TOMAS KNOWS ABOUT THE KILLINGS and also tells some old tales

Tomas here~~~ I feel each senseless killing. We all do. It offends our nature. Whether the obscene death comes at the hand of an 'enemy' or a lapsed noble vampire makes no difference. The disorienting pain is just the same. But know this...There are ways to bring down these villains. Subtle tricks and life-eater chicanery. You can figure it out. Go on. give it a try. I will tell you in a night or two. If you like, post your guess as a COMMENT. But I am referring to human assassins, like the beast responsible for last nights tragedy. Renegade vampires of the noxious sort are treated differently. To each his own, as they say.


But I have been witness to night crimes and foul misdeeds. I have seen our 'enemy' at play. It happened in London, just before my crossing, just before I came to Philadelphia. The City was a merry place. Assemblies, balls, brothels and bear pits were everywhere. And I sampled everything. Some bloods (I always loved that term) sported long, shoulder wigs, made from the finest Persian lamb. Others, possessed of more luxuriant locks, fashioned their own wavy tresses into something akin to the Cretan style. I , quite naturally fell in with the later group. Ah, those times were good, discounting the plague and fire, I mean. The town was in a constant state of flux, determined to throw off every last vestige of pre-Stewart methodologies (although the plays of Mister Shakespeare were naturally much in vogue.) Domiciles took on a less 'storybook' appearance, adopting a form you might  almost call Georgian. And the Trinitarian prayer houses, led by Sir Christopher Wren, sported grand, neo-Roman finery. Domes were all the thing. And every gentleman of a military bent fancied himself another Scipio Africanus. Heroic busts, commissioned to prove that point,  found refuge within a myriad of niches in the newly plastered walls (Tudor paneling being decidedly declasse.) of  aristocratic, West End establishments. 


Yet the bear pits still remained, a potent reminder of ancient barbarity. All the best clubs had them... raw excavations in damp, Thames-side mud, surrounded with rude fencing separating one or two tiers of boisterous young bucks  from the wild, bloody carnage below.


The usual thing involved a flea-bitten, addle-brained bear, often quite bloated on ale, or lager of some sort, forced into the enclosure at spear point, where it was summarily torn to shreds by huge, coarse-coated hounds. The spray was horrible. The stench, even worse. 


Wagering went on in a fast and furious manner. How many minutes til dispatch? How many dogs would die? Would the bruin be blinded, castrated or  worse? Many a noble, or near noble house lost plenty. Let me tell you that.


But one night, the sport was quite different. Oh, the dogs were still there, though the ursus was not. In it's place was a finely formed, clean limbed young man. And he entered the pit willingly. That was the thing. He was calm of manner and mild of face. The eyes had a certain all-knowing sorrow. At first the stands went silent, waiting for some sort of explanation. Was this some type of re-born gladatorial contest? Could it be a novel form of public execution? Puzzled faces flickered in and out of the dim, orange glow cast by crude, iron sconces along gray stone walls. Minutes passed, in order to give them time to contemplate the uniqueness of it all. And then he spoke. The master of ceremonies stepped out onto a pulpit, placed high on the wall and began - M'lords, knights and gentlemen, tonight we offer an exceedingly rare diversion, one unseen in these parts since The Lion Heart. Behold the creature standing before you, human in every detail save one... the wretched bewitchment of his immortal soul. For this is no man, but the fruit of a succubus ........ Then he yelled down to the unusual young man. He said - Show us your teeth, lad.......And the attraction complied, opening his mouth to reveal the fangs. Some spectators gasped, a few made the sign of the Cross, not so dangerous under the present governance. There were calls of - How'd you get 'im? Why's he here? And the master replied- We didn't get him. He offered himself up free of charge. What we have here tonight is an act of atonement. For this pitiable being seeks absolution. He's tired a sinnin'..... (looks down) Ain't ya, boy?......... The vampire, stripped down to linen drawers and a tear stained face, simply nodded.


There was no wagering..... not that time. Though it was recommended that all in attendance turn over a gold ducat, or two for the opportunity to see such a thing....... A few, a very few, departed. But most stayed and the offering baskets filled to the brim (half promised to charity) as the barriers slid open and the dogs poured in......


The 'death by natural beast' had begun........


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THE FOX AMONG THE CHICKENS ---a blood thirsty ENEMY on the prowl

The night was still warm. 'Twenty-something' enamoradas strolled along the mellow brick lanes of The Old City, as the moon peeked down through gossamerclouds. The young woman left her friends, exited the club-like bar and proceeded west along the quiet thoroughfare. She passed couples whispering together at outdoor tables. Pampered, Center City dogs dragged humans for that one last pee before bedtime. All was still, but far from deserted.


And he saw it all. The almost-monk watched from the shadows. Odd how his clothes mirrored the traditional habit, though altered to fit the current pattern --- black flip-flops, a black hoodie and black jeans. He left the dim recess of a commercial arcade and silently drifted along the pavement. His footfalls practiced and measured, an unseen cipher haunting the midnight streets.


The young woman entered an all night bodega. He stopped, pretending to wait for a bus. She exited, carrying a small, brown, paper bag. He pressed close against the dark side of the rain shelter and disappeared. She scanned the street, as she always did, before dashing down the narrow lane (little more than an alley). Then she made her move and hurried toward her door. Twenty five yards isn't so far. The key was out. And it could even be a weapon. They told her that at self-defense class. She had the pepper spray. She always had the pepper spray. It was her key chain. It was her life line. Besides, the street light was right there. Two dozen steps and she'd be home. But then it happened. The forty six year old wiring leading up the pole to the bulb gave  up the ghost and the scene went blank. Lights out. Utter darkness. Nothing.


She froze, waiting for her eyes to adjust. God damn that cheap old bastard. It wasn't 1:00am yet. The step light should have been on. It was always on. That was part of the lease. What the hell was wrong with that disgusting son-of-a-bitch?


But she would never know. For with one, swift, expert motion, the midnight wraith sliced deep into her soft, frail neck, liberating the venous blood within. Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips shaped a final, silent protest and then it was over. She never felt her kneecaps hit the ground. 


The monk-not-quite-a-monk walked on, barely touched by all the gore. He muttered prayers, as he drifted through the darkness, thanking God for his success. Misguided souls needed correcting. Yes, they did. They needed it very much.....


And tonight he had not even used the dogs.......


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MEMORIAL DAY ~~~~~ the vampires remember

They met in Philadelphia. Tomas was back from his 'Cavalcade of Souls.' I dislike that 'parade' designation. One expects bass drums,  brass bands and glockenspiels. ..... Baylah hadn't gone to the seashore yet. Papa, always observing from a distance, turned up too. I don't know about the 'lesser vampires,' such as Blackie and Minnie. And I call them 'lesser,' only because they frequent other haunts. Though I'm sure their trials and tribulations are just as compelling.


Baylah poured drinks 'round the little dining room table. What a cozy nest she has. I believe one of her familiars is a decorator and the place is done up like a dog's dinner, but a pedigreed dog, to be sure. By now you know most of them can tolerate alcohol. That could be because it really isn't a 'food.' .....'And the fluid that quickens all life shall be to you as sustenance'..... that's what it says in LA CIENCIA VAMPIRISMO...... 'While all other forms of mortal fare shall be unto you as filth and caustic poison.'....... it says that too.


Baylah says it also talks about 'the preservation of the vampirina breast,' and that's why vampire women don't need no God damn brassieres. But Tomas says it means something else. Sarah buys herself nice bras, even though she don't need a wear them. She buys fancy silver wear too. What do you expect? She was raised by school teachers. Rules are rules and respectable middle class people are expected to do certain things. You should see how she tidies up her sleeping cabinet every sundown. Tomas tells her these things shall pass. But she don't believe it. And who is he to talk? He still says prayers for his dead parents. According to The Canon, surviving children are called to do that. Guess they never expected no kids to live so long..... Maybe they did? Who knows?


This night the tiny glasses held wee drams a good, Scots whiskey. Baylah brought it up from the piano bar downstairs. They savored the sweet, woody undertone and the rich, nut-like flavor. Such welcome sensations brought back memories of lost humanity. Though among 'noble vampires'  true 'humanity' is never really lost.


Tomas recalled the thick, creamy porridge served on cool winter mornings. It was never truly cold in his Andalucian homeland, but such things are relative. 


Sarah pictured Christmas Dinner...the savory turkey.....the spicy, pumpkin pie. Baylah recounted the coarse, grainy flat breads of Old Timbuctu, dipped in luscious pots of chick pea paste, flavored with peppercorns and honey.


Papa told of huge, carved, wooden bowls of mead and bemoaned the lack of good product available through the Pennsylvania State Liquor Store System. But Edith, the human witchy-woman watching from the corner, said state stores weren't the problem. Because even in her home state of New Jersey (just across the river), mead was still hard to come by. A few of the Red Paint types still brewed some, but even they were switching to hot Dr. Pepper, Sue-Bee-honey and beer. .....Eh, modern life.....What are you gonna do?


So they huddled 'round the table. They drank their little toasts. The Advent of Summer has always been a momentous occasion among enchanted folk.... a sensual time of warm, sultry skin and hot, salty blood.


In fact the 'elves' were out enjoying some, as they spoke.


Trouble is..... so was the 'enemy.' ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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vampire wonderland: The Book of Sarah

vampire wonderland: The Book of Sarah: Here's a peek at the beginning ------ My, how Tomas/Jonathon has grown!------First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction. Y...

Noche de los Muertes..... Death isn't Easy

And then they came, fast and furious. A torrent of babbling, incoherent souls. But he could understand them. Tomas could feel them all. Most vociferous were the damned, deliriously cursing from the fetid, sulfurous pits of Gehenna. They screamed and raked the flesh from off their cheeks. They poked at neighbors and gouged out eyes, shoving fistfuls of oozing, steaming shit down the pie-holes of manically cackling, carbuncle ridden moral savages.


These were the souls deserved of death. And Tomas felt his purpose. But occasionally one of the others came through. For he  did sometimes ravish the innocent. A quiet entity, cool and serene, safe in the company of the blessed, passed close to his heart and forgave him. And then it was his turn to moan and scream like the souls in perdition. 


Sarah hugged him. She rocked him and whispered in his ear ---Shhh, shhhh, I am here. I am here. This will pass. This will end. I love you. I love you....... He trembled. And I suppose vampires do have some sort of physical metabolism, for he was sweat-soaked and shivering. And so the night passed until it was done. The last to depart merely kissed him. 


They could hear birds practicing arias in the cool, dawn sky, but the root cellar remained dark and safe. Sarah took off his clothes and dried him with a soft, worn, woolen  blanket. Then he snuggled close to her and they slept, just like the rabbits in the ruined great-room, up above.


You see, my best beloveds..... death is not easy.......And the 'death that is not death' is the hardest one of all....


Zebulon must leave you now. Life is so, so short..... Be good to each other.... Somebody's keeping records....


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O. G. Tomes: HERE! HERE!

O. G. Tomes: HERE! HERE!: Cheers!    ..........to the characters who live in the worlds of our imaginations!     I had never considered their life after I move on ...

AN ETERNAL SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

Tomas just sits there, staring off into ....nothing. He trembles. Sometimes he mumbles. I can't make out the words. But if I let myself, I can see what he sees. And although I cannot feel what he feels, I can still comprehend it. 


This is Sarah talking to you now. I believe wilkravitz inscribes it. Maybe it's Edith. I don't know. But I'm pretty sure it's the other one.... the one we buy shoes for.


Now how can I convey this to you? How can I represent the totality of it all? Let me do it this way.......


They say the universe is finite. It will not live forever. The stars are not eternal. A time far, far beyond reasoning will come. And it will be a time of darkness. The last pin points of light issuing forth from the few, remaining, feeble stars will disappear. Perhaps the cultures existing at that time will devise toy stars, artificial stars? Yet even they need fuel. So even they will die. 


Life will end. Consciousness will wither and ultimately the last sentient soul will die. Atoms will decompose. Protons will crumble. Nothing detectable will remain. 


The void will be all. 


Tomas floats in such a place. He travels in the mind of Lucretia, his first innocent human victim, taken all those centuries ago. 


She was the girl in the pit. She was his first 'meal.' And although he had no choice, her death still haunts him. True, she is not part of this SOUL PARADE. She's lived among the dead far too long for that. But she leads them, just the same, like a macabre baton twirling majorette. However, she has no baton. She has nothing. That one drifts through a wakeful demise, though even the sense of movement eludes her, since there's nothing left to move. Lucretia 'is,' and she thinks. 


Her mind remembers songs, simple songs, children's songs. She 'sings' them to herself, alone in an empty universe. No 'up.' No 'down.'  Does she warrant such punishment? I don't know. I am just Sarah. I am still so new.


This song, the one she sings now, has been going on for what we would call three hundred years. The darkness never changes (for there are varieties of darkness) and temperature does not exist. 


She conjures images. Flickering snipets of her truncated life burn brightly for an instant, then disappear like flash paper. 


And Tomas sees it all. I hug him, but he doesn't know. 


And she is only the first....


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