates just glared.... The man said - Actually, I'm not here on my behalf..... Who's then? - went Bates..... A certain 'connection' of Lord Grantham's. Is it truly safe to talk in here?... Bates went - If I say it's safe, it's safe..... The visitor exhaled and went - Then I'll tell you.... Please do - said the 'fixer.'.... The visitor nodded - While stationed at a post north of Durban, Lord Grantham had a certain dalliance with a girl..... Is that supposed to shock me? - asked Bates.... Whether it shocks you, or not, is immaterial to me. I'm just here to relay the facts - said the man..... Bates listened..... The man went on - This wasn't just any girl. She was a Bantu girl, a Zulu, rather high born too, 'House Buthalaisy' and all that. Oh, those people are not without a certain level of political power, even in South Africa..... And? - said Bates.... There was a child. She had a son, a bright handsome lad too. Here, let me show you.... And he passed a photograph from his breast pocket to the 'fixer.'... Bates studied it. The bone structure was very much the same. There was no denying that. Even the hair had a certain similarity. What he saw was a younger, light brown (although skin color is hard to tell from a photograph), slightly tweaked edition of Lord Robert. How earnest he looked..... Then he slid it back and said - Tell me more..... The visitor smiled - He's here. The young man is in London..... More power to him - said Bates. But he has no claim on the estate, being illegitimate and 'all that.' We can't help you there..... Can't you? - said the visitor. You've probably pegged me for a solicitor by now. Certain people hate this house and they have reasons. Should the truth come out and by the way, the truth about Lady Edith's brat too, it won't be pretty.... If you don't mind, how do you know about that? - whispered Bates.... Oh, come on - said the man. You have your ways. I have mine...... They sat in silence..... Then the visitor said - Not in residence, I suppose? The family, I mean.... Bates shook his head..... Well, where could they be? This is January. I know English practice. They're in London for 'the season.' Am I right? How fortuitous - said the visitor. Gives you time to think. My God, how many scandals can this place take? And that includes you too. Well? The balls in your court now.... Bates sighed... The visitor, the man with the slight Afrikaner accent softly laughed. Then he took another slice of ham... and laughed again...
CUT TO - The dowager's house.
Lady Violet and Denker sit across the French writing desk. The dowager talks. Denker writes.
Ah, yes. We must include the Pembrokes. Publishers, you know. Quite respected in the City, Edinburgh too. The old man's retired, but the son's very active in the trade. One of the first peers to openly and eagerly engage in 'business.' Not bad to have him in our pocket. The social climbing little snot will probably go berserk with glee. Put him down. Put him down. Put him down. I'll find the address. He's part of it too.
Denker scribbled....
Oh, goody goody! I can see it now.. the dinners, the working lunches. All we have to do is talk? The stenographers will take it all down? Is that what they're called? Is that how it works?.... Yes, my lady. So I'm told - went Denker. The literary whirl is quite new to me....And I as well - said the dowager. That's why it's so much fun! Do you suppose Roger and Adele might interview me on the wireless?.... Oh, undoubtedly - went her henchwoman.... Well, I too can play 'the Churchill' - chuckled the old woman...
And that was that... 'Lady Violet's Literary Salon and Luncheon Society' born....
While in London, other things began to happen...
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It was quiet. Downton felt empty. A cold, gray chill settled over the place. Tom came back, but only for a few says to get the children packed up. Then he bundled them off to London. He, Mary and Tony decided to stay in town for part of 'the season.' They opened the Crawley Townhouse, a Regency mansion in Bellgravia, but didn't send for any of the country servants, preferring to rough it and make do with the skeleton crew on hand.
Cora missed the children. Robert did too. 'Donk' was all alone and he pined for the wee ones. Isobel, who often came by for luncheon said - Why don't you join them? This is the perfect time of year to take the little ones to the Royal Zoo and I'm sure George would love the armoury display at The Tower. What little boy wouldn't? And, Cora, imagine the high teas you could have with Sybil and Marigold at The Connaught. They'd remember it all their lives.
Cora smiled and said - You make it sound so wonderful..... It is wonderful - said the soon to be baroness. And what keeps you here? Bates and Anna can play 'mother and father' to the place. A perfect quiet time for the new baby. Take Baxter and one of the footman, if you must, but I'm sure the town staff can manage. Rosamund could always lend you someone. Go! What are you staying here for?...... My work. The hospital - went Cora..... Don't even think about that. Write up some instructions. Give them to me. We'll be fine..... Cora looked at Robert. Robert looked at her. He said - What about Mama? You know how she detests sudden surprises?.... Cora sighed and nodded..... Cousin Isobel smiled and said - That won't be a problem..... Why - he asked. Are you planning to drug her?... Nothing so drastic - she said. Your mother has her own plans..... What, pray tell? - asked Cora..... She intends to start a salon, a place where people of her generation can come together to record memoirs and recollections of days gone by. There's to be a luncheon, a reception of sorts. You should see how it's animated her. Frankly, I think she's needed this for a long time. Sir Robert, from Pennington's already signed on and, of course she has me. Who knows? We may have a nice, little anthology before summer.
Mama, 'literary' - said Robert. Will wonders never cease? What brought this on?.... Everything - said Isobel. All the marriages. All the changes. The hospital. My own happy situation. She feels alone and unneeded. She'd never say it. You know how she is, but she does. Let her have this. It's not a bad thing. I'm sure of it. And bring me back something nice from Selfrige's. And something for your mother too. Now go. Pack. Go.....
So they did.
But two days after they left, a certain tall man with an unmistakable military bearing and a patch over his left eye walked up the drive toward the house, crunching the new fallen snow.
Bates met him half way. They stopped, nodded and went on, going passed the front entrance to the kitchen door toward the back.
Mrs. Patmore put out tea and left them to it. Apparently there was much they had to say...
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The Dowager stayed for breakfast. It was a warm morning, relatively speaking, January in England can be like that. They assembled in the 'little' dining room, Robert, Cora, Isobel and Violet. Just them. Just the 'old guard.' The 'young set' --- odd to think of them that way when they hold so much power over the place--- had their own social schedule and were already on their way into 'The City.' They hold the reigns... and no one feels that more than Lady Violet.
She smiles. She nods. She nibbles at her plate. Most of all, she looks at Isobel... and she thinks about the future. So many weddings and one yet to come, the union of Isobel and Lord Merton... two people from her own generation, more or less, yet still so much a part of things.
Nineteen Twenty six, how unbelievable. The Americans are celebrating their Sesquicentennial. Mrs. Levinsohn sends telegrams. She'll be staying with friends at Greyfaire, on the Mainline for the opening. Some of the family will be there with her. But not Violet. Too much of an ordeal for a seventy eight year old. Too taxing for one who was quite extent during The Sepoy Rebellion. Would that is were not.
She was born into a tumultuous year... eighteen forty eight. Europe was in revolution. Britain sailed ever deeper into The Victorian Age, as the second daughter of an unassuming English baronet first burst upon the scene. They had a house, quite dignified, though by no means palatial and a well kept estate in the home counties. Gentlefolk through and through and stalwart members of the gentry, if not the nobility. But, as Dr. Wayne Dwyer says - Self actualizing people must be what they can be... and the little girl who played 'marauders of the Punjab' with her cousins in the rose garden adhered to that philosophy, even if she'd never heard the actual words.
Violet remembered everything. Weddings bring that out. She stared at the table cloth. Robert said - Are you all right, Mama?.... She smiled and nodded..... Then the new puppy romped in, begging for treats and stealing the show. While all eyes were on the dog, the dowager dabbed hers.
Robert and Cora were having a few notable, local couples in for an almost casual New Year's Day dinner, but the dowager went home well in advance. Isobel left too, but she had her 'intended.' Violet had nothing like that.
With the darkness came the cold. Denker lowered the shades and closed the draperies. Sprat set the table for one. The dowager dined alone. She sat there listening to the wireless. Many people dining 'alone' did that. Sprat would ask - Does my lady have any preference?... The dowager would say - No, Sprat. You pick..... But he knew she liked a show called 'Cocktails With Roger And Adele,' where a well spoken West End theater couple pretended to casually circulate among guests at a London night club, stopping to chat with glossy entertainers during breaks in the music. When it was over, she went into the parlor and sat gazing at the fire. And she thought about the future. Would it truly be a future, or merely extra time? Would it be her dotage, or maybe something else?
Then she got up and went toward the staff room. Sprat held down one end of the long, rustic, polished table. Denker guarded the other. The soon-to-be-celebrated-advice-columnist-butler worked on his magazine piece. Denker drew facial hair on actresses in a movie magazine. Greta Garbo looked quite dashing.
When she entered, her usually bickering henchmen 'snapped too.'.... Anything wrong? - asked Denker.... Sprat just stood there..... Lady Violet said - No, it's quiet in here. Such a lovely change. But I just wanted to say we're three people of somewhat advanced years, that fate has seen fit to put together and how we spend this time is up to us. Sprat, I think you know how much I approve of your new career. There's nothing wrong with the spotlight. I see that now. Enjoy it.... Yes, my lady - went the butler-advice columnist.... And you, Miss Denker, the sun goes down soon enough. Let it be on a clear sky. No more storms, please.... Of course, my lady - said the lady's maid...... Well, that's all - said the dowager.... But before exiting, she thought for a moment and said - Sprat, I'd like to host a luncheon in a week or two. See if you and cook can come up with some menus?... He nodded.... And you, Denker - went the dowager - brush up on your calligraphy, because I want this to be a very special occasion..... Then she left, humming a dance tune all the way.....
That's how it is.....
Just when you think it's over, it's not...
Life, as it always does, goes on.
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This is not our regular message from the vampire world. Just a short epistle to let you know where things stand. Jonathon wants to go 'a wanderin'.' He tought about this before, but them other night-folk always pull him back. He says wanderin' is his destiny. It's what The Lord wants him to do . That's what he says. Sarah says she'll go with him, but he wants her to stay put. Sometimes he says he's gonna make a big speech... proclaim his vampireness to the world. Tell like it is. Doctor Franklin does not know if that is such a good idea. Says there was once a night-folk person in South Carolina called Jefferson of Roanoke who announced his vampireness to folks at a nighttime revival meeting. You know, one a them big, tan circus tents with loud talkin' speechifying, preach-for-money men in 'em 'stead a mangy old big cats and gassy elephants? Got little electric lights strung all over... wooden folding chairs... lady-wimmen fannin' they overheated necks and chest places with cardboard fans what look like cheap, fake ping pong paddles.
Vampire fella come up to 'share his burden.' That's what they call it, 'burden sharin' time.' One lady say she give her mother in law crappy cheese what got mold on it. A moonshiner say dog once pee in the bathtub an' he sell that batch anyway.... Folks pray and sing. Preacher-man say - The Lord relieve you! The Lord relieve you!... Then they all holler 'AMEN!' But one maiden lady sniffin' her hanky, and standin' right next to him in line wanna say somethin'. She wanna say it real bad, only she don't, 'cause her Olive Oyl quotient too high. Vampire see and whisper - Miss, what ails you?..... She go - I-I-I the one who brings Moon Pies to The UnWed Lady Circus Freak Home, the nice one, not that trashy place, but I trade 'em for party hats and store bought undies, 'cause I do like nice things and now I gotta tell everybody.
Then she does it. It's her turn and she moves up to the rostrum. Preacher-Man goes - Welcome sister! Welcome! Cleanse your soul and lay down the burden!.....Say the words, sister. Say it... And she looks at the hot sticky faces and wilted shirts and dresses of the assembled believers, or desperate for entertainment bored folks and goes - I stole Moon Pies from The UnWed Lady Circus Freaks and swapped 'em for party hats and bloomers, just like in the Bible. And I am not proud of it. God forgive me. God forgive me. God forgive me.
For a few heartbeats there was silence. Everybody looked into the souls of the people seated around them. A few were able to smell a bit of those souls too. Then a little tyke, his mouth full a peanuts, stands up and goes - I forgive her. I forgive her! One by one, they all joined in till she broke down and cried....Then a woman dressed as a back in the day nurse (white dress, white shoes, white stockings, and tiny little white nun's hat) comes out to lead her to some unseen sanctuary where they give out sweet tea and coconut white cake. Some folks just testifies for the white cake.
Vampire fella, Jefferson of Roanoke, knows he's next. Feels real good about it too.... Know who he look like?... He look like a young Michael Bolton, from when he had all that hair. He go up under the light and woman up front yell - Why he look just like a angel!...
Then he stand there, head down, hands clasped, face decorated in artistic shadows courtesy of the big, almost heavenly, light above his head, collecting his thoughts and begins.....
He goes - My name is Jefferson and I am a vampire..... Lady goes - Liar! Liar! You, sir, are obviously an American and vampires have foreign names, like Dracula and Bela and all that!.....
The crowd rumbles......
He goes - Madam, night-folk hail from every nation and all points of the compass. We are not born. We are made, infected, so to speak and I suffer from that malady.
The Preacher-Man says - Do you mean to tell us, sir, that you feast on human blood!?.....
The vampire simply nods.... The multitude groans. Some recite prayers. Children cry...... The Preacher-Man goes - You, sir, are a brazen liar!..... The vampire smiles the way vampires do and says - Do you want to see my fangs?..... But obviously, from the way he smiled, they were already exposed.
And then what happened? - asked Jonathon.
Doctor Franklin went on - They killed him. They destroyed him. People rushed from the seats to tear him apart. The Preacher-Man screamed verses from The Bible. The choir sang. Roustabouts, who put up and took down the tents ran in with shovels, rusty shovels, rat killing shovels and hacked him to bits. Some vampires panic, you know... forget their abilities. Jefferson wasn't too old. Made sometime during Reconstruction. And other than places like New Orleans or Charleston, maybe Savannah, you now how conservative the South can be? Once his head came off he was gone.... The Preacher-Man stood over the chunky, viscous remains and screamed - Get thee behind me, Satan! To hell! To hell! To hell!...
But by the time the crowd joined in, what was left of Jefferson slowly erupted into small blue flames, which quickly coalesced forming a larger conflagration till all that remained was a stain upon the saw dust. Nothing else was touched, or effected.... That was it.
Why did you tell me this? - said Jonathon.
Because it's true, a cautionary tale - said The Doctor. You can't tell people more than they're ready to hear. You can't expose people to things their brains won't comprehend. To every thing there is a season, yadda, yadda, yadda.... Then he made one of those all knowing Benjamin Franklin faces and poured them both another chilled vodka. The old reprobate preferred rum, or brandy. He was, in spite of all the scientific preservation still legally mortal and possessed of a jaundiced practicality spiritual night-folk seldom have....
Jonathon, his long time vampire friend, merely stared at the embers and sipped his drink......
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After leaving Franklin's residence, I rode around on the subways all night, or for how many hours there were left. I like the subways. especially after midnight. You meet quite an eclectic assortment. Some of them quack like ducks. A few free spirits lower their drawers and go poop in the aisle. One guy, who I see every so often feeds sushi to the rats. Not that the subways are over run with them, but we do have a few regulars. Sushi Guy is very fastidious. Does it with chopsticks. Pinches a morsel from his little, take-out tray and holds it out where they can reach it. One comes over, sits up, begs with its paws a bit and takes it. Then the second one comes up. After that a third. There's only three. Toothless Mary says they're brothers. I asked her how she knew. She said - Well, don't they look alike?... Then made a 'boy are you a dope' face..... I shrugged. She wagged her finger at me. Sushi-Guy eats the rest of it himself, but with another set of chopsticks. The rats disappear fast. Some nights Hot-Dog-Guy is on and he always sits up front in the first car.
I see people having sex all the time. They usually sit in the corners. Must be Risky Business fans. I don't know. Sometimes I go up and down the aisle giving out twenty dollar bills. Street types just grab it, especially if they know me from before. Middleclass couples (they show up once in a while) go - That's alright. Are you sure?..... I nod. They take it and go 'thank you.'.....
But this night I just sit there looking at people and thinking about the video Doctor Franklin showed me. Is something happening? What does it mean? Speaking in tongues.... They're all speaking in tongues. Look, they all claim to be spiritual in ISIS and all the other groups like it. Does 'spiritual' always mean good? Does 'religion' always mean right? It can. It should. But what does that mean?.....
An old cleaning woman, going home after a long hard shift , asks me if I'm alright. I nod. She says - Don't worry. It'll get better...... I say - I know... We're about to have a conversation when a SEPTA cop gets on. Everybody shuts up when they get on. He gives us looks like we're dealing crack, or killing somebody. I sigh and read my free copy of the Metro Paper. The old cleaning woman hums a song. SEPTA (Southeast Pennsylvania Transit Authority) cop goes down the aisle and crosses to the next car..... The old lady and I smile at each other...... Two guys, look lie waiters, or bartenders, or something get on. Probably going home from an after hours place. But they look OK. Old lady should be alright with them, so I get up and wait for the next stop, where I get out.
Before I do, she starts humming again... Not just humming, but sort of singing too.
I catch some of the words..... Just like in that video. She throws me a kiss, as the doors open and I step out onto the platform..
On the way home, I give my watch to a nurse's aide waiting for a bus. She doesn't want it at first, but I make 'vampire eyes' at her and she takes it.
Twenty two hundred dollar 'Tag' I think.
Seemed like the right thing to do...
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Franklin said - What do the words mean?... Jonathon said - What do they always mean? Love, altruism, acceptance, complete creation, or some variation there of. The question isn't what the words mean, but whether people want to listen... The old patriot rang and the 'wench' robot came in with more chilled vodka. She refilled the old, collectible goblets (from Jefferson's estate, if you remember), smiled and left. Doctor Franklin nodded to her, just as if she had an actual soul.... Jonathon watched and said - Do you think she knows what's going on? Do you think it matters to her, or is she just an appliance? What does she feel like? Does she feel like real skin? And there's another problem. What are we going to do when robots really do have souls? When will that happen? - asked the Doctor.... When they feel enough to ask if they do. When they miss other robots who've gone before. When they 'worry' about their own version of mortality. They'll know and so will we - said the vampire.... Then he continued - You know, I don't 'get' atheists. I mean I can understand how some people might visualize that on a mathematical level, but they all die so fast. Pffft! they're gone and their children and their grandchildren and their great grandchildren after them. Like onion skin, every mortal generation is like this, delicate layer of onion skin. You know how most 'worker' caste bees and ants live only one summer? How are they any different? Sometimes I have trouble remembering regular, mortal people I knew two or three hundred years ago. Do they really believe that's all there is? I mean what's the good of being Einstein, or Leonardo Da Vinci if save for a microscopic instant, for all eternity, you're oblivious and not just oblivious about 'being' Einstein or Leonardo Da Vinci... oblivious about everything? You're not dead. There is no death. There's just whatever mortal life is and then BLIP!... nothing..... Well, I don't believe that. You know what I think? What? - said Doctor Franklin. I think - said the vampire, that if preternatural creatures like us can exist... what else exists? I've told you about my visitations? Yep - said Franklin, many times.... And he chuckled.... Stop it. Don't be like that - said the vampire. What about you and your 'Grand Armonica?' What about harmonics and your method of self-preservation?.... Mine isn't 'magic.' Mine is real. Mine is science - said the Doctor. Well, there's something I didn't tell you, about what those children in Massachusetts said - mumbled Jonathon..... What? - asked the Doctor. The words were directed at me. Just me - said the vampire..... May I tell you that everyone who's seen the You Tube post and everyone here who's seen it too feels the same way? - added Franklin... Really? - asked Jonathon.... The old reprobate merely nodded... Then the next few weeks should be very interesting - said the vampire..... After that, they just sat there for a bit, each lost in his own thoughts, deep within the vast investigative, experimental facility that is 'The Anti-Enchantment Bureau.' Finally, Franklin said - Do you think one of us should tell a bloody, frightening story? Why? - said the vampire..... No reason. Just that Luna (one of his vampire, physician, assistants) says gory blog posts get more traffic. She said you told her - said The Doctor. Maybe I did - whispered Jonathon. You want to hear one? Doctor Franklin shrugged..... All right. How's this?... Once I saw a vampire, no, not a vampire, an early Russian Czar, sharpen the rim of an old, round spoon with a special stone. Then he used it to scoop out globular, bloody, gobbets of flesh from serf-girls asses. Some 'donated' one. Some 'donated' three. Each was at least an inch and a half across. Went down the line till he had a nice bowl full. A silver bowl, it was. Maybe pewter. It was tarnished. Hard to tell. Then he stomped down a stone passageway with one rough, cold cell at it's terminus. Inside was a shivering, dirty, bearded man, dressed only in the most ragged tatters. He hobbled over to the bars (due to his heavy, iron shackles and restraints) where he ooh'ed and ahh'ed at the red, soupy balls of raw meat.... The czar said - Your dinner, dog. A special feast. Enjoy it..... The incredulous, feral bastard squealed with delight, as the brimming feast was pushed through the bars by the czar's own boot. The coterie of toadies who accompanied the brutal ruler wherever he went watched approvingly, as the starving prisoner, slurped up and chewed each dripping mouthful, till his beard and the whole front of his rib cage was wet, red and greasy.... A fitting 'last meal' before facing death by impalement at cock's crow.
And the mutilated serf-girls, since no longer suitable for the czar's 'hospitality homes,' were chopped into steaks, cutlets and knuckles and fed to the pigs, though their heads were carefully pickled and coiffed before being considerately returned to their families.
That's how it was - said the vampire....
Franklin raised his glass in appreciation.
Jonathon said - You know I wanted to discuss politics and the presidential election too, tonight?
No time - said Franklin. I have to go exercise the female centaurina. Maybe next time?
Just my luck! - said the vampire.....
But Billy, who channeled all this and typed it up, posted a real nice and very fitting political classic for you to see.
Thank you and good night from Vampire Wonderland... brought to you by STOPETTE...
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