HANNIBAL??? I DON'T THINK SO.....says Johnny Jump Up .. 4/04/13

I am under a bed. Vampire vigilantes silently sweep through the city looking  for 'evil doers.' The one called Jonathon, or sometimes Tomas, likes this. It is his way. Perfecting the world is hard work, whereas my pass time is only a hobby. I have no agenda. I have no plans. I simply destroy. 

This one has laminate, hardwood patterned flooring. She laid it herself. I know. I've been watching. I've been listening..... Who walks the roofs by night?.... I do. Sometimes I lie down, flat against the gritty tar paper. Sometimes I peer through skylights. The image is foggy, but quite adequate for my purposes.  Peek-a-boo, I see you. And I have seen many people. If you reside in the old quarters of Philadelphia, we may already have a rather one sided relationship.

She reads books, this one. They're stacked by the bed, a crooked pile of other worlds and other places. Paperbacks mostly. She is on a budget. Shhhh, she moved. The bed is old. The springs are worn. They squeal like little pigs. I like little pigs, especially ones with fingers and toes. 

This one doesn't like spring. She craves iciness. Chill nights under the covers. Wrapped in dreams. Secure in a small flat, behind three locks and various 'protective' religious talismans. I opened her refrigerator. Magnetic seals are so quiet. She never knew. I tasted certain things. Well, I licked them anyway. Tomatoes were 'poisonous' in my day and crunchy granola bars were science fiction. I'm told my saliva has a cold, dead corpse-like taste. Perhaps she noticed? Maybe she thought it was mold?

Once I played a game. We tried something, I and a certain strange physician transfixed by the work of Mary Shelley. There was a room...a hidden place, far beneath the public gallows. An inlaid, bronze and granite compass rose, in the midst of City Hall courtyard marks the spot today. But this was long before that. We climbed down a rickety ladder to a chamber once used for treasure. Doctor Franklin organized it. The same one frequenting our city today. He collected gold and porcelain and paintings... anything of value.... anything easily sold or traded for guns..... The Revolution, you know..... After that, The Junto used it. Franklin's group met there to talk of theories best kept under wraps. Then it lay forgotten. But I knew... and I whispered in the dark. 

The physician carried down his tools... flasks... bottles... wires... candles and blades.. I procured the guests... two boys... twins, they were.... lost on the teeming streets of our red brick, cobbled metropolis. I lured them with pies... meat pies, fashioned from rabbits' feet and whores ears. Most things grind up like beef, you know. And almost anything tastes good when it's hot. Some cheap madeira helped too. They called me 'Mister Jiggity.' I was their magical friend.... a tall, impossibly thin man, in a tight, black worsted suit. They never heard my voice. I never spoke, but communicated via gestures and nods. They giggled and tried to touch me. But I backed away, melding with the shadows. 

One night, they were cold, freezing actually... and others of their ilk denied them shelter in the dust bins and abandoned crates littering the commercial alleys of the city.  Nine below zero, they said it was. The thermometer tacked to the stones of the Old Curiosity Museum cracked. Beggars and fools froze hard on the paving, like so many gruesome statues.  Men came by, in daylight, to scrape them up. 

But I lured the boys with drink.... and they took it. Gin, I think it was... plus a small sack filled with 'cracklings' made from fried bits of meat and skin garnered from unclean places.  A bit for one. A bit for the brother. Around a corner and down a lane. Like Hansel and Gretel. ... Very much so, actually. 

Then I caught them in the dark. It's easy sweeping children off their feet. Little necks make such sweet handles. Feel the blood.... Feel it throb.... A taste of death... But just a bit. .... Who confronts ghouls toting Santa sacks in the dark, especially with beggars lying frozen in their path? Even the rats stay in. 

I dropped them on a table in that secret, buried room. The doctor lit a candle fashioned from the rendered fat of exotic and sundry lunatics. Then he got to work, stuffing them into thick, heavy, large glass jars... one to a customer. He stripped them down, binding each into a fetal position and slid them into their respective chill wombs. Next came the 'gravy,' up to the shoulders. Then came the lids, heavy, almost cookie-jar, apothecary style. He sealed each with wax, leaving one or two tiny gaps along the rim for air.  All curled up like human escargot encased in see-through shells. And I watched as he whistled through it all.

The first Siamese Twins were big then. Chang and Eng, I think they were. Every broadsheet and review featured drawings. The doctor read them all. And now he had the meat to cook his own. 

Two cuts along the spine. Strip off the useless flesh. Some cunning needlework, a dab of salve.... a little hand cranked current. Electrical generators were all the rage. Perhaps a heaping cup of leeches? Maybe even more? Good for swelling, you know. And the specimens were twins to begin with. 

We both thought it would work.... Janus reborn... Mister Past and Mister Future... 'sitting' back to back.

Shhhh, she's asleep now... my meal in the squeaky bed. Please leave me as I go about my task. 

I'll show you when I'm done. .... Do you know how sharp a coiled spring can be?

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TINY BUBBLES... a flash fiction for DEATH THROES WEBZINE

The ground was gray and flat and featureless, a vast metallic expanse. And the sky reflected that sameness in a smooth, milky, dirty-white dome. There was no wind. There was no sound. Nothing ever changed. 

But I was there (wherever 'there' was). I breathed. I walked... and every footfall was the same. The light, more a weak, universal, ambient glow, never changed. And the only thing to see was the horizon.

Sometimes I sat, cross-legged, 'Indian Style,' and waited. Perhaps a bird or even an insect would fly over the long sharp line? The sky might change. A cloud might form. Some rain might fall. But I never saw such things. And I never felt hunger, or thirst, or anything, save the cool, pore-less, silvery plain beneath my body. I called it silver, but it might have just been nickle.

I'd stare at my shirtsleeve for hours... I called them hours. I studied the weave. Each line became a street. Every cross point an intersection. Some had trees. Some had buildings. Some housed people. Some hid monsters. But it was hard to focus and soon I would forget. 

It was possible to sleep, but considering the 'bed.' the experience was hardly restorative. The surface had no 'give,' and my bones hurt.

I am a microbe... a sub-atomic particle, on a huge ball bearing rolling nowhere. 

But once, it was different. I drank iced tea and saw moonbeams. I said things and people answered. I read books and brushed my teeth. 

Yet the universe plays tricks. Tiny pin pricks of rare singularities exist there. Sometimes they hit things and gobble them up. I was such a meal.

Once I was 'there,' and now I am'here.' I suppose tiny germ-things wriggle on my skin. But I can't see them. I lay on my stomach and taste the ground. But my tongue is dry. I sense nothing. Even my nails fail to grow. 

Dreams? I do not have them. 

Perhaps I'll go blind and lose the horizon too?

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A SIMPLE WAY TO DIE... Jonathon 'culls' an unworthy soul... 4/03/13

Jonathon waited. He waited for the heartless entertainment exec to say goodnight to his daughter, pay the bill and leave. He felt it all from his perch on the tar paper roof.  By that, I mean he saw and sensed everything. The man's eyes were his eyes. The man's hands were his hands. He felt each movement... each breath... each thought. The tight, constricting belt..... The troublesome piece of steak between his teeth. 

He wanted to walk... just walk. He wanted to get back to the hotel, go up to his room, brush his teeth, get undressed, snuggle under the covers, turn out the lights and watch TV. The House and Garden channel was a favorite.  Not the cheap stuff. Not the 'nobody' hell holes. This guy liked the good stuff... million dollar great rooms.... custom built waterfalls.... hundred thousand dollar play houses. Look, the day you stop impressing people in L.A. is the day you die. If they ain't scared of you, you might as well strip down and bend over. It's all about perception. You are what they think you are. 

Now the streets weren't deserted, not that they ever are completely, but it wasn't very late and there were still people around. South Philadelphia has a lot of restaurants. You've seen it. Bruce Willis walked around here in The Sixth Sense.  Remember the house Rocky bought when he made a little money... oak floors... crown moldings.... good kitchen? Like that. 'Cept soon he realized he couldn't walk from that opera restaurant to his hotel. They're crazy. They all think that. Out of towners, I mean. Think every city, but New York, is a 'toy' city. Let 'em think it. Who cares. So after a few blocks, he grabs a car jockey outside another Italian place, slips him a ten and tells him he needs a cab. Four minutes later, he's off. And Jonathon follows from the rooftops, leaping 'cross narrow streets and streaking through the darkness, coming down from the heights when they left this more or less residential district and entered midtown. But he couldn't race along the streets. People would notice that. And even though they were beginning to accept the presence of life-eaters in their midst, spontaneous demonstrations of preternatural powers were still enough to set them off. Nobody likes to feel that vulnerable. So he sublimated through the air, floating just above the sidewalk. His toes never touching the ground. Then he condensed out of the ether right by the entrance and followed the Beefy-Tan guy inside.

How quiet the lobby was.... thick carpeting.... rich paneling.... round, gleaming tables with impossibly large floral displays.... a water feature.... a harpist. But unlike the one at the vampire revels, this one had a head.  Though she did seem lost in another world. 

The guy enters an elevator, shows his key card and says - Twelve, please..... Uniformed, vertical cabbie takes him up. Jonathon doesn't have a key card, but he has something else.... his eyes. So he just steps in 'looks' at the kid and points toward the mirrored ceiling. One heartbeat later, they silently ascend. But  remember, he can read that guy's mind. He knows he wants to get undressed. He knows he wants to crawl in bed. But he needs  time. And Jonathon gives it to him. The vampire waits in a small sitting area, a cozy, private public space on certain high-end floors. There's even a fireplace, lit of course and small, iced bottles of wine. He takes one, Australian, I think it is, grabs a glass from off the sideboard, sits down and imbibes. Blood will be the second course. 

Twenty minutes later, after nodding to a couple from   Amsterdam and trading Spanish niceties with a man from Guadalajara (theaters were letting out, you know), Jonathon got up, deposited his leavings on a silver tray expressly meant for that purpose, walked down the hallway and sublimated into the room.

A flickering light escaped from the surface of the flat screen. The sound was off. He stopped for a moment to watch an overdone, little brunette fireplug of a woman sell a ten million dollar co-op to Chelsea Handler, I think it was. But with the sound off, who could tell?..... The Beefy-Tan guy snored away from a wide, high bed. Stalin probably had such a bed. Jonathon found the remote on a large, lacquered night table and killed the power, plunging the space (more like a suite) into blackness. Then he carefully turned back the duvet and slipped in, right next to his victim, almost spooning him from behind. 

First he bit a shoulder. The victim stirred. Then he nipped an ear. The victim gasped. He was awake now and reached out for the lamp, fearing perhaps a bug, or a mouse, or a spider. But Jonathon choked him... almost to the point of paralysis... and whispered in his ear  ----- Relax... we're just not picking up your option..... The victim tried to speak and he almost had a stroke as blood vessels in his skull engorged nearly to the point of rupture....... The fit, 'young' Andalusian vampire sensed this and loosened his hold ever so slightly. .... Then the heartless entertainment executive found his voice, or a tiny bit of it, and he pleaded, praying to a creature he couldn't see. But never once did he mention his daughter or his wife or his parents. He never mentioned any living soul. And Jonathon knew he only feared losing his power and his money and his things. So he got up on his elbow, leaned down close to the face, explored with his tongue til he found an eye, then quickly sucked it out, biting through the fibrous optic nerve, as one would gnaw through a tough, piece of squid..... The victim convulsed and groaned. But Jonathon was undeterred and sucked out the mate as well. Then he opened the neck and drank the blood, consigning the man to oblivion. 

Eight heartbeats later the mutilated corpse ignited into a cold, blue flame that even the sprinklers failed to put out.

By the time Jonathon left, nothing remained but a wet, greasy residue. He put the wallet, ring and watch in the safe when he got home.

And although the population was somewhat used to supernatural creatures now, none took credit for this deed.... Just another case of spontaneous human combustion.

The estate was quickly settled. His wife married his partner and the daughter enrolled at Penn.

And all the souls he crushed sang songs and danced.

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NOW THE MEDIA TAKES NOTICE ...4/01/13

Carson Daly was the first to run with it. Some DJ friend in Philly tipped him off. Two days later he came out with a crew. Not a full crew. Figured he'd get some 'fill ins' once he got here. Met with Marianne. We talk about her. She's one of the elferinas, a female, pubescent vampire with pointy ears and a certain gamine charm. Interviewed her in a bar, the one in THE HOTEL MONACO. And he never, ever knew there were other vampires in the building. That's how discrete they can be when they want to. 

She gave him the whole treatment. Showed him the fangs. Offered to bite him. Nothing major. Just a tiny, little nip on his forearm. But he demurred, 'cause he's got kids and all. She told him how old she was and about The Inquisition and all (Google MARIANNE IN BRITCHES by Billy Kravitz for more). Levitated a spoon up off the table. Whispered some stuff in Old Vahmperigo. Made him blush. Showed her pointy ears and said yeah, she knows how much she looks like Cosett (I think that's the right name) that little French girl from the Les Mis juggernaut. Think she said Maroon Five is her favorite group. But that's just because Adam looks so much like Jonathon, only with a haircut. And you know how loyal they all are to him.

He's gonna 'cull' someone tonight. Jonathon, I mean. It's his time of the month. He had a dream. He had a vision. He feels the hunger. It's gotta be done. And this always brings up the old vampiric dilemma. Do they actually have a physical hunger. Do they actually have a physical need, or are they just fulfilling a spiritual purpose? No one knows. Some vampires have survived centuries of captivity without so much as a drop,  while others go berserk and die after weeks. Apparently, every soul is unique and the 'burden' rests differently on each and every one of them. 

'Cull the wicked. Save the worthy.' That's what they do. So he sits on the roof of a venerable, old South Philadelphia restaurant. Victor Cafe, I think it's called. And he listens to the opera within. Each and every  cameriere and cameriera is also a classically trained singer, able to burst into song at a moment's notice. A man in the corner plays arias upon an old, much polished Steinway. The crowd waits for the biggies. Naturally Carmen, or Nessun Dorma brings the house down. Once in a while they sneak in something from West Side Story or Candide, but that's almost opera.... almost. 

A man toward the front is almost human too. He's a promoter... a producer, or an executive, or some kind of Hollywood big wig. In town with his daughter. She wants to go to Penn. This is their 'look see.' But she's a bitch and he's a creep and that's why he ain't human. Sits there playing with his osso buco. What a shame some little calf had to get itself all slaughtered so this bastard can eat dinner. You know a twenty four year old girl killed herself over him. nice girl too. Had a script. Real good. Tight story. Everything. Didn't have an agent. Didn't have no 'uncles.' Just sent it to him. And you know that means she's got about as much chance as a ballerina in a gas chamber. Only some kid, an intern, sees it. And he likes it. And he passes it on. Mister Beefy-Tan sees it too. Thumbs through and keeps it. Two weeks later the decorator comes to change the retro grass cloth in his office. His people clean up the place in preparation. Script gets stuffed in an envelope and sent back with one of them 'oh, not without a lawyer, an uncle and an agent you don't' papers. Girl gets it, feels sad for a while, but life goes on.

Yet six months later, some new script is all the rage in West L.A.. Script mags cover it. Web's all over it. Pod cast talks about it. And the twenty four year old sees it. She listens. She recognizes it. She knows it. It's her work. Goes into production. Makes eighty mill. Beefy-Tan guy's nephew wins some kind of award. She tries to get a lawyer. They try to do something. But something ain't enough. They laughed at her. They ridiculed her... patronized her and even her cut-rate lawyer too..... That's it. All done. She's toast... a showbiz joke. 

Goes back to substituting. Get's a middle school class. Eighth grade girl 'rapes' a sixth grade boy in the coat room. Boy's mom wants a new Lexus outta all this. Judge gives her one. Girl gets prosecuted for willful neglect. Serves four months house arrest. Reads about upcoming sequel. Pees all over the seat at a seven o'clock showing  of Hangover I. Nineteen year old manager kicks her out. All the semi-humans in the lobby see her wet blue jeans and laugh as only semi-humans can. She bursts through the doors, tears through the parking lot, stumbles into the busy  street and gets hit by a bus.

Her basically sweet, though culturally baffled parents cry for weeks and one month later her father dies. Two weeks after that, the government puts her mother in a dirty, sour, abusive  'home.' 

Beefy-Tan guy's nephew reads about it all in the papers. Writes another script and wins an Oscar. Uncle laughs and laughs and laughs.

But twenty minutes from now, he's gonna leave that restaurant. He's gonna get up from the crisp, white table cloths and the old opera prints on the wall.  He's gonna give his daughter five one hundred dollar bills, so she can catch up with a friend and go gambling, with her perfectly undetectable, rich-girl-fake-cards at THE SUGAR HOUSE (a Center City casino on the Delaware) and step outside to meet his fate.

Jonathon feels it all, up atop the roof of this late Victorian townhouse. He leans against the chimney and waits....

For soon the dead twenty four year old gets some sweet revenge.

The night is clear. The wind is sharp. The stars shine coldly down...

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BRIGHTEN THE CORNER WHERE YOU ARE..... (and we mean REAL corners) 4/01/13

Jonathon quietly arranged for a series of rooms at the new HOTEL MONACO in Center City, a brand new, posh, boutique place familiar with night-folk from other venues.  The out-of-town life-eaters slept there. Big rooms. High ceilings. Granite baths. And sumptuously curtained windows able to shut out every photon of troublesome daylight.  And I'm not sure, but they say a few merfolk swam up the river to patrol the waterfront. You know, naive, clueless druggies hang out there sometime. A few fall in the river. A couple drown. And the merfolk (two males and a female) want to prevent that.  I'm telling you. This is really gonna be something. 

Sarah organized the 'bleeders.' They met in the basement of an old church. wilkravitz went with her. He was out of the hospital now. Still a little shaky, but he wanted to help. She let him distribute and collect the tiny, glass vials. Each one held maybe five to ten plump drops of red, rich, potent life-eater blood. They had these little, plastic screw tops to seal them shut. They were old, never used, perfume sample vials, but the night folk couldn't ask for anything better. Afterwards, other life-eaters gave them out, sublimating into semi-private rooms and wards in hospitals, narrow, old row houses on tiny, little side streets and cold, dark, hidey-holes behind big, metal dumpsters.

Sick people drank it down. They knew it came from 'vampires.' Nobody played games anymore. Nobody cared. Sure, a few of the physicians didn't like it, but nobody cared about that either. And people got well, even terminal cases. They sat up, swung their legs over the side, jumped down and went home. The ones in the little row houses already were home. And the pathetic cases behind the dumpsters just wandered around. Later on a few life-eaters caught on to that and fixed it up so they could sleep in a few of the old, colonial manor house-museums in Fairmount Park. Not on the beds. After all, they were antiques. But they gave them these real good, thick sleeping bags, so that made it OK. A few park guards were assigned to each place to keep things quiet and not let them get too rowdy. Rejuvenated women were never kept in the same mansions as the men. Fed 'em all a lot a five dollar, take-out pepperoni pizzas from Little Caesar. What can I tell you? They like that. Some guy who owns a local Coca-Cola bottle plant sends over cold drinks. They say Bill Cosby's a part owner, but I don't know.

Jonathon goes to evening services at the old Spanish Rite, Sephardic Synagogue in Society Hill. He sits in the back, off to the side. The men sit across from the women. If you've ever been in a Quaker meeting house, you know what I mean. He's never made an aliyah (ascend to the scriptures) yet. He's never been called up to read a passage from the Bible, but he doesn't care. Well, maybe he does, but not that much. Sarah said she'd go with him. But he told her she didn't have to, because it's not like they could sit together, or anything.  He enjoyed the hymns and cantorials, since they brought him back to similar observances in medieval Al-Andaluz (Spanish Andalucia). At first the rabbi felt funny about having a life-eater there. A lot of the clergy all over the city did. But when Jonathon quietly sat down with him at  a post Sabbath service communal hour (he eschewed the sponge cake, but did sip a bit of the coffee) and told him how he was that self-same mythological helpmate, how he was 'the golem,' who helped Rabbi Lowe and others in the ghetto repel the baby-killers all those many years ago, in Old Prague, that made it all OK. Then he was a hero. 

And the city improved. Not the gentrified areas. They were already top notch. But the badlands, the ruffie-tuffie places got a little better. Pushers gave up the corners. They had to, what with all the 'vampires' and all. You know, life-eater blood cures addicts too. 

Doctor Franklin and some scientists from his sprawling bureau under the navy yard came up to observe things. Luna, his attractive 'vampire' assistant and a physician in her own right, came with them. Sarah doesn't like her. She doesn't like her at all, 'cause Jonathon used to cheat with her. But they don't see her much. 

Most nights, just before dawn, a group of life-eaters meet at Baylah's place. They gather 'round the piano in the little jewel-box bar and sing songs. 'Vampire' voices have a certain, satisfying resonance. One of the favorites is 'We'll Meet Again. Don't know where. Don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day....... Yeah, right. Like that's gonna happen.

Oh, and Johnny Jump Up is still out there, only he seems scared to come out too.

And Little Bastid Annie (our hard to handle child vampire) goes 'round to half-way houses late at night selling Girl Scout cookies. I think she's a Brownie now, or maybe part of the older group. I don't know. Looks mighty weird in that uniform though.

The life-eaters still feed, but they all follow 'the law.' They all stick to the old lunar schedule. One 'culling' per month. And they only take out the people sent to them in visions. I think Jonathon's gonna 'cull' somebody tomorrow night. Come back.

Maybe he'll show you...

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The Night-Folk Had a Meeting... 3/31/13

'We are all responsible.'..... That's what he said. He didn't yell, or raise his voice. He just stood up, walked down to the front and said it. They had a good turn out. All the Philadelphia night-folk were there... the vampires, the elferinos (actually pubescent vampires), a few 'manipulators.' You know, they really don't like to be called witches, or warlocks, or necromancers, or wizards. They're manipulators. They know how to change things. A few people from the press are here too, mostly hip, young, Center City types who write for entertainment-leisure weeklies. I don't know if they're gonna print or post anything right away, but they sure got big eyes and they're sure looking around a lot. 

After he said 'We are all responsible,' Jonathon went on, reminding them how (most) vampires were revered personages prior to the Crusades and the subsequent Inquisitions. They served princes. They served courts. They served clergy. True, a few were no more than well placed, supernaturally equipped spies. But most took their calling seriously, as members of the 'demi-angelic' host. 'Cull the wicked. Save the worthy.' That's the credo. That's the way. And a small group of vampires from out of town, sitting together down toward the back, politely clapped when he said it.

Let me tell you where this happened. You know that 'nice' cafe they got upstairs at the Art Museum, the one with the crisp, clean tables and chairs and the well framed pictures on the walls? That's where. A few of the directors and curators were there. Two or three of them (social types) knew some of the night-folk from that ten thousand dollar a seat (for charity) house party thing Marianne sponsored a while back. Though none of them sat together. Uniformed guards drank coffee. Real cops stood around with their arms crossed, chewing gum and all. You know that (well practiced) tough, 'judgmental' look they got? And these weren't random cops. They were from  a few secret squads used to working with vampires and all. 

A guy from the mayor's office pleaded for discretion. He said there'd be religious chaos and sectarian war should wide spread knowledge of what goes on after dark actually get out. Said people weren't ready for it. That made Jonathon mad. Everybody in the room could tell, 'cause when a vampire gets angry, they develop a knife-edged tension, like a steel spring, or a deltoid just about to snap. Started yelling. Said - We have a ghoul, a disgusting, loathsome, spidery animal, shredding innocent people with his teeth, left and right, all over the place and how the hell do you think you're EVER going to catch him without some night-folk help!? What? They can accept Batman? They can accept Spider Man and they can't accept us? You know, fifty seven percent of males between the ages of ten and twenty four think those characters are real!? Just wait til we start making things better on the street. Just wait til late night street crime disappears. Alright, not disappears, but certainly diminishes. Wait til we start giving out REAL money to homeless people sleeping on steam vents. Wait til we start helping run-a-ways. The elferinos and elferinas are PERFECT for that. I'm tired of this. I'm done with it. I don't care if 'they're' not ready for it  or not. It's time and it's gonna happen!!! Almost every one of you sitting here claims to have some sort of religion... some sort of 'something,' but you do shit. And don't talk to me about some donation you made to some charity in order to get seats at the 'right' reception with a lot of self conscious, greasy faced sartorially challenged assholes grimacing for the camera. It's done! It's done! It's done! You know who's taking back the night? We are!....... Then he quickly cracked a kink out of his neck and sat down. Sarah rubbed his back. Somebody shoved a vodka on ice at him. He downed it like Sprite.

A few people clapped. Most, all of a sudden, got real interested in looking down at their hands. Nobody knew what to say. The twenty-somethings from the weekly papers started laughing. Two women from the museum started passing out these big black and white cookies everybody likes. You know, food's the best balm of all. Vampires and related folk didn't get cookies. They got pomegranate flavored mineral water.

But everybody knew nighttime in the city would never be the same again. And the guy from the mayor's office actually had a somewhat severe  myocardial   infarction.

Jonathon gave him a restorative 'bloody finger' on his way out.  That's where a vampire bites into his own digit, makes it bleed and shoves it down the throat of a deserving (or not) mortal in distress.

Six heartbeats later (after sublimating) they were out on the street and within ten minutes, he and Sarah gave fifteen thousand dollars to a well known homeless threesome (called Manny, Moe and Jack) frequenting the classic entry-way to the grand Central Library.

By that time, three or four of the all night museum squatters had crashed the meeting (it was till going strong), but nobody cared. The guy in the baseball-antler cap got three of the big black and white cookies, plus a big, ice-cream soda glass filled with white wine.

What can I tell you? Salvation ain't easy...

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THIS IS HOW WE DO IT... night-folk change the world ... 3/30/13

Jonathon had a special safe stuffed with 'flat' after 'flat' of hundred dollar bills. A flat is a neat, sharp stack of fifty Benjamins. Doctor Franklin really gets a kick out of that.  One of his (Jonathon's) familiars from the bank comes over every so often to keep it topped up. I think it holds like one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. So he's taking maybe forty thousand with him to get the ball rolling. Gonna give five thousand to each deserving soul. Look, it's a start. And he's gonna let them know it's a vampire doing it.

All the others plan something similar. Sarah's gonna hit a few hospital kiddie wards, like she usually does, only this time she's not gonna pass as an angel. She's gonna tell them. She's gonna say - You like Twilight? You like Vampire Diaries (and they all do)? Well, shake hands with a dream come true..... They'll go - Huh? What?.... She'll say - Would you like to feel the tips of my fangs?..... They'll slowly reach out. She'll take hold of pudgy, little hands and guide 'em closer til fat, little fingers feels needle sharp dentition. Then she gives them the vial (with a few drops of her curative blood) and leaves them a few bucks. You know they're not gonna forget that. Maybe even get to know a nurse or two, as well. Sarah usually avoids them. But not now. No more. 

Plus there's gonna be a few billboards around town. SUCK THE BLOOD OUT OF HATE... SUCK THE BLOOD OUT OF POVERTY.... SUCK THE BLOOD OUT OF LIES.... A whole lot of 'SUCK THE BLOOD OUT OF'S.... You'll see 'em. Twitter account gone up. Face Book page gone up. Maybe not all on the first day, but eventually. Jonathon's shooting for Pentecost.... his Pentecost, about forty seven nights from now.....

And this is the different part...the unique part. They're going to try and contact other bands of night-folk in other cities and get them involved too.  Maybe people they know from THE VAMPIRE REVELS? Edith says they can always hide out in The Pines, 'cause you know there's gonna be a few fundamentalist, vigilante types of all stripes out to make them disappear.

Jonathon wants to bring back that multi-plex, movie theater Coke commercial. He talked about it before.  But this time it's really gonna happen. And nobody's really unique. If he feels that way, other night-folk, in other places must feel the same way too. Not the noxious types. There's always a few bastards. ..... What was I saying?..... Oh, yeah, that commercial, the one that goes---- You give a little love and it all comes back to you. You're gonna be remembered for the things that you say and do.... That's it. Kabbalah, my friend..... Kabbalah...... Ka..... Ba.....La..... The Radiance surrounds us. Tap into it. Scientists call it zero energy, negative energy, vacuum energy. It has a lot of names. Maybe it's manna?

Who am I? Well, I'm not a dead vampire, or anything special, like that. And I'm not a spirit from old Judea, like Zebulon, or an eternal guardian, like Johannon (the one who saved Jonathon from the fire). I'm one of those guys who owned a men's store under the 'el.' I got shot. I got shot execution style in a robbery. Maybe you remember me from BINGO BOY? I think I narrated a few episodes back then. But who I am doesn't matter... YOU matter..... Go and do good things..... If not you, who?..... If not now, when?...... It's not hard..... and you know it.

Jonathon looks good, actually. Got them trim, black leather bootkins. I like that word. Got them equally trim black jeans. The white shirt. The leather jacket. The long, black ringlets. He is one tight rammer-jammer. Hey, I never said I was cool. But I don't have to be. 

Look, you want to start easy? Buy a burger off a dollar menu. Go in any fast food place and do that. Then go outside and give it to the first homeless looking guy you see. Maybe add a container of hot coffee, but I don't press. Do whatever you think is right.....

But just do something.

So the vampires are gonna jump out of the crypt (just an expression. I know they don't sleep that way. least the ones 'round here don't).

I bet THE DAILY NEWS will write something about it, but The Inquirer never will...

Louise, from her hiding place in the Art Museum, wants to help. So does the guy with the stuffed reindeer antler baseball cap.

Maybe a show down with Johnny Jump Up? Maybe they should go after him? Get some kids from a local film school to shoot it. Put it on You Tube? That should get a lot of hits. 

What do you think?.....

I know some of you get it..... Some of you have been here since the beginning. You know how it started. You remember...

First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction..... 

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