Tomas climbed the table skirt and approached the (on his scale) huge, glass doors. The human creatures pressed their foreheads against the inside of the barrier straining to see this unexpected visitor. But the brass framed doors were well made. They locked tight, with no way to slip in. He stepped back, looked up shook his head and gestured. The man, up above, peered down from the carefully fashioned, miniature living room and shook his head too. Odd that we use the same signals - Tomas thought.... No one expects finding like-minded folk in such exotic places. The children and some of the others looked down too. They all seemed so sad.
Our misplaced 'vampire' (by now quite hungry) made ready to climb back down. He imagined the people 'upstairs' to be specially favored 'food' humans from the kitchen and the cellar. What could he do for them? But just as he was about to slip over the edge, he heard a footfall in the hallway... a gigantic footfall. Something 'canine' this way comes. He jumped up and ran 'round to the front of the dollhouse, hiding himself in some green, more or less, pipe cleaner bushes.
It walked in and closed the door. Such a soft, metallic click. Then it sat down on a satin chair and looked in the mirror.... a dressing table for dog-folk women... Tomas could see this, for he crept out and peeked 'round a corner. A little girl from the 'family' inside waved to him through a basement window. He ignored her, because what sat before him was far more compelling.
A dog-woman, in a long, silk, dressing gown, she was, quietly studying her delicate Afghan face in the carefully silvered glass. She sat there and didn't move. Then she picked up an engraved hairbrush and began to pull it through her long, wavy, blond tresses. After perhaps thirty or forty strokes she put it down and sighed. Then she laughed... a small laugh. Tomas supposed it was a laugh. Dog ways were still strange to him. Her left 'hand' trembled. She held it in her lap. Then she roused herself, found something in a drawer and took it out... a small, enameled pot. She opened it, dipped in a finger and delicately began to apply some sort of gel to her eyelashes. After that came a larger, round container filled with dusting powder, lightly worked into her short, mohair-like facial coat with a stiff bristled, artist's brush. She looked at the results. Was she satisfied? Who knows? She just sat. She just looked.
Maybe thirty six heartbeats later came a slight tapping noise. The 'father' rapped against his side of the glass with a tiny walking stick. The dog-woman heard (they do have superior hearing, you know). She stared toward the scaled down residence through half closed eyes. Then she got up, went over to the dollhouse, flipped the precision crafted, tiny, brass latch and opened the doors. Everyone stepped back. This was a dance. They'd done it before. The melancholy dog-woman reached into her pocket and took out two very small parcels... carefully folded squares of stiff waxed tissue paper, such as jewelers might use to wrap individual gemstones. To the eager humans they measured three feet square, each tied up with fine, silk thread. Then the female canine thing went over to a tufted chaise lounge and laid down for a before dinner nap. Must look well for guests. Appearances are everything.
The chatelaine of the petit palace took out a pair of minute, golden scissors and opened the parcels. One held foodstuffs... tiny, smoked fish, big-eyed fry from some unknown species.... a toy sized mound of diced bean sprouts (who did the dicing, I cannot tell)... some coffee... some cocoa... a few grape slices ... a small dollop of marzipan and something else. Such was dinner. The other parcel had exquisitely fashioned examples of tiny clothing...interior wear... shirts, blouses, stockings, that sort of thing.... Could be the work of intelligent bees, as far as I know..... Well practiced hands stowed everything away... Every faucet worked (via small, daily filled, carefully concealed bottles). One even dispensed wine. You should see the almost microscopic silverware.
But she didn't close the door. Tomas never heard it click and he never heard the latch flip into place. Vampire ears he had, keen as any dog... and he knew. So he moved 'round to the place where the front of the house meets the right hand wall and peeked. The dog-woman was sleeping. Not only that, the giantess had rolled over, facing the other way. A depressed soul, she was. Lost love and all that. Thus the classic Dietrich song up above. Please listen.
So Tomas carefully tip toed 'round and stepped inside. It was quiet. The hand laid parquetry gleamed. A tiny 'tall clock' (with a dial exactly like those on Earth) softly ticked. A Queen Anne mansion in every way, though also a prison too.
He found them in the dining room, where a hear-to-fore unseen maid served dinner. The father person, without looking up, said,"We heard you come in. Please... sit down."
But Tomas froze, for the father person addressed him in English...
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Night-Folk love Big Bad Voo Doo Daddy. And after four years blogging for them, I love it too... Le Swing Noir is the best.
Now back to DOGLAND ~~~~~~~
Wait a minute...This is narrative evolution. I can see it. DOGLAND ... Philly in the 30's, 'cept all the people are CGI anthropomorphic canines. The cars.. The clothes... The booze... The music... Perfect for cable. All played straight. Just that they're dogs... showgirl dogs... cop dogs... momma dogs... priest dogs and just plain bitches... Listen to the video up above. Can't you see it? Come on... a biscuit for your thoughts.
Now back to our story~~~~~~~~~~
Tomas woke up. Somebody was making noise. He peeked out from under the dresser. The cook was gone. Must be killing lunch. But a big, hulking, Mastiff woman was cleaning up. And this one moved furniture. BAM! BANG! (bed went flying from the wall). Gets in there real good with like an Edwardian Swiffer... a feather duster on a long pole... cleans the base board... gets down on her hands and knees to do the floor.... THUD! WOOMP! Bed goes back.... Spits out some dog talk curses. Opens a bottle of cologne on the bureau. Smells it. Puts it back. Spits out a few more curses. Shoves her long handled feather duster under a tall chest. She's getting close. Tomas gets worried. What if she lifts the dresser? What if she shoves it aside? What if she sees him? He waits til she gets down on the floor to retrieve some coins that her bob-tailed ass knocked off a night table. Uniform's got a little tail-hole in it, but sometimes the tail slips out. Dogs always saying - Excuse me, while I go adjust my tail hole... Human people'd say - Ooh! I gotta put powder my nose, so it don't run away...
or... Excuse me, 'cause I think I peed a little... But dog-folk got their own thing.
When Mastiff thing down on the floor, Tomas makes his move... runs out and grabs hold of her hem... not on the outside, on the inside. He don't want her to see him... And he hangs on most of the day. While she eats a shish kebab of whole roast pigs on a skewer.... enough for like three Hawaiian luaus ... He holds on when she climbs the service stair to the second floor to dust and steal change up there.
Then he jumps off and sees a room with a doll house. He goes in. No one else is around.... a little, puppy-girl room, all mauve and pale pink and frilly. Baby (dog) dolls all over... But on a small, skirted table is this doll house.... like a full sized Queen Anne in his own world, only here it's a toy for a child. The back wall, the one facing him, is open, like doll house back walls always are. But this one's not really open. There's a glass barrier on it... a carefully made, snug, tight barrier, framed in brass, divided down the middle with a little lock... And when he cranes his head back and looks up at it, he sees people inside... other little people like himself. Whether or not any of them were vampires (or even witches, for that matter) he did not know. They rocked in chairs and talked to each other. One brushed her hair in a bedroom. Another bangs his head against the glass. But at his size it doesn't even vibrate.
A man, maybe he was supposed to be the father, or a grandfather, saw Tomas, yelled something to the others and they all ran to the 'fourth wall' and peered out. The tiny children were so cute. Tomas couldn't see it, but there was a thick rope of velvet piping where the doll house floors touched the glass to prevent the valuable 'toys' from falling down from one level to the next, or not falling down and getting stuck. They seemed shocked to see him, for they had absolutely no knowledge of the food-people in the cellar.... The mother 'toy' took the little boy 'toy's' hand. She seemed to be crying...
But Tomas was hungry... They were mortal and he was not. So he climbed up the tiny rose patterned skirting to get a better look...
<more next time... if you want you can scroll back to see what you've missed>
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A few hours later, when the kitchen staff came in, Tomas was ready, but he didn't know what to do. Two females, the cook and the head-pincher-offer from before plus a little, Boston Terrier looking errand boy. Every big house had a runner and he was it. They did have a bell system... little brass chains hanging from a plaque on the wall. But 'the master' likes quiet. Sunlight streamed through the large windows flooding the place with winter light. The granite counters reflected like mirrors... the white cupboards... the white hexagonal tiled floors.... cream colored crockery. If Martha Stewart was a giant dog, she'd have loved the place. Then they fired up the stove, a great, wrought iron and brass, coal burning affair. The pathetic naked humans hiding in the rectangular glass tank knew. They had to know. But there was no sign of life. The shredded paper layer at the bottom was still. Tomas watched everything from behind the tank, wedged into the narrow space between the glass and the wall. He crouched down, as low as possible. Vampires don't cramp, not after a few hours anyway. On some level he enjoyed the sunlight. Apparently this sun was different than his sun, or whatever hand stirred the celestial pot created different ordinances for different places. Here humans were morsels, shrimp sized tidbits adding goodness and flavor to a multitude of recipes. The cook said something to the errand 'boy' sitting half asleep on a stool by the counter. Canine dialect was highly inflected. Pitch and tone are everything. He roused himself, pulled a shiny metal bowl from a deep drawer and began to pick people out of the tank. That's when the straw-like bedding began to move,as the doomed humans piled into a corner. They always run toward the back, usually the right hand side, as far away from the stove as possible. Bruising didn't matter. There were fractures too. They made little mewling sounds. Noise was bred out long ago. The Boston Terrier 'boy' (in his navy wool, short sailor suit and black stockings) raked them up with his somewhat humanish, evolved, doggie fingers. He had to shake them off into the bowl. Heads cracked. Skin ripped. Some died. They were the lucky ones. The kitchen girl deftly picked up a person and pinched off its head, just as she did to the three during the night, only this time she didn't eat any. Not with her boss around. She knew better than that. Cook dredged them, one by one, in a flour and egg mixture before dropping them into a big, black, sizzling skillet. Sometimes the kitchen girl forgot to pinch off a head. She worked so fast, after all. But those sorry souls were pan fried two... burnt little heads with 'o' shaped mouths, eyes shut tight and knees drawn up. Tomas saw it all. One young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, survived the culling. She dug down deep into the excelsior, her cheek pressed hard against the glass, eyes shut tight as the people in the pan. Tomas looked at her through the glass. What would she gain? They'd find her tomorrow. Did she know the people in the pan? Could she smell them? Could she pray? An omelet they made. More like a big frittata (crustless quiche) with peppers and onions and helpless slaughtered people. One hundred and nine souls served up in this cousin to a pizza. Cook plated everything just so. Then two formally attired Doberman footmen came in to carry it out. After that they assembled simpler fare for the staff. Tomas watched. He studied everything with keen vampire eyes. Cook wore a long, full, starched white apron, still surprisingly clean. It had pockets, but they were neatly pinned shut. She never used them. Too fastidious for that. Trained in the old ways and proud of it. And she bustled about the kitchen, working here at the counter, or turning to face the sink. Kitchen girl was a long way off polishing silver. Not the good set used for dinner, but a casual collection seen at luncheon, or tea. And the errand boy was long gone, off to fetch shawls for chilly Greyhound aunts, or a forgotten pipe for the old master. If I can reach the apron strings - Tomas thought - I can climb 'round and slip into a pocket. She must take a break before luncheon. Tomas knew something of baronial domesticity from his days in Restoration England. So he watched and waited. But it proved easier than he thought. She came over to the counter and reached up high, straining to return a sugar bowl to its place. Her pocket was right there. So he darted out from behind the tank, raced to the edge (almost falling off) and slipped inside. The pathetic young girl in the tank saw him go. Imagine what she thought. After a time, some of which he spent pressed tight against various bull-nosed edges, she returned to her quarters where she took off the apron and hung it from a hook. Then she eased herself into a chair and dozed. Tomas waited till the snores were loud and regular. Those with experience in the matter know dogs snore too. Then he poked his head up out of the pouch looking for a means of escape. One apron string fell down to the floor. Rapunzel's braid offered no finer road. So he climbed out and made his way down ( equal to a ninety foot drop in his world), scampering off to hide beneath a commode. Eighteen heartbeats later he thought better of it. What if she relieved herself? What if she emptied it? She'd see him then. No, the commode was no good. The graceful, little cut-out at the bottom of the legless dresser was better. So he raced over and dived in, cool and secure in the welcoming darkness. No spider here. He was grateful for that. Then he fell into a vampire nap and dreamed of Old Kashmir. <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click BREAKFAST to sample all Vampire Wonderland episodes. click TEA to join me on Twitter. please comment. get on board. and thanks for your support.
It's got cold in that kitchen late at night. Central heating was primitive at best. Most manor houses were like that. Perhaps there were some sort of hot water radiators in the bedrooms... maybe in the sitting rooms and dining room. But backstairs and downstairs were left to their own devices. Lucky servants had small, coal burning braziers... little cast iron safe-like things tucked in a corner. Kitchens had nothing. Oh, the ovens and stove keep it toasty enough during the day... cozy in winter... stifling in summer. But stoves and ovens cooled fast and granite counter tops got like gravestones. Maybe the giant canine-folk living there didn't mind. Dogs normally run a temperature of one hundred and two degrees. That's why they think nothing of laying down and waiting for their human pack mates on icy sidewalks. And their brethren here in this universe wore clothes. They had special, fine leather, dog shaped boots for their feet and everything else dog-faced money could buy. The cook's helper, roused from her sleep, by the falling broom, stumbled into the kitchen half asleep. She didn't want to come, but if anything was amiss and her superior saw it in the morning, they'd throw her to the wolves (backwoods primitives not known for social niceties). So the one hundred and eighty foot high (equal to a five foot tall girl in her world) Border Collie looking thing, pulled on her robe and went in. Tomas saw her. He froze... an insignificant scrap of flesh, there on the long, chill counter. But she shuffled right by him, a passing behemoth, and picked up the broom, returning it to it's rightful place in the corner. That's when Tomas did it. He silently ran to a narrow space behind the glass tank. It didn't touch the tiled back splash. It was tight, but he could do it, standing there with his cheek pressed against the thick, green glass. The straw-like excelsior inside the tank was still. None of the humans hidden there so much as breathed. It was dark, but he could see it. How scared they must be, desperate for a few more hours of life. But she came back. The kitchen 'girl' came back. She stopped and looked down at the tank. Moonlight falling in through the big windows made things just a bit discernible. She tapped at the glass with a claw-like nail. She sighed, leaned down on the counter and peered inside. Tomas saw it all, as she reached in, searched through the shredded paper and fished out a terrified human, delicately holding him between her thumb and forefinger. How he kicked his feet. But he never screamed. He was too scared to scream. Sound would only make it worse. The giantess raised him up to her eyes, as she reached over with her free hand and quickly pinched off his head. There wasn't much blood. Pressure took care of that. Then she popped him into her mouth and chewed him up. Maybe she didn't like crunching heads. Some people are fussy. After that, she ate two more. There were thousands in the dirt trays down the cellar. A gourmet treat they were, grown with utmost care, just like the snails they raise in France. It'd be dawn soon. Siderial rhythms here were similar to the ones back home. Then they'd all die, but the breeding stock down in the trays would go on. Then the border- collie- looking kitchen help sponged a bit of blood from the counter and went back to bed. What she did with the heads was anybody's guess. Tomas stayed where he was, watching the excelsior that never moved. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click SHADOWS to walk through all other Vampire Wonderland episodes. click HEADS to join me on Twitter. please comment. thank you
Fortified by the blood, Tomas slid under a door into a dark service-way. All great houses have them. Arteries enabling the staff to soundlessly flow through the manor without being seen until necessary. Smooth slate floors... rather inexpensive marble wainscoting and pale grey polished plaster above that...although at this hour shrouded in complete darkness. Tomas proceeded with caution, quite the necessity when only two inches tall. He couldn't rely on vampiric abilities. This universe wasn't his universe and that caused some sort of space/time interference. Thus his usual talents flickered in and out... magical 'static' if you will. Now there were doors along the way. One led to the housekeeper's office. Musty, old upholstered pieces from elsewhere in the property.... Another fronted a storeroom for pots and pans. Tomas didn't need much. Momentary flickers of enhanced olfactory ability provided more than enough information.... a metallic scent... sachet.... onions and potatoes.... Ah! onions and potatoes... That must be the kitchen... There, up ahead.... Dim, watery light leaked out from beneath the door. He squeezed under. Apparently this one was hung with more precision. A tiny bit of light washed in through the huge wall of windows.... leaded glass, from counter height to ceiling. Odd that this world had a moon so much like our own. He looked about. How vast this space was, more akin to a catering hall than a private home... Neat, hexagonal, white, tiled floors... Avenues of drawers and cupboards topped with cold, flat, granite. He knew that, because bull-nose edges protrude a bit and he could see them, Then he smelled it... a human tang... strong, salty, dense and sulfurous. He sniffed. Where was it coming from? Scents echo in cold, hard rooms like this. But as he progressed, it grew stronger. There! Up above... on the counter... Live humans... But how would he get there? Tomas tried to dig his nails into a cupboard door. Perhaps he could climb up that way. Yet the lacquer was too hard. Then he saw it... a broom... an old style, rolled, corn broom, such as Cinderella would have used.... carelessly forgotten, it leaned against the edge of the counter maybe a hundred and forty steps down. He ran to it, a two inch tall mountaineer, in the land of the giant collies (and Alsatians and Husky-Wolfie things). It looked rustic. Probably made on the estate. But the broomstick looked smooth, though not too smooth... easy to climb, once passed the witchy looking business end. He scrambled up. Then he felt it move. Not really move, but shift a little. The broomstick, being round was sensitive. He'd have to go slow... and he did, inching up through the silvery darkness. He stepped off. The counter top was cold and empty.... everything in its place... nothing lying about. Aristocratic establishments were like that. But up ahead, against the tiled wall, sheltered from the moonlight by overhanging cupboards, was a fish tank... or a terrarium... smooth, clear sides, rectangular in shape, with black metal seams. Tomas ran over, put his face up against the glass, shading his eyes with his hands, the better to see through the reflective surface, and peered in. A thick layer of excelsior (shredded paper) covered the bottom, perhaps as high as his knees, or a bit above his knees. The human smell was so strong. He rapped on the glass... Nothing... He rapped again... This went on about four or five times.... Then they started to move. There, back near the far side, the shredded bedding began to shift. Heads peeked out. Tomas saw them. Scared, sad eyes looked back, glistening in the shadows. He couldn't be one of them and they knew it. He was clothed. Humans never wore clothes. Where would they get them? How would they make them? That's what excelsior was for... burrow in and huddle together. It worked... sort of. And Tomas remembered the dinner. Had to be eight hundred humans. Where'd they all come from? There couldn't be more than maybe a hundred and ten in there. No one moved. Those in the tank knew. They knew what would happen. No one ever came back. This was the end. They'd never see another night again... or even another afternoon... Breakfast fare, they were. Destined for the griddle... Scrambled with eggs. How fine and crunchy their bones were. Huge canine muzzles had no problem with that. Tomas wanted to talk to them. He didn't know the particulars. He couldn't sense their thoughts. He didn't know their language. OK, maybe he'd drain a few. That's how he was now. But, if they could communicate, some would probably live, at least for a while... If they could get off the counter.... That's when he felt it. That's when he heard the CRASH, as the broom slid down to the floor. Every little head ducked back into the bedding and he was left there, exposed and alone on the wide, cold, stone expanse... But what else heard the noise?... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click SIZZLING to taste earlier Vampire Wonderland episodes. click BREAKFAST to join me on Twitter. please comment. thank you.
Tomas saw the dogs, huge, acculturated, rather human-like things dressed as Late Victorian or Edwardian gentlefolk, but with full, somewhat fox-like tails protruding through all the velvet and worsted wool fabric. Actually, he only saw their backs and even then he couldn't see what was happening on the table. But he was able to discern tiny screams and cries. The beasts were at their dinner, dining and conversing with upper crust ease. Dog arms reached toward the center of the damask covered surface. For a moment he caught sight of a long, tapering metallic thing.... Like a chopstick, though it didn't have a mate. But what were they eating? And who was making all the fuss? There was some sort of drapery hanging behind the potted plant. Perhaps he could climb it and disappear into the foliage? Though it's hard for tiny hands to find purchase. He couldn't crush the fabric. How would be hold on? But the bottoms and edges were fringed, long, twisted, dark green, silk things. One edge was maybe two body lengths away. The porcelain planter still hid him. He's have to chance it. And based on the giant doggie slurping and chomping sounds he heard, a little shrimp sized 'human' thing shouldn't draw much attention. So he quietly stepped over, grabbed hold and went up. His vampire strength served him well. Soon he looked down over the rim onto carefully tended rich brown earth. He jumped over and scrambled into the greenery. From there it was an easy climb up to a point where he could peek out and see the table. Then he knew... Apparently, our misplaced 'human' thing was not alone. Huge mounds of frantic, swarming, naked people occupied three immense silver, or pewter bowls set into crater-like indentations down the center of the dining table. They desperately struggled, trying to avoid the long, thin, pointed poles. But the dog things didn't care. Clams don't want to be shucked. Crabs don't want to be boiled. That's how it is. And humans don't want to be impaled. As a vampire, Tomas could not look away. Sometimes a terrified little person managed to claw up out of the hellish mess, attempting to hide amidst the tableware and crockery (condiments, you know) scattered about the vast formal plain. A canine diner would momentarily stop conversing in that yodel-like way they have, reach out and brush them back in. Limbs broke. Heads cracked. Skin ripped. Domestic staff scraped out all the dead ones after for the koi pond. Sometimes left over live ones went in too. And that's how they ate. Stab a sentient morsel. Maybe dip it in some sauce. Bring the tip to the mouth. Draw off the meat 'tween the teeth and chew it up. If the dining pick didn't finish them the teeth would. Average dog ate eighty, or more at a sitting. God knows what's in the pantry. Maybe they raise them there? Afterwards the dog-folk licked scoops of flavored ice, topped by some sort of intoxicant, from shallow, crystal, stemware. A few chewed savory, biscuit things. Then the males went off to another part of the mansion, while the females retired to an adjacent room for some sort of table game. Footmen came in to clean up. A few humans were still alive. They toyed with them, pretending not to see, as they raced 'cross the damask looking for shelter. But there was no escape and all were thrown into the chill, dark waters of the koi pond. Tomas waited for maybe two or three hours, til the house grew quiet. Then he carefully leaned out over the rim of the pot, grabbed the fringe and climbed down, making for what he assumed was the kitchen, or at least the passage that led there. He found one crazed human ( a male, I think) trembling behind a chair leg in the dark. How he got down there is anyone's guess. The man looked to Tomas for help. Clothed humans were few and far between. The man babbled something in a whispery patois. Tomas pretended to understand and moved to comfort the terrified being. But he was hungry too, so he ripped open the throat and drank up all the blood. Then the corpse ignited into a cool, blue flame (as victims always do). In the morning some chamber maid or other would find a small, greasy stain. Ashes and water clean that, you know. Tomas watched the flame go out, then continued on his way... <more next time> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ click HERE to discover over fifteen hundred Vampire Wonderland episodes. click THERE to join me on Twitter. please comment. thank you.
I know we've visited this territory before. But I've wanted to go back there a good long while. There is a saga on a terraformed Mars arc already up, EL RANCHO TEXACO. But I want to do the early days. Similar in its way to John Ford's Cavalry Trilogy.
Imagine 'first families' known as 'troopers' after the Blue Coats of America's West. And whenever they get together to remember the old days, somebody stands, puts his hand to his heart and calls 'TROOPERS!' Then all chairs push out, everyone rises and they go into their song, a rousing version of SHE WORE A YELLOW RIBBON with whoops and 'Rebel' yells at the end.
That's how the movie starts. Then we fade back to a large 'estancia' out toward the bad lands... the storied La Polva Rosa (Red Dust) seat of the Texaco Family.... and the story begins.
Please watch the video up above. Listen to the anthem. Close your eyes and see a time that very well may come...
If you like, Google EL RANCHO TEXACO by Billy Kravitz and jump in. Scroll around. Find the first episode and explore. But the next 'visit' centers on an earlier era.... an almost mythological time when legends are born and dynasties too.
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