God's Gift (that's what Jonathon Means) Sets Us All Straight

After he left skinny, Miss Pissy Pants on the floor of that multi-leveled vehicle stable, Jonathon condensed back out on the street. It was quiet in the way only late night city streets can be. Steam issued forth from underground caldrons, rising into the night like silent, faceless ghosts. The thoroughfare was narrow, even by the standards of an old municipality like Philadelphia. Sansom Street, that is what it is called, a place lined with quirky restaurants, somewhat theatrical clothing establishments and other unusual venues. Some are at street level, others down a flight of steps in cellars. Back doors belonging to greater emporiums fronting onto Chestnut Street or Walnut Street also commandeer niches in the aging brickwork. The 'Morticia' crowd likes the place (when they tire of South Street's varied delights), but it tends to shutter early and our contemplative prince of darkness had the pavement all to himself. He walked on, the heels of his stylish bootkins tapping out a rhythm on the natural slate below. Every so often a discreet, little feral cat would peek out of the shadows to take his measure, before humbly bowing and retreating in his wake. He liked them. He smiled at them. But his mind was crackling, as the sparks of a billion neurons warmed his brain. Visions danced before his eyes of other lands and other times. Of perfumed gardens in the sun and moonlight on the sea. And he wanted those realities. For if he was planted here on the great eastern seaboard of a vast, new land, he was never-the-less not of this place. Oh, it had its charms. It had its attractions. But he would no longer allow it to control his psyche. Jonathon/Tomas was born under another star and he felt its pull upon his being once more. What does it mean, this vampire existance?  Is he truly one of the demi-angelic host? Who makes them? Which one was the first? And how could that first one come to be if there was not yet another, even earlier one there to pass on the gift? Someone was whispering in his ear. Who was it? He could not tell. There were fewer homeless people out on the streets. The spiritual rebirth (stemming from The Jonathon and Baylah Magic Show) took care of that. True, he was confronted by two sinister cut-throats sauntering down the opposite side of the street. He stopped. They stopped. He stared. They stared. But his gaze cut hard and hot and deep. The cut-throats coughed and blinked and looked away. Crisis averted. Did they deserve to be culled? Not tonight. Not tonight. Not now. He entered a fashionable, little, warm and cosseted cocktail lounge, slid into a welcoming, upholstered booth and ordered a double scotch, the good stuff. He did not drink it, but he enjoyed savoring the aroma. The boite was almost empty. A few well heeled couples sipped nightcaps before climbing up to their bastions in the sky. None looked particularly appetizing. No, he would not kill them. But he might steal a little blood kiss or two. Come morning it would be naught but a troubling, half remembered dream. He wan't supposed to do it. There were no 'visions.' But sometimes he did. So did the other two, though they swore up and down that they did not......The whispering came back. What was it saying? Who was talking? He could not tell. Perhaps Edith or one of the Red Paint Folks would help. Still, when he glanced into the smoky mirror hung behind the bar, he thought he saw the face of his creator.........

TMZ...........and the Vampires

wilkravitz doesn't want to type this out tonight. He wants to go to the casino. They have, I think, three of them. One is in the city. Two are in  the outskirts. The vampires don't want to give him any money. They're afraid he might get drunk on the free drinks and say something he should not say. But then Jonathon has a change of heart. He gives him a few presidential etching certificates from his own leather certificate folder. Wait, wait, wait, I know. I remember. He gives him five Benjamin Franklins. That's five hundred dollars. But he tells him to steer clear of strangers. wilkravitz says that he will. Then he goes down to get washed and dressed. It's cvold, real cold. So he bundles up in one of the shearling coats they got down there. Now he's ready, but he has to walk about a mile to get to the nearest street where he could maybe get a taxi cab. See? Taxi cab. Taxi cab. Taxi cab. Zeb remembers.. Sarah feels sorry for him. She yells - Want me to sublimate you over?...... He says - No, you don't have to go to any trouble........But she knows what that means, so she gets up to take him. Jonathon says - No, that's all right. You stay here. I will take hiim.......She asks - Are you sure?......He sighs, gets up and nods. She settles back and clicks on TMZ. She likes that show. Not for the gossip,because to be truthful, who really cares about those people. And do you really believe that stuff? But she likes to watch the way the kids they got working on that program treat the host. They have absolutely no respect or consideration for him and it shows. He's just a strange 'cultural' joke to them. They're so biased they don't even know it. I don't know why he takes it. Jonathon says what does he care; he's  laughing all the way to the treasure house. So wilkravitz meets Jonathon outside in the quiet, empty, woodlands of the park. He grabs him under the arms, clasps his hands accross his chest, shudders a little bit and they are off. wilkravitz knows the drill. They've done this before. To the occasional squirrel or dirty old pigeon, it looks as if they disappeared. But Jonathon uses some sort of vampiric ability to expand their molecules just a little, so they can rapidly pass through all forms of matter (air included) until they reach their destination. Then they slow down, hopefully in some secluded space where they can re-condense and they're done. That's it. So he let wilkravitz go behind a giant trash recepticle on the vehicle storage plain. wilkravitz most likely would not show up at the refuge till way after sunrise. That meant getting home was his own problem........... And Jonathon did not go directly back, for he's been vexed by a certain vision, a certain evil character just begging to get culled. So he hailed a cab, and rode into midtown, where he got out and went into a certain cozy, little men's shop he likes to frequent. The girls there like him and are always making eyes at him. They like to whip out that skinny, numbered, ribbon thing they got and measure him all up He likes that part too, especially when they're tying to figure out how long his new blue jeans should be. You know they are real careful about the fit. And he is one vain life-eater. I think I once told you. He tends toward a young Antonio Banderas, or maybe a slightly more angular faced  filled out version of that Vincent Chase kid the got on Entourage..........After he leaves that place he strolls over to the entrance of some multi-level, condominium for motor vehicles they got around there. He quietly goes in and winds his way up the ramps till he's on level four. That's where the bad man parks his shiny vehicle. Look, I don't have to tell you what he does. He's bad. He's evil. By his very presence he saps the Godliness out of the world. Jonathon saw him in a dream. He saw him in a vision. That's it. The 'guy's' done. He has to go. So our Zorro look-alike grabs him as he exits the little mechanical up and down room. He pulls him, all kicking and sputtering, behind a concrete pillar and he does it right then and there. The guy moans. His eyes roll back. He slumps down onto the asphalt surface. He coughs. He chokes. He wheezes. Loss of blood ultimately results in loss of oxygen, so they all suffocate. And then he dies. Yet just a second or two before he bursts into the cold, blue flames, just as Jonathon rifles his pockets for valuables and other assets, the door to the other up and down room opens and this skinny, little, pale faced, over dressed chicken girl tip taps her way out (high heels) and sees it all. She starts screaming and screaming. But the neighborhood is pretty empty at this hour so nobody hears her. And that sloppy, lazy kid they got working down in the glass pay-the-money booth ain't never gonna take his eyes off his little hand-held magic push botton space war game. So Miss Boney-Moroney is on her own. Jonathon catches her. He hugs her. He puts his hand over her mouth. Sure she fights him. But then she quiets down. Her heart is still pounding, but she does not move around too much. He says something. He whispers in her ear. He says - You tell me. You tell me. Was he a good mman? Was your boss (and also her sex partner) really a good man? She shakes her head 'no,' and stares wide eyed at the body. Only by this time the blue flame has done its work and there ain't  really too much body left there. So Jonathon pulls off his two carat diamond pinkie ring and stuffs it into her hand. He says - Here, here, take it. Keep it. This is for you. She softly caresses it in her fingers, but she does not say a word. Then he just disappears (sublimated actually) and is gone. The skinny girl just sat there and peed herself right where she was............

The Book of All Things New / El Libro de Todos las Cosas Nuevas

Morticia goes dancing through the vapors with the elves on a nightly basis. Sometimes with Albion and Marianne. And sometimes with Celeste and Roland. The first two quite reverent. The second pair a bit naughty. But both couples always get the job done. Their purpose? Raining benefits upon the poor. Sick people receive a 'magical' blood vial. Those lacking 'coin' gain wealth. Everyone feels better, especially the immortals. Their favorite? The 'hundred thousand dollar drop.' Imagine being a struggling, almost homeless, single mother with perpetually sick children who suddenly finds herself the proud possessor of a premium, designer handbag (the elves and vampires furnish that too) stuffed with a huge supply of neatly wrapped twenty dollar bills. Publishers' Clearing House? Forget them bitches. Our 'people' do a better job any night. And nobody gets sat on to buy a bunch of bathroom cluttering, old magazines. But there has to be a certain amount of 'cullings' in order to build up those funds. Jonathon, Sarah and Baylah take care of that. The third one hears a lot of juicy stuff through her equities trader boyfriend. So she has a steady stream of nasty big money swindlers waiting for her attentions. Kiss-kiss, bite-bite, grab the Rolex and wallet, goodnight. Sarah and Jonathon do their part too. Even with all the spiritual rebirth going on around town, there are always a few skeptical specimens reluctant to give up their old ways. And if we truly expect to change the world we can't have that.. So the money comes in and the money goes out. And everybody's happy. God bless those jewelry fencing/money laundering familiars of ours. But life (or the vampires version of it) was still good around here. Baylah would dress up and make a personal appearance as 'The Lady' from time to time. Jonathon, not so often. But he still did it when he felt like. True, Edith or a Red Paint, or somebody else would get a little tingle about something troubling coming up over the horizon (The Teacher maybe?), but we tended to push that stuff to the back of our minds. The refuge in the Fairmount Park woods was especially comfy. They even had a brand new, black, shiny baby grand piano in that place. And people with black, shiny, baby grand pianos tend to ignore the nazi at the door. Sarah and Jonathon would sit in front of the 'authentic' electric fireplace during the wee hours of the morning and talk. He'd tell her about other times and other places. Sometimes he'd show her certain pages in his old, vellum journal. She couldn't understand the old Castilian and such, but he'd explain it and make it all right for her. One night she said - So it happens a lot? Vampires impersonating heavenly messengers, I mean...........He answers - Yes, it does. And sometimes it's  vampires impersonating other vampires impersonating heavenly messengers. It can get  very confusing at times. .............She responds - Well, are there any real ones? Heavenly messengers, I mean......... He smiles and says - That, my dear, is a matter of faith.............................. It takes at least eightyfour hours for a whale to travel from the Italian coast to the Jersey shore. The clock is ticking. Company's coming....... Zebulon out.

The Book of All Things New

Even Zebulon did not know. The Shaky Hand Man was an emination of my mind, my soul, my dreams. Even I was not completely aware of it. But it was always me. I would explain things to you and tell you of my beginnings, but I do not feel like it. Perhaps sometimes yet to come, after we have grown accustomed to each other I will........Oh, you know, I think the whale does surface and breathe, however the salve encasing me protects my body from the light. Do I see it? Do I experience it? No, I do not. Maybe I drag a thick, gray, bone chilling damp coffin lid of weeping clouds with me. Maybe that is it. Or maybe, something else........I like whale blood. I like whale-life. The creature is quite safe. I could never take it all. The taste is so rich and thick and complex. Think about it, an 'animal' that goes everywhere. It has a sense of our planet as a planet. a finite orb, a tear drop poised in space. My friend, my companion, my traveling partner. This one is in the family way. I can hear the new one deep inside. It's a 'little' blue-ling, the spawn of giants and a future prince of the ocean sea. I talk to it when the mother lets me, when her own voice grows still. She is pensive and contemplative, for she nears the end of her life. This calf will be her last. She has passed three hundred and fifty years  now and by all accounts will die sometime 'round her four hundredth year. Long by your standards, but short by mine........... I 'saw' a figure. A man, I think it was, walking along the abyssmal plain at the bottom of the sea. True, there was a complete abscence of light, but if the whale detected him, ( their echo power, I suppose) I detected him. An image formed in my mind and it was very much like sight. He shuffled along, never looking to the left and never looking to the right. We swam by him, but he never once acknowledged our presence. Yet even in the darkness, he must have felt the eddy as we passed. But then I knew why. For he did not have a face. The front half of his skull, including the lower mandible, was hacked away, probably by the massive beak of a giant squid. A shredded clump of bloodless scraps bounced up and down as he progressed. He wore some sort of contemporary tunic. I belive they call it a t-shirt. The words 'Maroon Five' were inscribed accross the chest. I do not know what that means. And I do not understand how the whale's echo vision could have accomplished such a thing. His pants were quite ordinary, similar to the loosely tailored garments worn by peasants and rustics during the time before my abduction. And I noticed that the flesh on his hands and feet had been completely gnawed away. Then we moved on and abandoned him to the inky darkness. One encounters such things from time to time. Humans generally discredit such tales. Think of Roswell, Area 51 and Sleepy Hollow. You know what I mean. But pay attention. Open your eyes. Throw away the blinders. You just may learn a lot. Be patient. Wait till I 'dissembark.'.  And if you won't admit the truth of such things, know this... If you 'can't' see me.....I can still see you......

The Book of All Things New

A whale can course through the ocean faster than the sleekest ship. They marry the womb-like broth and pass through it with complete familiarity. I lay pressed against the gigantic back. My fangs penetrate into the blood-rich hide. No thing, no entity can break this bond. We pass through time and space as one. A protective gelatinous substance oozes from its pores, enveloping my body, smoothing out the rough spots. My being is one with the noble beast. We slice through the briny abyss, speeding passed transluscent, light-emiting organisms. They decorate the darkness like the Saturnalia of Rome. Ah, how I savor those memories. Let my come upon my New World offspring. Let me meld with my New World brethren. Let me instruct them in the way that we should live. For they follow false doctrine and 'The Teacher' needs to set things right. A vampire's life? Bah! They nibble at it like worms on a corpse, when they should tear into it with the strong, bloody teeth of a lion. I saw things. And I know things. I sensed them as they penetrated the stones of my Vatican mausoleum/prison. I tasted them in the salty, red soup of my victims. I saw what they saw, the sweating, human beef of a hundred generations, the ever changing tools of the necromancers. What is a 'lap top' but yet another magic mirror? What is an Amy Winehouse, a Jimmy Fallon, a Bret Favre, a Pink, but contemporary incarnations of long gone Jongleurs? True, interesting, to say the least. I wonder how they will taste? Ah, to live in freedom. To drink in an atmosphere free of sticky mold, decay and corruption. Soon I will know. Soon I will know. Hello, Snookie. Greetings you wearers of eightteen hour bras. Salutations you drinkers of double lattes. I will slurp you up. I will eat you all! My eyes stare out through the milky balm that encases me. Tiny remnants of fragile lifeforms raining down from sun pierced layers stream passed me. I feel the pressure. I feel the depth. I feel it all..... I wonder how they dress in my 'son's' new home? I do so favor a fine tailored doublet. Would that I might find one on that 'Walnut Street' I think they call it. Look for me. You'll know me, for you've never seen the like....................Zebulon talking. Did you read that? Can you imagine this fellow? Is he ever going to be a handful. Annie and her hounds? Nope. That condensed distilation of evil known as The Shaky Hand Man? Please! They are as fleas. But this one will be different. This one will tempt them. And we will see  how 'nobel' our blood drinkers truly are.......But of late, I enjoy watching Roland and Celeste. Who are they? The other two elves, usually content to silently soak things in from the background. But now they are different, stealing out to explore the world with a child-like wonder. It does my heart (or at least  the memory of my heart) good to look upon them. They hide in the ventilation ducts running up above the flimsy 'dropped ceiling' tiles  in department store changing rooms. They peek down through the metal lattices, pointing long, thin fingers and giggling their soundless giggles. Do you think you can hear them? No, you cannot. For they are quiet as dust. Follow our story. Read our tale. Learn our ways. Edith says that one or two of you will be 'translated' before all this is over. I wonder who it will be? I wonder which one of our life eaters will drip the magic on you? I wonder............

The Book of Edith.... sometimes it's my turn

OK, so you know I got the crazy eye (the inner one, I mean) and can read minds and see stuff. Well, my brain (I think it's my brain) is gettin' all clogged up with all this crap and I gotta make room for more. So here goes..... 1) A girl in New Jersey better keep her mouth shut if she knows what I mean, 'cause her friend ain't exactly her friend. And if she likes workin' in that salon she better look for a new lunch partner. That, or eat a lot of dry, crunchy salads - takes a lot of chewin', less time for talkin'.......2) A certain 'you know who'  in Bucks County, Pennsylvania had better get a plumber in to check out that hall bathroom, 'cause it's about to blow a gusher and stain up all that new, 'paper bag' colored paint in the dining room.....3) To the guy with the new Silverado ----- she knows and she is sending the pictures to your mother!.......4) To the folks in # 608 --- When the kid next door turns on its little sister's 'tickle me elmo' it does something to the plate she got in her head and she can see right thru to your master bathroom. But don't worry too much, 'cause she runnin' outta batteries and her mom don't wanna buy her none. So that should end things, unless the little bastid goes rougue and starts boostin' 'em from the Rite-Aid. 5) The next four people who recruit four new readers for this blog are gonna win a new volkswagon Jetta , either that, or I got my telepathic abilities all screwed up with somebody's tee-bo of Drew Carey or somethin'..... Man does that make my scalp itch!

The Book of All Things New

This is Zebulon  bringing you the word from Philadelphia. The pilgrimages continue. Actually, they've really just begun. People report cures. Physcians are 'skeptical' since they can't figure out a way to grab the spotlight and collect money for it all. But know this, the cures are real. Fender  benders are down too. Mindless schoolyard fights and frenzies are down. And the people on the bus are so damn friendly, so damn friendly, so damn friendly. Life is like a song. Everything is kiss-kiss, hug-hug, good hot soup filled with roses and puppies. Our immortal threesome keeps filling those little miraculous blood vials and the elves and cherubs go right on delivering them. Investigative reporters criss cross the town searching for angles (angels too) and stories. Fistfulls of glittering lucre from the vampires treasure cache find their way into deserving, needy pockets. Bag ladies rent luxury apartments. Poor kids on food stamps suddenly have ten thousand dollar bank accounts. Best of all,  no one feels compelled to ask any troublesome questions. And 'urban grunge' becomes the look of choice at all the best tables in stylish restaurants, at least until the diners find the time to purchase an assortment of fashionable outfits. This is a quiet time for the vampires. What,  did you think they do not have them? Well, they do. It is not always high drama, clenched jaws, flaring nostrils, butt cheeks pinched together and other forms of soap opera madness. That stuff only happens on the lesser TV networks (both free and cable) and in teen-between, 'I'm so misunderstood,' blood sucker mall movies. Real life is completely different. So there is plenty of time for our vampires to explore their world and their feelings and each other. Baylah has a boyfriend. He visits her at the piano bar. They spend the night as his place. Didn't I tell you about him already? I could swear I did. He's what we called a merchant-banker. Now they call him an equities trader. He has a seat on the Philadelphia Stock Exchange and a fine, carefully tailored, red brick, Center City, petit palace, not to mention a magazine worthy weekend/summer place 'down the shore.' Does he know about her unusual condition? I don't know. But he must know something. True, it is a dangerous game telling mortals. But Jonathon's familiars know about him, so why should this fellow be any different? Still, he does not know she is 'Our Lady of the Olive Garden. But he does know a lot. I can tell. I have a feeling. Speaking of feelings.....Sarah and Jonathon are certainly getting in touch with theirs. They've taken to wandering naked through the dim and shuttered galleries of the Art Museum.... a pair of regular tableau vivants. Why? Why not? And (in the same condition) they made love right on top of the polished, granite slab dedicated to the unknown soldiers of The Revolution in the middle of Washington Square. Did anybody see? They must have. No one said anything. It was three thirty in the morning. True, a lot of cats started vocalizing, but I don't know if the two events were in fact connected or not. Most of the people living in the high rises around that way have fairly steady incomes, so they were probably snoring away in preperation for  next mornings's trot on the tread-wheel.. Then, when they get tired of that (Jonathon and Sarah, I mean) they sublimate into the zoo, where they ride the magically liberated great, white, arctic bears through the deserted, cobbled lanes. And according to the residents of monkey island, it is quite the show. Want to hear something else I know? Hitler and Liberace  have a big, hit show in the neather world.. No, they're not exactly neighbors. Hitler gets a work pass to commute up for the show. What's it called? I told you...The Hitler and Liberace Show! Look, I'll see if I can get you tickets when you die. No, really, I promise.. So, don't say I never do anything for you............