GHOSTLY VIBRATIONS IN THE NIGHT

Papa has a theory about the Enemy, the alien enemy, I mean. He thinks they've always been there watching and waiting. How can we, both humans and vampiric, know how long other races have existed? Is it not possible for some to be millions of years old and perhaps even far older than that. Look at the Neanderthal vampires inhabiting the unexplored vastness of Siberia. What would happen to them in a modern city? How would they function? What role could they play? The evolutionary line known as human has moved on. They no longer appear to be one of us. Might we not seem just as primitive to other beings? What regard would they have for us? Do farmers in Africa turn away to avoid disinheriting troops of chimpanzees?

It could be that we were merely curiosities up to now. They must have occupied other worlds. They must have exploited other resources. Maybe they need more? Maybe we have them? But isn't it reasonable to assume they'd possess the ability to artificially fabricate the necessities of life? Could they not be World Builders instead of destroyers? Yet things change when faith enters into it.

I think Papa knows more than he lets on. It could be that he has had dealings with these beings in the past. What do they call them, the Aninaki, the Nefalim, the boogey man? Please understand that Zebulon (your ever obedient disembodied spirit) has never encountered such entities, neither in the flesh, or in the spirit. Perhaps their dead pass on to another part of Heaven. Perhaps they do not die?

The mysterious Red Paint People know something too. I've seen them, the two Captain Jean-Luc Picard clones and their Picabo Street women. They sit together under the trees. Look, they're doing it right now, all wrapped up in their plaids and mackinaws. Do you suppose they order from L.L. Bean? (even disembodied spirits know things like that). One of the women holds a raccoon. See how she strokes it. No fear at all. Her mate (I assume) warms a little snake in his hands. How bright and colorful it is. Do not serpents sleep through this time of year? But this one seems so lively.

And a subtle frequency passes between them, an electronic vibration. How do they generate such a thing? Papa feels it. He senses it. Look at him, sitting up there on the porch. See? He's not rocking anymore. He's just 'listening.' The others are off exploring, Sarah and Jonathon, I mean. Annie 'flew' off with the elves and cherubs. I don't think she can actually float up into the air by herself. She needs them. Look, maybe she's managed it once or twice, but it's not something she can rely on. Not yet.

Jonathon likes to silently pick his way through the old ghost towns. They have them here in the Pines. Tiny, isolated settlements dating back to the Revolution, or to the dawn of the industrial age. He finds things, old discarded cups holding snips and snaps of shredded ghosties, wandering memories, the moaning echos of ancient songs. Sometimes someone greets them. Perhaps a long forgotten granny woman left shivering under thin, worn blankets? Look at her bones shining in the moonlight. I wonder if she sees the stars? They leave the tumble down shack and sublimate down into a deep, dark mine. Men are buried here. Let your fingers feel what your eyes cannot see. How contorted they are. What was it like to be buried alive? Did the soil scrape their corneas? Did the pressure crack their ribs? Sarah passes through the body of a young boy. She tastes the words of his final prayer. Jonathon adds benedictions of his own.  They rise up into the dappled moonlight, playing through the crispy lace of brown and crumbling leaves. A bobcat studies them. So does the still twitching rat in its jaws. Even the fleas take notice, kindred spirits. Blood suckers all.

Yet someone with out eyes sees them too. No ghost eyes, or jelly filled ones. It feels them. It savors them. It measures them. And then it moves on. Papa 'sees' it. He freezes, as if listening to the wind. But then it passes. And Edith puts down her knitting. She steps off the porch, moves out into a moonbeam, spreads her arms wide, looks up toward eternity and smiles. The night birds provide haunting accompaniment.

And when night comes to Jerusalem, the night birds sing there too. The aliens are everywhere......Shhhhh... don't move......Can you hear them?

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HUMAN CHILDREN TURNED TO SLUGS UPON WHITE HOT SAHARA SANDS

Meanwhile, back at the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau, Baylah is making a good recovery. She remembers little of the searing pain, but recalls a troubling dream. Hordes of tiny piranha surround her in a hot, steamy shower. They spurt out of the shiny, wet tiles and wriggle up from the drain. hundreds of them slap their cold, clammy bodies against each other as they swin toward her naked flesh. You know those little metal and plastic jaw-clamps they use to pull staples out a papers? Well that's what their teeth are like. Each and every razor sharp bite scoops out a neat, little appetizer sized dollop of flesh, till she looks like a screaming slab a bloody swiss cheese with a  soaking wet lady head and  oh-so-vulnerable bouncing lady breasts. OUCH! that must hurt! And as the red fluid washes down from her once shapely body, squadrons of miniature, strong-armed lunchroom matrons squeeze their asses up out of a bottle of Herbal Essence shampoo to manically stir the borscht-like concoction into a heady brew. Then, approximately half a hearbeat later, she's lying naked on a freezing ice flow pitching and rolling through cold Antarctic seas, as Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons (circa 1963) play buck-buck for the right to do all kinds a nasty things to her under a vivid, star-kist, clear, black sky.

Then she wakes up, suspended in the throbbing chords of the GreatArmonica and it's all over. The tickling vibrations feel good. Each magnetic resonance stimulates her body in a new and delicious way. The burns begin to pucker up and close, till her skin seems covered with thousands of pouting kissy-lips.

And she hears the muffled sound of rasping sea ditties, as the mermaid hag serenades her through the walls. While somewhere, in a hidden place come the raw and oozing screams of an imprisoned Jersey Devil.......Shhhhh, he's rattling the bars. Someone yells - Throw him the fat, little human girl. That'll shut him up......... But another voice says - No, she goes to that vampire bitch they got twitchin' in the G.A. (Great Armonica) Room. Can't you SEE the number on her ass!?........ Thus Baylah knew her next meal was in the offing.

Doctor Franklin poured over data spewed through the many fontlets of his new liguid matrix computer (the first of its kind). I could provide a more detailed description of this miraculous device, but then our agents would be forched to pluck you out of your warm, cozy beds the better to de-spine-a-tate you (the bones make such good soup and after all, the Jersey Devil DOES have to be fed.)

Don't be shocked. We prepare for war, kiddies. Desperate times breed desperate measures. The aliens don't hold back. Look down from the heavens ( if you have that ability). There, behind those towering dunes. Right there, just a little to the left of the navel of the Sahara. See them? No! Not the fleeing, human skeletons! I mean the children, those boys with the shaven heads. The ones turned to caterpillars from the neck down. How plump and funny they are. Oh, the sun must burn. See them? But how can you not see them!? The vultures do! And the little black things.... what are they, scorpions? Well they appear to see them quite well too.

And our friends in the New Jersey Pine Barrens? What news have we of them? Well they stomp their feet to old Scots-Irish bawdy songs, played through a chill, November night, while Little Annie hugs her knees and rocks deleriously in the corner..... Oh, look at Pin-Head-Mel clapping. He likes it. He really likes it....... Faster, Annie! Rock faster. Rock faster!

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LIFE IN THE COLD, DAMP, LONESOME PINES......weird folk style, with pin-heads, albinos and everything

It's cold in the pines. whatever power we have (not magical, I mean juice) comes from two small, old, smelly generators. Edith's husband takes care of that stuff. And I'm not sure this is the same husband she had the last time we hid out here. Even the vampires are more conventional than some of the people they got out here in the Pines. Most are alright, but they got these colonies of individuals just itching to be in a banjo-playin' movie. Funny to think this all goes on about an hour and a half from Philadelphia and New York City. They say the Pines make up one of the largest swaths of woodlands east of the Mississippi. People been hiding here for centuries. Some were moonshiners. A few were nonviolent types during the War Between the States. Throw in a passel o' cruelly rejected albinos (I'm talkin generations back), sprinkle liberally with 'misunderstood' not-quite-razzle-dazzle-enough-to-be-circus-freaks young ladies and gentlemen and you got yourself one right lively rural community.

The state put up some fire-observation-decks years ago. Rangers come out every so often. They climb to the top of these little, rustic, Eiffel towers and look for smoke. Forest fires can be mighty troubling 'round here. They've had some big ones. A few were so massive, whoever was interested could see 'em wavin' yoo-hoo from outer space. Locals trot up to those tree-top look-outs to see how the geese are flyin', or maybe at night to gawk at the huge celestial vault of intimidating, icy stars. Timber goes on for miles. Looks like a northern version of The Amazom, 'cept nobody got bones in they noses (well, a few might) and almost all the tah-tah's stay under wraps. It gets COLD here. Tah-tah's ain't dumb.

We stay round the cabin mostly. A few other 'families' live close by. You can hear 'em when they start beatin' on each other. That's how we know who's home or not. They say the Red Paint contingent's been 'round here since forever. Some mixed in with the paleo-Indians. Others just lived like prehistoric hippies, I guess. If you see 'em up close they look 'normal' enough. The men bear a striking resemblance to Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Star Ship enterprize and the wimmen-folk favor well-known-downhill-Olympic-skier, Picabo Street. But I think we told you that a ways back.

This is me, wilkravitz, tappin' everything out. Couldn't tweet much today, like I usually do, 'cause them generators keep throwin' they legs up in the air and goin' dead on us. Did learn how to skin a muskrat though. Man is that a slippery, slimy operation.  But Annie likes doin' it. Can't eat 'em, but she loves the killin' and dressin' part. Ain't had none yet, myself, but I hear one a the 'Paint' wimmen cooks up a mean muskrat parmegiana. Talk about your cultural cross fertilization.

Papa, Jonathon,Sarah and the little ones snuggle up together down in the root cellar. We got a real deep one out here. Good place for hiding homemade whiskey AND vampires. Don't know where Luna is. Baylah's still with Doctor Franklin. Could be that Luna's there too, but I don't know.

Look, of course you know I don't always talk like this, but we're all going a little Pine-Barren-Crazy. Guess it's a reaction to all the uncertainty , what with them scary, soulless (by our standards anyway) aliens sniffin' 'round them outter planets. And they DID shove that 'glass' shard in my eye. Baylah was almost all burnt up. Shit... what do you want from us?

The vampires are gettin' hungry. It's that time a the month. Not to  many wicked, evil people for them to gnaw on out here. That's gonna be a problem.

Gotta stop now. Time for me to trot through the bracken and play parchesi  with Pin-Head-Mel. Damn he takes that game so seriously. Purt near bit part a my ear off. Good thing them Pineys knows lots a heap a doctorin'........

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OLD VAHMPEERIGO MELODIES IN CHILL PINE BARREN WOODS

This is Johannan. I was once Jonathon's servant. I saved him from burning all those many lifetimes ago. I pushed him under the stone table. He lived. I died. And he became a vampire. Did I do the right thing? Does it matter? I am, as you may recall, a disembodied spirit, currently sojourning among the faithful of Jerusalem. I 'walk' with Jean-Michel and Lailah and Renate and The Three Magcicians. But our world is in turmoil, so I speak for my former charge.

An evil force, a brutal enemy threatens our part of the Firmament. Evil jinns? Gossip not of those spiteful children. I've come to warn of World Crushers and Soul Killers. The one you know as 'Papa' is correct. Something wicked, this way comes. Where have I heard that phrase? Is it in The Bible? Or maybe someplace else?

Look at them, resting among the Piney People. Such false security. Papa knows. So does the Lady Renate. She has eminated out from the Holy City, hiding among the dark, chill depths of a world known to the 'Kittim' (Hebrew term for Romans) as Europa. I two would look, but I am afraid. Too many bloodthirsty demons have breeched these eyes. I will not recognize such devils anymore.

The tragic ones, the elves and cherubs settle right in, flitting about the cold, night woodlands like so many Puckish sprites. Jonathon sits and talks with the Forest Folk. Sarah knits with the ladies. Papa attempts to commune with his vampiric mother. He wants to 'talk' with Renate. But The enemy knows this and they confound his efforts.

Some say they are a piscene species, scaled and toothless, but possessed of hard, thick, crushing lips. Others calim spiders. A few talk of centaurs. Perhaps they are all three and even many more? Who can guess at the wizardry of such old ones?

Aristocratic Manta Ray People glide silently passed their unwelcome guests. Europa is in tears, for they are not a marshall race and cannot send them packing. Renate confers with their king. They've handled 'black-hearts' before, but none so dark as these. Look at them smirking. See them undulate down the sunless boulevards. Shape-changers, usurpers, theives. Hear them utter empty prayers. Know the hate-filled gaze. 

Believers will be tested. And I speak not of any one particular Divine Footpath. For as the Kittim say - All roads lead to Rome.

Baylah rests among the subterranean, Philo-delphian necromancers. You may know them as The-Anti-Enchantment-Bureau. Doctor Franklin  suspends her in a miraculous, lode-stone web. And the music of it, the melody of the Grand Armonica is sublime in all its forms. She mends. And there are whispers among the corridors. Some say he seeks an opening, a tiny delicate thread of creation linking our world to the next. No, I speak not of The Heavenly Realm, but of parallel kingdoms. Universes, I think you call them. For if The Enemy prevails, such will be your only means of escape..........

Now please, allow me to forget a moment. Permit me to drift off and listen, for Jonathon sings songs in Old Vahmpeerigo (archaic, vampire, Catalan-like, Romance Language) and I do so love the sound of his voice.

Enjoy the balm of these resinous woods, my best beloved. Rest easy... for a while. The war comes soon enough......... Evil jinns? Bah! Don't make me laugh!

O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O>O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O<O

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A MIDNIGHT SIDE SHOW RACES FOR SALVATION

please don't expect too much accurate spelling or correct punctuation. (not that I'm very proficient at the best of times) We're in a convoy, two big, heavy, black cars speeding along the Atlantic city Expressway. there wasn't m uch time. Baylah had an encounter with the uber-murderous biological entities.(the ones currently camping out on Europa and a few other outter solar system moons).

she was making some food for her cat, Esmerelda. The sleek, little siamese trollop is addicted to nova scotia salmon seasoned with freshly ground black pepper. Baylah keeps a special grinder (God forbid she should run out) right on the counter of her little jewel-box of a pied a terre. It's over the cozy piano bar. Yes, that's back up and running, but we don't have time for that.

trouble is, something startled her. she heard a sound, like a high pitched hum, or a blood vessel about to break. It made her drop the ridiculously expensive grinder, which exploded into a million pieces (it was crystal). The cat ran out to her safe spot under the rare, silk, Louis XV tufted ottoman. It's amazing all these nice things stay intact, but Edith did a hootchy-koo (a pow-wow spell) and so far (not counting the grinder) it's been working

It happened when she bent down to clean up the mess. the tiny grains of pepper simply stuck to her. she could not brush them off. Others, still on the fine, gray, hand-cut slate floor, started to 'gravitate toward her, winding their way along the cold surface like teeny-tiny ants homing in on a honey pot.  As each touched her skin, it errupted into a barely visible speck of fire.  She screamed. she slapped at her legs and torso trying to put them out. but there were thousands of them.

When the fire reached her hair it set off the smoke alarm. People ran up from the bar. Her manager, Mickey pounded on the door. And he's a big guy, but there's no way he could break it down. Vampires believe in extreemly strong doors. Oh, he knows she's a life-eater. but the people at the bottom of the stairs didn't and one of them calls 911. Mickey yells - Baylah! Baylah! The cops are comin'! The cops are comin'!

she goes into a panic. Not all the cops know about them. Some do and some don't. And she don't know who they're gonna send. So she runs out the little kitchen, pounds into the livingroom and vaults through the big window looking out on Rittenhouse Square. Glass flies everywhere. the frame shatters. People scream. A lady throws up. Some guy's brand new Porsche (I'm sorry, but I don't know what model) jumps the curb and smashes right through the front of the bar. Her huge fish tank crashed out onto the sidewalk. Live sushi is slappin' around everywhere. Feral cats are dashing out of the bushes. But the worst thing is some kid, working for The City Paper gets a shot of this human-shaped, orange meteor arcing up through the night and making for the river........ It was like Bob-on-You-Tube all over again. They even talked about it on Night Line. Martin Bashir gave it the last five minutes.

Luckily, Doctor Franklin was out tooling around on his little electric, old-people's scooter. Nobody recognises him. What? With all the ersatz Ben Franklins they got around here (like Mickey Mouses in Disney World) one more fat old fart gonna make a difference? And remember he ain't dressed in one a them George Washington suits. Now he favors baggy fleece wear from Walmart (hey, a penny saved...) Better for hiding the Depends (he's a good scientist, but some things are beyond the range of human comprehension). So he calls to his guys in the Anti-Enchantment-Bureau. and forty five seconds later, two small cigarette-like craft come speeding out from under a dock to intercept the steaming hunk a meat thrashing around in the Delaware. They bundle the crying vampirina into one of the boats and race back to their sub-terranean lair.

I don't know. I don't know. A big boat full a bloated tourists and suburbanites on a dinner cruise might a seen something. But I was told most of them were inside doin' the Macarena and fightin' over pigs-in-the-blankets. Thank God for tradition. Still, it was thought best for us all to go into hiding. Look, Baylah's a vampire. She'll heal fast. Those guys at the Bureau will see that she has the best of everything. And she likes visiting with the mermaid hag (google it). But things are getting strange around here. I know. I know. I know. That's a relative term.

Right now I'm jammed into the back seat of a wedding limo (from a familiar) between two wide-eyed, terrified elves and three gleefully screeching cherubs, as we streak down the highway towards Edith's people, deep in the Pines. Some of us have holed up with them before, but not like this. Woo Hoo! The circus is in town!!

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GUESS WHO'S COMING TO 'EAT' YOU FOR DINNER?

Papa finally told them. He calmed down and he told them. I could let wilkravitz tell you, but I don't know if he understands it all. So I'll tell you. It is I, Zebulon. And yes, yes, yes, you're probably asking how much the disembodied spirit of a thirteen year old, dead for more than twentyone hundred years, Judean boy could comprehend. But know this..... I haven't been playing 'hounds and jackals' all that time. This one is precocious. This one absorbs things. I have listened at the tables of the great, both on my home world and in less parochial surroundings as well.

Tell me. you've heard Papa speak of the manta ray people on Europa, no? So you understand humans are not the be all and end all of creation, yes? Intelligent 'civilizations' pepper the galaxies like cinnamon on hal-vah (that  is if you like the cinnamon/vanilla variety. create your own visual image if you do not.) And our own family of planets, besides housing us and the fishy-people, shelters two colonies of strangers. Yes, yes, yes.....I know the Holy Scriptures teach us that no one is truly a stranger, 'for strangers ye were in Egypt, before I came to save you'..... and we're supposed to have learned from experience. Fences are artificual human constructs. We are all one, since The Lord is One. Look, I did go to Bible School before they stoned me. So I know all that. I know ' if in your stubbornness you find a 'stranger' in your midst, be even more to them than to one of your own, for they expect so very much less.'........... One of my favorite passages. But them that's coming tend to stretch those sentiments a little. 

Papa's seen them. They visit the manta ray people too. Oh, it's not like the fishy-folk love them so much. And yes. they have had their own revelation. But these creatures are different. You hate bed-bugs? You hate Great White Sharks? You hate Europan-Manta Ray People-Eating-Snails?....OK, bad example. Them, you do not know.  But, come on. You must be getting the idea. Does the thought of spending your days imprisoned in a skin farm intrigue you? Do you know what it's like to be flayed alive? Do you know what that means? Or how 'bout slaving away in an organ mine, entombed in the dark with alien gelatinous masses glued down into your innards, feeding on you from the inside out till they mature and can be harvested. And I'm talking 'bout the esecutive possitions here.

Sure, they act different on Europa. The manta rays have the wrong type of cellular structure. But YOU DON'T. What? You're wondering why they'd do things like that? You're asking why, if they can traverse stellar distances, can't they simply synthesize any biological tissues they might need? Well, that's an easy one  to answer. I'll tell you...... It's against their religion.

Papa recognized the crystaline material in that shard. He saw it on Europa. They fashion their armor from it. Or maybe it grows, organically, out of their bodies? I don't know. Some of them must have been buzzing around up there. Guess they're ready now. Maybe the shard found its way out in a big, doughy turd of space shmutz? Maybe they wanted it to?

Vampires should be able to survive. They can always sublimate. Oxygen is only a comfort and not a necessity to them. Even the blood is only a comfort. Taking life is what keeps them going. And they'll learn  to kill something else....

What about you? What about your family? What about the little ones?

It's only gonna get worse before it starts getting better.

And for once, I wish this really was fiction.......

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TOLD YOU THAT MUTTER MUSEUM WAS A SINISTER PLACE...AND IT'S REALLY THERE TOO.... HAPPY MIDNIGHT AFTER HALLOWEEN

So we're all sitting on these old fashioned wood folding chairs. The watchman guy has them set up in the middle of this sort of wide aisle passing by a big, glass display case containing a life cast of the naked bodies of Chang and Eng, the first mass-marketed Siamese Twins. No, for real. They had these Chang and Eng hand puppets. But it was hard for the kiddies  to manipulate them, 'cause like what if little Lucas or Hezikiah had to wipe up a sneeze or something? That's why they're such collectors' items today.

Some vampire kid from the Main Line came too. Blackie, I think his name is. I think he has a thing for Baylah, but she's still stuck on her rich, human boyfriend. Papa's just sitting there with his arms folded staring off into space. He doesn't care what happens. He just goes with the flow.Jonathon and Sarah care. They're like two soccer  parents chairing a PTA meeting. She's even got this little, spiral note pad to write in. The watchman gave each of us a nice aroma candle. Scent's a little harsh though. Think he got 'em at the dollar store. But there ain't no little tables here, so everybody put 'em down on the floor under their chairs. That's why we look like a bunch a fancy, human shaped buffet entrees simmerin' they asses over a mess a wax-lip-smellin' tea lights. Strange looking, but so appropriate for Halloween.

Papa took out the glass shard and passed it around. We all seen it before. Baylah didn't. Blackie didn't. She picked it up and sniffed it. The Elvis-lookin'-kid licked the tip with his tongue. Papa held out his hand. They gave it back to him. He wrapped it up in a fancy pocket cloth and put it away. We  sat in silence for about a dozen heartbeats. The quarter-wit watchman but on an old Weird Al Yankovich cassette. Papa yells - Turn that shit the hell off!! Watchman don't move fast enough, so Papa just scoops it up and drop-kicks it out one a the, hundred and fifty year old, quarter inch thick, panes in the original, iron framed sky-light. Lucky Twenty Second Street's deserted this late at night. Watchman says - I'm sorry. Jus thought you'd like some background music. Blackie gets a fit a laughing. Papa shoots him a look and his chair goes poof and disappears in a puff a smoke. This causes the ambient gravity in the room to yank his ass down, right on top a that little scented candle flame. And he starts bouncin' 'round and yelpin' like one a the Three Stooges. Baylah impatiently snaps her fingers transforming the tiny tushie-flames into miniature, wined monkeys, who fly off his ass and race out through the broken skylight, taking the searing pain along with them. The kid (who now sports a pair a jeans like the ones made famous in that Ryan O'Neal classic, 'So fine.' (google it. he made butt-less jeans. there, now you know) mouths a silent 'thank you' and sits down onn a cold, marble sarcophagus.

Sarah says - Look, if you all have so much power, why are we concerned about that shard of glass? Can't you just 'magic' away any danger? Papa sighs ans says - This isn't Bewitched. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but you see the Green Lantern around here, you dumb bitch?........... Jonathon gets all protective and puts his arm around her. You  know the Spanish accent comes out when he gets all worked up...... Pleez, show some respeck wan you tawg to mai woo-man - he growls............... Papa exhales impatiently (but I guess some little fart of uncontrollable magic popped out, 'cause Jonathon's now dressed in a tight, little Flamenco outfit, complete with a chenille-ball-trimmed, chin-corded Zorro hat, doing his best Jose Greco imitation all over the mezzanine............ You like your little display!? You think this is funny!? - screams the twenty eight thousand year old reluctant patriarch and WHOOSH, Jonathon is back in his chair, just as he was. Except he still got that tight, little cumberbun (or whatever it is) cutting into his waist, but he finally manages to unfasted the back, which sends in flying into the air and over the balustrade to the main floor down below..

I'm sorry - whispers Papa. But you don't understand. You think you want to save humanity? Better worry about saving the world first. He takes out the needle-like shard and levitates it right above his finger tip. It glistens in the dim 'after-hours' illumination, as it vibrates and emitts a barely audible, high pitched tone........This is not glass. This is not crystal. It isn't even diamond. It's something else. And it comes from another world.......... Where? - says Sarah.

Papa doesn't answer, but erupts into a low, sinister chuckle. Every doo-dad and tchotchkie in the place  begins to vibrate. A startled Blackie vaults off his perch, leaping up to a clerestory  window frame far, far above, as he yells - Damn, I hope they got insurance!

Out on the street, a passing bum looks up from his butt hunt (cigarett, I mean) to see the whole building vibrate. It teeters on the brink of disintegration, then sighs and settles down exactly as it was. While from deep inside, he hears the sound of Papa's crazy laughter.

The terrified old bastid breaks into his best arthritic hip run and skip-gallops 'round the corner.

We FOCUS ON a TIGHT SHOT of Edith drinking her morning coffee. She picks up the paper and reads - GAS EXPLOSION CAUSES EXTENSIVE DAMAGE AT CENTER CITY MUSEUM.

INTERIOR - The Mutter Museum............A uniformed crew carefully cleans the debris away. While safe in their glass display case, one of the plaster Siamese Twins turns his head toward the chaos and begins to slowly smile.........

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