I come from an age when adulthood was dictated by what one did. The Harper’s Weekly dated 8 November 1862 had an article about John W. Packham, age 13, who was the youngest corporal in the Union army. He was part of an escort for Union ambulances, when the caravan rounded a hill and found 2,000 Rebel soldiers. Well, Johnny Reb demanded he come over and talk to them, and when he openly refused, one of the Rebels shot and shattered the boy’s kneecap.
My apologies…They shot and shattered the man’s kneecap. Only by chronology and physical stature was he a boy. By any other standard, he was a man.
(As an historical note, we had the habit of referring to the Rebels as "Johnny Reb," while they called us "Billy Yank." You will also note that the above-mentioned article occurred prior to my being embraced, thus making it a fond memory of my mortal past. I didn't know that young soldier, but I swelled with pride when I read the article.)
To this day, Orthodox Jews deem a boy to be a man at age 13, and celebrate this coming of age with a religious ceremony called a bar mitzvah. Due to the complications in the division of Church and State, it takes the consent of the 13-year-old’s parents so he can be married. Married and, by G-d’s command as per the Old Testament, becoming fruitful and prosperous. Of course, this man must be able to provide for his family, so it is preferred that he have a complete education before being wed and fathering children, but marriage today at such an age is not impossible.
The changes in the law and morals of society often make me wonder where mankind is heading. Common sense seems to have fled, if it hasn't already died. Honestly! How absurd is it that a school nurse must get parental consent to administer an aspirin, but is bound by confidentiality when a pregnant teen comes to the same nurse asking for a reference for an abortion?
I am mentioning all of the above so that I don’t receive thousands of e-mails decrying me as some kind of pervert. My unlife as a vampyre is perverse enough. You need not point out the obvious, nor decry that which you do not fully grasp.
When one becomes a vampyre, there is a 50/50 chance of gaining what might best be proclaimed a “side effect” of feeding. I am one of the lucky ones. When I feed, my victims experience a sense of euphoria unlike anything in their lives. “Pleasure” is too weak a word to encompass what they feel. During my entire existence as a creature of the night, it has been a common occurrence to see someone I’ve fed off to stand on quaking legs, breathing hard.
Enter my dilemma. With sexual promiscuity having reached all-time highs in this day and age, I honestly had no idea how I was to keep my pair of virgins past their 18th year. Since they're both so attractive, I doubted they’d remain virgins for more than a year or two, and then I’d lose them as a potent source of energy. The reminders posted on their mirrors could not possible withhold the cutting threads of Fate, which are more akin to razor wire.
This brings us to this evening. The girls had been in the pool earlier. When I arrived, they were both clad in bikinis. To be clear, Tina was wearing an outfit of light blue that, had I been her true father, I would have denounced as little more than a few patches of cloth that were pasted to her flesh and demand she put some clothes on. But as I've said, perceptions have changed, and the young are seemingly permitted to wear such garments as they will. It was her turn to be my “breakfast,” and I beckoned to her. She looked a little startled and asked if I would give her a moment. With no understanding of what she had in mind, she retired to her bedroom and returned wearing a pair of jeans over her bikini bottoms. Now I was completely baffled.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear the explanation for this, my little minx,” I said with a lopsided smile. “Why, pray tell, do you require a pair of jeans for me to feed?”
Being of lighter skin than Shay, she blushed furiously and looked quickly to her housemate.
Shay had both hands up and was slowly shaking her head. “Don’t look at me, girl. You’re the one who got busted with the wrong clothes on.”
Tina’s eyes flicked from Shay, to me, and back to Shay. “Should I…” Tina hesitated.
Shay shook her head once more. “We’re both busted, thank you very much. You might as well stop holding back.”
I cleared my throat to regain their full attention. “Would you mind letting me in on the grand secret? What is it you’ve been holding back?”
But Tina was already moving her long, dark hair out of the way, exposing the right side of her neck, and moving toward me. “You’ll see,” she muttered, suddenly shy and embarrassed.
With a mental shrug, I extended my upper canines and sank them smoothly into her tender young flesh. This time, instead of being lost in the sensations that move through me when I ingest virgin blood, I paid a bit more attention to what was happening to Tina. The pulse in her throat was skyrocketing. My hands were on her smooth shoulders, and I could feel her muscles quivering beneath her skin. Just as I was taking in the last of the pint I usually withdraw, (yes, we can make a fair guess at how much blood we're ingesting), her entire body experienced paroxysms of ecstasy, and she cried out, “Oh my G-d!” Then she slipped from my hands and collapsed to the floor, gasping and laughing as she landed.
I stood there, shocked. So shocked, in fact, that I only managed to detract one tooth, making me look a bit comical, which had Shay laughing. “Did you…Did you just…,” was all I could muster verbally. I did manage to get the other canine back where it belonged, but my expression of utter astonishment could not be erased, which had Shay grinning quite devilishly.
Tina’s face was like a crimson bulb as she joked, “You’re the best I’ve never had, ‘daddy.’”
Let us pause a moment to rationalize this…Or try to, at any rate. We have two girls with little or no experience when it comes to sex. When I caught the sweet scent of innocence on them, I was not going to start asking if they’d committed one sexual act or another. I knew that the mystic bond of their physical innocence was intact, and my mind was on one, and only one thing: that they are and remain virgins. Add to their inexperience the power embedded as a side effect of my feedings, and…
On my side of this carnal line is my ignorance. The only thing that could ruin the blood of a virgin was alcohol or drugs. And to a vampyre, virgin blood is a drug unto itself. Discounting the years I was mortal, and those spent in a healing slumber, I have spent approximately 119 years hoping to stumble upon that rare virgin (that was not a true child) and feed. When I did, I was too far gone in my own form of rapture to pay an ounce of attention to my victims. Just a quick lick of the neck to conceal the punctures, and I was on my way.
Had I spent the 119 conscious years of my vampyric existence leaving a trail of sexually satisfied virgins in my wake?!?
A discussion followed as Tina recovered. I put a swift end to calling me "daddy." Yes, even I have certain limits when it comes to such things, despite living a life of deception and murder. The jeans, it turns out, were to hide - How to put this delicately? - the specifics of Tina's reaction to climaxing. (It is a function of her physiology, dear readers, and not to be the cause of any kind of commotion.) Being young and inexperienced in oh so many things, it had not occurred to her that I would question her desire to hide her bikini.
Our chat quelled my fears that they would run off with whomever and commit some act that would ruin my source of nourishment. Without the intent of doing so, I was already providing them with sexual satisfaction without so much as an enticing kiss.
With this odd little post, I must confess that I’m sorely tempted to go back to my post about vampyre abilities and edit in a new one.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Replies: Part 3
Two posts in one day. Well, one day and one night. Still, it would seem I've gained a fan of sorts. As per my usual ritual, the letter, then the breakdown. To make things easier on all parties, I will start using bold print for incoming e-mails.
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts,
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
And now, the glorious reply.
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Forgive me, my dear, but either that is a typographical error, or your dates are off. The incident with Sean McCullough occurred in 1983, not 1973. I will assume this was merely a slip of the fingers, and leave it at that.
I appreciate your thanks, and you are most welcome. But you must understand that Eddie and I engaged Sean, not because we cared for mortals, but because we had the equivalent of a rabid dog on the loose, threatening to reveal what we perpetually work so hard to keep hidden. While I don't want to discourage you from writing, I also don't want you living under the illusion that literally risked my neck for anything other than the most selfish of motivations.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
If I didn't care, I wouldn't reply. Worse, this reply could be dripping with utter disdain for you, as well as taking the foolish vampyric view that "humans are cattle." No, my dear...Despite the fact that our interests that night were motivated by self-preservation, your giving of thanks is welcomed.
As for reading this to Eddie...To be honest, Eddie wants nothing to do with this blog, and claims that he isn't reading it. To quote him, "You're gonna screw up, Chuck. When that happens, I don't wanna know nothing." Although the concept of him laughing his fangs off is quite amusing. Perhaps one day I'll share the joke about the vampyre that required dentures.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
I should note that the existence of a day-runner is one that revolves around a specific fear: the loss of one's master. It appears to be convenient to both parties, but to the vampyre, it is merely a means to an end. To the day-runner, it could be utter terror.
On the surface, Eddie and Cheryl seem to have a casual relationship. Their teasing, arguing, and various other bits of banter often remind me of a married couple. And during the events revolving around Sean, I left out a specific scene that wasn't relevant at the time of its telling.
Eddie had come to my home to pick me up, leaving Cheryl to man my phones in my stead. The plan was to call her from a payphone as soon as the deed was done, and she would phone it in to our superiors from my place. (Eddie was too cheap to shell out the change to make the call to San Diego.)
They were in the doorway of my home, and I was standing by his car. The distance wasn't that far, and I couldn't help but overhear, what with having superior hearing and all that.
"Listen, you big lug," she said. "You better come back tonight. I'm not ready for that coma, and I'd only have a few days to give away all your money before it was just left to rot in the bank."
"What worries you more? The coma or the money?" he asked.
"The money, of course. You think I'm busting my hump every day because I care about you or something?"
There was a moment of silence as he gently caressed her face. I couldn't see his face, but could see hers. To be honest, I was feeling very much the voyeur as I stood there, watching and listening. It was a scene of unusual tenderness between what is literally a master and slave relationship.
Softly, he said, "I told you not to fall for me, you dumb broad."
In a voice equally as gentle, she replied, "You're the one who fell for me, you big lug."
"Yeah...maybe I did."
With that, he gave her a quick, soft kiss, and we were on our way.
Eddie is a fool. A big, mushy, romantic fool. He keeps seeking out one guy or another to embrace so that he can have more goons for his schemes, but the one he should take in is Cheryl.
I know what's stopping him, though. Vampyre couples tend not to last. The centuries roll on, and the couple eventually falls apart. From there, they may run into one another from time to time, and the idea of losing her all over again when she leaves would be too much for him. Better to lose her once, when she eventually dies of old age, than lose her again and again.
Then again, perhaps I am the same kind of sentimental fool.
I may have slept and missed many a travesty, but I seem to have awakened in time for the greatest bit of stupidity yet. Who, pray tell, elected this dolt George W. Bush, and why in the name of Hades are gas prices over $4.00 a gallon? I am still trying to piece together this bit of embarrassment for American history, and have yet to connect all the events. The pride I once felt at fighting to save the Union under Uncle Abe has all but evaporated as I watch this buffoon crash the economy into rocky ground.
Wisdom would indicate I go back to sleep for another 25 years. I stand a 50/50 chance things will improve.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
Write a note to yourself, my dear. Working nights is not all that it's cracked up to be. This comes from a man who knows all too well.
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
Goodness! I haven't heard mention of Abraham Stoker in ages. Oh, we made him pay quite a price for his dalliance into our world, even in fiction. "Died: 20 April 1912." I think not. "His ashes were placed in a display urn at Golders Green Crematorium." Well, someone's ashes were placed there after the service.
No...Mr. Stoker eventually took his own life 1916. He was embraced during 1898, the year after Dracula was published, and was sentenced to attempt to survive without the aid of any other vampyre. Those who reigned over England at the time kept a distant eye on him, and it was well known that he despised living on the blood of others. On a clear night, he wandered away from any kind of shelter, and those assigned to watch him abandoned their posts when they realized they were getting too far from home to make it back before sunrise. Abraham's ashes were recovered the next night, and eventually exchanged with those that occupied the space at Golders.
But, yes...He was an excellent writer.
(Note from the author: Many thanks to CKG for the e-mail to which I responded.)
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts,
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
And now, the glorious reply.
Dear Mr. Miller,
As an avid reader of your Internet - based autobiography I have to say that I remember those days back in 1973 when that cannibal terrorised the area around Hollywood. I wasn't more than eight or nine at the time, but I remember that my mom wouldn't let me out of the house after school. Actually she wouldn't even let me out of the house.
I couldn't think that the killer was a human. I always swore that it was a monster. I just refused to believe that a human could do such things. I suppose I should thank you for removing him. Thank you.
Forgive me, my dear, but either that is a typographical error, or your dates are off. The incident with Sean McCullough occurred in 1983, not 1973. I will assume this was merely a slip of the fingers, and leave it at that.
I appreciate your thanks, and you are most welcome. But you must understand that Eddie and I engaged Sean, not because we cared for mortals, but because we had the equivalent of a rabid dog on the loose, threatening to reveal what we perpetually work so hard to keep hidden. While I don't want to discourage you from writing, I also don't want you living under the illusion that literally risked my neck for anything other than the most selfish of motivations.
Of course, this means absolutely nothing to you. Your friend who took care of you in return for taking care of his mistake is probably reading this email (or hearing you read it to him over your cell phone) and laughing so hard his fangs'll fall off. How do I know this?
He screwed up. You fixed his mistake. You don't particularly want, or think you need thanks. But morality urges me to thank you. Glad that's over with then.
If I didn't care, I wouldn't reply. Worse, this reply could be dripping with utter disdain for you, as well as taking the foolish vampyric view that "humans are cattle." No, my dear...Despite the fact that our interests that night were motivated by self-preservation, your giving of thanks is welcomed.
As for reading this to Eddie...To be honest, Eddie wants nothing to do with this blog, and claims that he isn't reading it. To quote him, "You're gonna screw up, Chuck. When that happens, I don't wanna know nothing." Although the concept of him laughing his fangs off is quite amusing. Perhaps one day I'll share the joke about the vampyre that required dentures.
I won't comment more on the specifics of your story mostly as I'm typing this as I read your blog (I must say, a day - runner is an innovative way of getting around the sun. And it does benefit both parties. Of course, this is only based on you and Mr. Verdone), but more skim over your adapting to the change. From the sound of it you've been awake maybe a couple of months and sound as if you've lived through the whole period you slept. Fortunately for you, you missed several great travesties and innumerably dull years. I offer you sincere congratulations on missing every last one of them.
I should note that the existence of a day-runner is one that revolves around a specific fear: the loss of one's master. It appears to be convenient to both parties, but to the vampyre, it is merely a means to an end. To the day-runner, it could be utter terror.
On the surface, Eddie and Cheryl seem to have a casual relationship. Their teasing, arguing, and various other bits of banter often remind me of a married couple. And during the events revolving around Sean, I left out a specific scene that wasn't relevant at the time of its telling.
Eddie had come to my home to pick me up, leaving Cheryl to man my phones in my stead. The plan was to call her from a payphone as soon as the deed was done, and she would phone it in to our superiors from my place. (Eddie was too cheap to shell out the change to make the call to San Diego.)
They were in the doorway of my home, and I was standing by his car. The distance wasn't that far, and I couldn't help but overhear, what with having superior hearing and all that.
"Listen, you big lug," she said. "You better come back tonight. I'm not ready for that coma, and I'd only have a few days to give away all your money before it was just left to rot in the bank."
"What worries you more? The coma or the money?" he asked.
"The money, of course. You think I'm busting my hump every day because I care about you or something?"
There was a moment of silence as he gently caressed her face. I couldn't see his face, but could see hers. To be honest, I was feeling very much the voyeur as I stood there, watching and listening. It was a scene of unusual tenderness between what is literally a master and slave relationship.
Softly, he said, "I told you not to fall for me, you dumb broad."
In a voice equally as gentle, she replied, "You're the one who fell for me, you big lug."
"Yeah...maybe I did."
With that, he gave her a quick, soft kiss, and we were on our way.
Eddie is a fool. A big, mushy, romantic fool. He keeps seeking out one guy or another to embrace so that he can have more goons for his schemes, but the one he should take in is Cheryl.
I know what's stopping him, though. Vampyre couples tend not to last. The centuries roll on, and the couple eventually falls apart. From there, they may run into one another from time to time, and the idea of losing her all over again when she leaves would be too much for him. Better to lose her once, when she eventually dies of old age, than lose her again and again.
Then again, perhaps I am the same kind of sentimental fool.
I may have slept and missed many a travesty, but I seem to have awakened in time for the greatest bit of stupidity yet. Who, pray tell, elected this dolt George W. Bush, and why in the name of Hades are gas prices over $4.00 a gallon? I am still trying to piece together this bit of embarrassment for American history, and have yet to connect all the events. The pride I once felt at fighting to save the Union under Uncle Abe has all but evaporated as I watch this buffoon crash the economy into rocky ground.
Wisdom would indicate I go back to sleep for another 25 years. I stand a 50/50 chance things will improve.
Sadly, my schedule compels me to to cut this communication short (I have often entertained the idea of working at night, but alas, my work won't allow it) so let me say that it is a joy to read such a well - written and unique blog. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
Yours faithfully,
Mina Murray
Write a note to yourself, my dear. Working nights is not all that it's cracked up to be. This comes from a man who knows all too well.
P.S. I have always admired the writing style of Bram Stoker, despite his many fallacies.
Goodness! I haven't heard mention of Abraham Stoker in ages. Oh, we made him pay quite a price for his dalliance into our world, even in fiction. "Died: 20 April 1912." I think not. "His ashes were placed in a display urn at Golders Green Crematorium." Well, someone's ashes were placed there after the service.
No...Mr. Stoker eventually took his own life 1916. He was embraced during 1898, the year after Dracula was published, and was sentenced to attempt to survive without the aid of any other vampyre. Those who reigned over England at the time kept a distant eye on him, and it was well known that he despised living on the blood of others. On a clear night, he wandered away from any kind of shelter, and those assigned to watch him abandoned their posts when they realized they were getting too far from home to make it back before sunrise. Abraham's ashes were recovered the next night, and eventually exchanged with those that occupied the space at Golders.
But, yes...He was an excellent writer.
(Note from the author: Many thanks to CKG for the e-mail to which I responded.)
Blah, blah, blah.
Awake, and it's only shortly after noon. There are times when I wish I could get a hold of the creator of a conscience and obliterate him or her. What we were forced to do to Bobby caused me to sleep too lightly, and I have given up on the hope of getting some rest. Not that I need the rest, but sometimes it's nice to enter the Land of Nod, where I can safely watch the sun set or rise without the fear of agonizing death.
Our friend, Batman, seems to have gone underground. How he was alerted to our hunt remains an unknown, but there have been no dead criminals since the retractions appeared in various newspapers and television news programs across the globe. Rest assured, we will find him. When we do, he will see his final sunrise, amputations and all.
Speaking of punishments, I stumbled across this while surfing the Internet: http://priestseventeen.blogspot.com/ . Is it real? Fiction? I cannot say. Whoever this person is, I wish him all the luck in the world, especially with his final claim of setting oak in our hearts. By all means, feel free to use an entire oak tree. It's the wrong kind of wood, and you'll very likely aggravate whatever vampyre you try it on.
I am aimless in this post. There is little to do at this hour. Thus, I thought I'd speak a bit about vampyric abilities.
1. Tailoring. This is one of my abilities, and it is quite rare. (It was once called glamouring, but has been the case with American English since this country was founded, words often change to have completely new meanings.) With this talent, I can alter my appearance on the surface. I cannot become taller, heavier, or thinner. What I can do is alter my hair, eye, or skin color, adjust my facial hair, and even change the condition of my clothes. (It's very helpful when hiding blood stains.) This is an actual change in appearance, not an illusion, so it cannot be foiled by a camera. As an added bonus, once I make the changes I want, I need not concentrate on them. They remain until such time as I undo them.
2. Persuasion. I don't have this one, much to my regret. Vampyres tend to have a greater amount of physical beauty. With a touch of verbal charisma, we could sell shoes to someone without feet. Persuasion takes it a step further. It takes some practice, but by the power of one's own voice, a vampyre can convince the most levelheaded individual to do the insane. Imagine being able to command a group of witnesses to something you've done to forget what they've seen, or, even more drastic, run off and commit suicide. Finding someone to feed on becomes infinitely easier, because you no longer have to bob and weave through a conversation; simply command them to come with you, and dinner is served. Alas, this ability is not carried electronically, and doesn't work once technology comes into play.
3. Reading Auras. Another I don't have. To the vampyre with this talent, people can appear in a variety of colors, reflecting their moods, the strength of their life force, the quality of their blood, and whether or not they're lying. Employment opportunities abound to the undead with this power, as they make excellent interrogators. With the sleep of empowerment, this particular ability can strengthen to the point where auras can be seen through walls, which is extremely useful.
4. Celerity. Yes, vampyres are stronger, faster, and more agile than mortals. Those with this ability, like me, are also called "speedsters." I can exceed those limits, becoming little more than a blur to even vampyric eyes. And while others have difficulty following my movements, my perception changes so that the world seems to slow down. Blessed be the powers that grant me that perception, because to trip at my maximum speed would be to become a smear on the pavement if I tripped, or a splatter against a wall if I failed to turn. Unfortunately, the rest of the world isn't designed to move along with me at my heightened velocity. A door will only open so fast, and if forced to move with me, such an object is most often destroyed.
5. Durability. I believe I've mentioned that vampyres can take a beating far better than mortals. There are some, however, that can step it up a notch, and barely flinch when bullets come into play. They sting, but rarely penetrate. I fear our "Batman" may have this, as reports of bullet casings have been found where he's struck. His opponents are firing away, and he's not slowing down. As a result, getting a stake in him is going to take some doing. We may well have to send in a...
6. Brute (Brutism). Here we have an individual whose strength exceeds that of other vampyres. Eddie Verdone and Molly Murphy have this talent. Prior to becoming Princess of district 12 here in the States, I saw Molly enter a rage destroy a moderately sized, two story house. Because she doesn't have durability to go with her strength, she broke both her hands...but I watched in terrified awe as she used fisticuffs to batter that house to rubble. (Her hands, by the way, healed within a week.)
7. Mind Casting. Thankfully, there are very few vampyres with this ability, as controlling it grows impossible. It's the power to cast your thoughts into the minds of others, making your thoughts their own. For the few who have this, their life expectancy is, at a maximum, a century. By then, they are usually uncontrolled and broadcasting their thoughts to everyone around them. Because the aspects of this power don't allow the victims to know they're being affected, it usually takes a disaster for other vampyres to know there's a problem. In 1981, I was forced to put down a vampyre who'd accidentally caused a dozen mortals to tear out one another's throats.
There are a few other abilities that I'm failing to mention here, including one that is unique unto me. I am the first and only vampyre in our recorded history to have it. I'm precognitive.
When Sean McCullough almost killed me, I knew it was going to happen. In my mind's eye, I played out every scenario, and each time I accosted him, he latched onto my neck. Only one thing would have saved me, but walking away would have left my friend dead, and a psychotic vampyre that much more powerful. I can only see my future, and only a few minutes at a time.
There's a movie, Next, that gives an example of what it's like to have such a power. Its conclusion...Well, I'd hate to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen it. But I would love to be able to see that far.
Our friend, Batman, seems to have gone underground. How he was alerted to our hunt remains an unknown, but there have been no dead criminals since the retractions appeared in various newspapers and television news programs across the globe. Rest assured, we will find him. When we do, he will see his final sunrise, amputations and all.
Speaking of punishments, I stumbled across this while surfing the Internet: http://priestseventeen.blogspot.com/ . Is it real? Fiction? I cannot say. Whoever this person is, I wish him all the luck in the world, especially with his final claim of setting oak in our hearts. By all means, feel free to use an entire oak tree. It's the wrong kind of wood, and you'll very likely aggravate whatever vampyre you try it on.
I am aimless in this post. There is little to do at this hour. Thus, I thought I'd speak a bit about vampyric abilities.
1. Tailoring. This is one of my abilities, and it is quite rare. (It was once called glamouring, but has been the case with American English since this country was founded, words often change to have completely new meanings.) With this talent, I can alter my appearance on the surface. I cannot become taller, heavier, or thinner. What I can do is alter my hair, eye, or skin color, adjust my facial hair, and even change the condition of my clothes. (It's very helpful when hiding blood stains.) This is an actual change in appearance, not an illusion, so it cannot be foiled by a camera. As an added bonus, once I make the changes I want, I need not concentrate on them. They remain until such time as I undo them.
2. Persuasion. I don't have this one, much to my regret. Vampyres tend to have a greater amount of physical beauty. With a touch of verbal charisma, we could sell shoes to someone without feet. Persuasion takes it a step further. It takes some practice, but by the power of one's own voice, a vampyre can convince the most levelheaded individual to do the insane. Imagine being able to command a group of witnesses to something you've done to forget what they've seen, or, even more drastic, run off and commit suicide. Finding someone to feed on becomes infinitely easier, because you no longer have to bob and weave through a conversation; simply command them to come with you, and dinner is served. Alas, this ability is not carried electronically, and doesn't work once technology comes into play.
3. Reading Auras. Another I don't have. To the vampyre with this talent, people can appear in a variety of colors, reflecting their moods, the strength of their life force, the quality of their blood, and whether or not they're lying. Employment opportunities abound to the undead with this power, as they make excellent interrogators. With the sleep of empowerment, this particular ability can strengthen to the point where auras can be seen through walls, which is extremely useful.
4. Celerity. Yes, vampyres are stronger, faster, and more agile than mortals. Those with this ability, like me, are also called "speedsters." I can exceed those limits, becoming little more than a blur to even vampyric eyes. And while others have difficulty following my movements, my perception changes so that the world seems to slow down. Blessed be the powers that grant me that perception, because to trip at my maximum speed would be to become a smear on the pavement if I tripped, or a splatter against a wall if I failed to turn. Unfortunately, the rest of the world isn't designed to move along with me at my heightened velocity. A door will only open so fast, and if forced to move with me, such an object is most often destroyed.
5. Durability. I believe I've mentioned that vampyres can take a beating far better than mortals. There are some, however, that can step it up a notch, and barely flinch when bullets come into play. They sting, but rarely penetrate. I fear our "Batman" may have this, as reports of bullet casings have been found where he's struck. His opponents are firing away, and he's not slowing down. As a result, getting a stake in him is going to take some doing. We may well have to send in a...
6. Brute (Brutism). Here we have an individual whose strength exceeds that of other vampyres. Eddie Verdone and Molly Murphy have this talent. Prior to becoming Princess of district 12 here in the States, I saw Molly enter a rage destroy a moderately sized, two story house. Because she doesn't have durability to go with her strength, she broke both her hands...but I watched in terrified awe as she used fisticuffs to batter that house to rubble. (Her hands, by the way, healed within a week.)
7. Mind Casting. Thankfully, there are very few vampyres with this ability, as controlling it grows impossible. It's the power to cast your thoughts into the minds of others, making your thoughts their own. For the few who have this, their life expectancy is, at a maximum, a century. By then, they are usually uncontrolled and broadcasting their thoughts to everyone around them. Because the aspects of this power don't allow the victims to know they're being affected, it usually takes a disaster for other vampyres to know there's a problem. In 1981, I was forced to put down a vampyre who'd accidentally caused a dozen mortals to tear out one another's throats.
There are a few other abilities that I'm failing to mention here, including one that is unique unto me. I am the first and only vampyre in our recorded history to have it. I'm precognitive.
When Sean McCullough almost killed me, I knew it was going to happen. In my mind's eye, I played out every scenario, and each time I accosted him, he latched onto my neck. Only one thing would have saved me, but walking away would have left my friend dead, and a psychotic vampyre that much more powerful. I can only see my future, and only a few minutes at a time.
There's a movie, Next, that gives an example of what it's like to have such a power. Its conclusion...Well, I'd hate to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen it. But I would love to be able to see that far.
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Smart and the Dumb
Tonight, I have and will play security. It's a minor problem, but once again explains a bit about our world.
Once you have established yourself in a territory, it's important to become familiar with humans that are well known. The reason for this is that we are not permitted to feed on famous faces. They are high-risk targets, especially with all the paparazzi that follow such people. The last thing we need is a photo of a vampyre attempting to seduce an actor or actress on the front page of a tabloid, asking, "Who is new mystery beau?"
No entertainers, no politicians, and no high-end business owners. A savvy vampire can find plenty of sustenance by hanging around colleges, malls, or, if you live in my region, the Hollywood Strip.
Enter our little problem child, Bobby Summers. Embraced only a few years ago, Bobby was shown the ropes. Our rule about the famous was made clear to him. In a moment of forgetfulness and desperation, he fed on a young actress while she was out partying. It was believed at the time that she drank too much, and she stumbled out of the club looking like a glorious disaster that the press devoured with their cameras.
Bobby, realizing what he'd gotten away with, found himself a hobby: making high-risk feeds.
Vampyres are very much like regular people psychologically. We are not mindless aberrations that shamble through the night without goals or desires. Thus, we can be intelligent or foolish, just like mortals. Bobby has become addicted to the mental rush of pulling off these daring feeds, and it only came to our attention a few nights ago.
While reading one of the tabloids, an observant mortal agent noticed yet another young starlet was photographed while stumbling out of a club. The tabloid was kind enough to circle a mark on her neck. They assumed it was some random partner on the dance floor that gave her a hickey. "What daring, romantic vampire gave her this?" they asked. Our agent's question was closer to the mark; "What idiot is breaking the rules?" Based on this one article, he did some research and discovered that the same set of celebrities, visiting the same set of clubs within the same area of Hollywood have become media trash because they have all been seen exiting a club while three sheets to the wind. One of the regulars is the same young woman that was labeled a victim of vampyrism.
Oh, if they only knew how accurate they were!
After last night's post, a number of our kind went to all of the clubs where these victims have been noted as having left in bad shape. Our mission was to observe only. Find out who's doing this, and we'll handle it tonight. We went in pairs, and I teamed with Eddie for the club we were to watch. As a treat, I allowed him to take a few sips off one of my girls so he would have enough energy for the night. (He used quite a bit of colorful language while declaring how lucky I am.)
Many of these nightspots have a requirement that the patrons drink so much. Eddie and I used an old trick that pleases bartenders around the world to no end. We lay $300 on the bar, each, and tell the bartender to use the funds in one of two ways. He can pocket it as one of the better tips he's received, or buy some of the lovely ladies a drink in the hopes of scoring a bit of carnal action. In this way, we avoid the drinks we can't have, and some mortal is left feeling pleased.
Eddie and I saw nothing during our stakeout. It was another team that spotted and identified Bobby. His game is fairly simple. He heads to the dance floor, demonstrates impressive agility and speed for spectacular dance moves, and gains the attention of his target with his talents. He then waits for the occasional slow song, when the club dims its lights the most to "set the mood," and then moves in to feed.
I received a call on my cell phone around 1:00 AM with the above report. Bobby's methods showed he was being careful, and no less daring than many of us. But there is a domino effect to what he's been doing. Some of us are heavily invested in these celebrities, and more specifically, the production companies that use them. Bad press makes the famous faces more of a joke than anything else, and so production suffers. Our money suffers. Aside from blood, a vampyre lives on his or her finances to live above the common fold. It's quite possible that Bobby had no idea what he was doing with his little game, but it's become apparent that there would be no stopping him. He'd been doing it too long.
His car was "tagged." A magnetic tracking device was tossed at his car, where it adhered and would allow us to know where he'd be the next night...Tonight. So, after rising this evening and having a quick feed off one of the girls, I met up with Eddie and the vampyres that had spotted Bobby doing his thing.
Since he remains fairly new in our world, his lair is one of modest means. Any money he's investing is going to the clubs he's been visiting. It can be expensive to rub elbows with the rich and famous. He stood no chance against four of us, one of whom has slept for 50 years for empowerment. While the other two held Bobby in place, Eddie and I inserted a stake in his heart. As I post, Bobby is lying on one of my couches, frozen and frighteningly aware of his situation. The paralysis of being staked doesn't turn off one's senses; it simply makes movement impossible.
Because we know he would never stop after receiving something as flimsy as a warning, Molly Murphy has approved final sunrise.
I've mentioned this several times, and I'm sure some of you have guessed at its meaning, but remain curious as to how it's done. For Bobby, it will be simple. You see, sometimes we have a true desire for vengeance, and we will take an axe to the knees and elbows of a vampyre deserving the most painful of experiences. Those severed limbs are placed 100 yards away from such a criminal, in clear view, allowing for the psychological suffering that if he had not been such a buffoon, he would be intact and not lying on a beach, awaiting the agonizing purity of sunlight.
Bobby is a lowly fool, and his death will be merciful. We will leave the stake in place, which will keep him paralyzed for the end. The pain will be reduced, so he will not be screaming to the empty beach of his suffering. An hour before sunrise, Eddie and I will leave him in a lonely spot, difficult to get to by mortals. The sun will rise, and Bobby will be reduced to ashes. Then the tides will come and wash away his remains.
One less of the dumb vampyres to worry about.
Once you have established yourself in a territory, it's important to become familiar with humans that are well known. The reason for this is that we are not permitted to feed on famous faces. They are high-risk targets, especially with all the paparazzi that follow such people. The last thing we need is a photo of a vampyre attempting to seduce an actor or actress on the front page of a tabloid, asking, "Who is new mystery beau?"
No entertainers, no politicians, and no high-end business owners. A savvy vampire can find plenty of sustenance by hanging around colleges, malls, or, if you live in my region, the Hollywood Strip.
Enter our little problem child, Bobby Summers. Embraced only a few years ago, Bobby was shown the ropes. Our rule about the famous was made clear to him. In a moment of forgetfulness and desperation, he fed on a young actress while she was out partying. It was believed at the time that she drank too much, and she stumbled out of the club looking like a glorious disaster that the press devoured with their cameras.
Bobby, realizing what he'd gotten away with, found himself a hobby: making high-risk feeds.
Vampyres are very much like regular people psychologically. We are not mindless aberrations that shamble through the night without goals or desires. Thus, we can be intelligent or foolish, just like mortals. Bobby has become addicted to the mental rush of pulling off these daring feeds, and it only came to our attention a few nights ago.
While reading one of the tabloids, an observant mortal agent noticed yet another young starlet was photographed while stumbling out of a club. The tabloid was kind enough to circle a mark on her neck. They assumed it was some random partner on the dance floor that gave her a hickey. "What daring, romantic vampire gave her this?" they asked. Our agent's question was closer to the mark; "What idiot is breaking the rules?" Based on this one article, he did some research and discovered that the same set of celebrities, visiting the same set of clubs within the same area of Hollywood have become media trash because they have all been seen exiting a club while three sheets to the wind. One of the regulars is the same young woman that was labeled a victim of vampyrism.
Oh, if they only knew how accurate they were!
After last night's post, a number of our kind went to all of the clubs where these victims have been noted as having left in bad shape. Our mission was to observe only. Find out who's doing this, and we'll handle it tonight. We went in pairs, and I teamed with Eddie for the club we were to watch. As a treat, I allowed him to take a few sips off one of my girls so he would have enough energy for the night. (He used quite a bit of colorful language while declaring how lucky I am.)
Many of these nightspots have a requirement that the patrons drink so much. Eddie and I used an old trick that pleases bartenders around the world to no end. We lay $300 on the bar, each, and tell the bartender to use the funds in one of two ways. He can pocket it as one of the better tips he's received, or buy some of the lovely ladies a drink in the hopes of scoring a bit of carnal action. In this way, we avoid the drinks we can't have, and some mortal is left feeling pleased.
Eddie and I saw nothing during our stakeout. It was another team that spotted and identified Bobby. His game is fairly simple. He heads to the dance floor, demonstrates impressive agility and speed for spectacular dance moves, and gains the attention of his target with his talents. He then waits for the occasional slow song, when the club dims its lights the most to "set the mood," and then moves in to feed.
I received a call on my cell phone around 1:00 AM with the above report. Bobby's methods showed he was being careful, and no less daring than many of us. But there is a domino effect to what he's been doing. Some of us are heavily invested in these celebrities, and more specifically, the production companies that use them. Bad press makes the famous faces more of a joke than anything else, and so production suffers. Our money suffers. Aside from blood, a vampyre lives on his or her finances to live above the common fold. It's quite possible that Bobby had no idea what he was doing with his little game, but it's become apparent that there would be no stopping him. He'd been doing it too long.
His car was "tagged." A magnetic tracking device was tossed at his car, where it adhered and would allow us to know where he'd be the next night...Tonight. So, after rising this evening and having a quick feed off one of the girls, I met up with Eddie and the vampyres that had spotted Bobby doing his thing.
Since he remains fairly new in our world, his lair is one of modest means. Any money he's investing is going to the clubs he's been visiting. It can be expensive to rub elbows with the rich and famous. He stood no chance against four of us, one of whom has slept for 50 years for empowerment. While the other two held Bobby in place, Eddie and I inserted a stake in his heart. As I post, Bobby is lying on one of my couches, frozen and frighteningly aware of his situation. The paralysis of being staked doesn't turn off one's senses; it simply makes movement impossible.
Because we know he would never stop after receiving something as flimsy as a warning, Molly Murphy has approved final sunrise.
I've mentioned this several times, and I'm sure some of you have guessed at its meaning, but remain curious as to how it's done. For Bobby, it will be simple. You see, sometimes we have a true desire for vengeance, and we will take an axe to the knees and elbows of a vampyre deserving the most painful of experiences. Those severed limbs are placed 100 yards away from such a criminal, in clear view, allowing for the psychological suffering that if he had not been such a buffoon, he would be intact and not lying on a beach, awaiting the agonizing purity of sunlight.
Bobby is a lowly fool, and his death will be merciful. We will leave the stake in place, which will keep him paralyzed for the end. The pain will be reduced, so he will not be screaming to the empty beach of his suffering. An hour before sunrise, Eddie and I will leave him in a lonely spot, difficult to get to by mortals. The sun will rise, and Bobby will be reduced to ashes. Then the tides will come and wash away his remains.
One less of the dumb vampyres to worry about.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
...only deader.
I woke up very close to sunset this evening, so I didn't have to wait long to head down to the guesthouse to have "breakfast." The girls have been adjusting nicely to their new environment. They've never lived so well, and they were thrilled when Cheryl arrived mid-morning with driver's licenses for the both of them. Of course, with the falsified documents allowing them to drive came the complaint that they had no vehicle.
Little did they know that their private garage was hiding a "Venom Red" 2008 Dodge Viper, which I showed them after giving them a few minutes to complain. Shay became weak in the knees and required my support to get back into the house. Though they were virtually speechless at such generosity, I warned them that should they create any difficulties with the use of this car, their next form on conveyance will be a used AMC Gremlin, and I showed them pictures to solidify the threat. Where they had experienced near-orgasmic delight with the Viper, they felt even greater terror at the idea of being seen in what was once voted "the Ugliest Car in America."
We also had a serious talk about finances. With various other forged documents now on hand for them, both have chosen to have half of their monthly allowance invested by my broker. In another generous gesture, I will be advancing a year's worth to the broker, thereby giving him more to work with and help bear greater fruit.
"But my ability to give has its limits," I told them. "I am doing all of this for you because of what you are doing for me. Thanks to you ladies, I no longer have to waste part of my evening tracking down a meal, or, worse yet, relying on a refrigerated supply of blood bags. You now have a home, a computer for each of you, a separate allowance for food, are enrolled in a private school, and have bought fresh clothes at my expense. On top of that, you both now have a car to share that costs upwards around $100,000. There is no rent or utility bills. In all these ways, you are very lucky.
"Access to my wallet, however, is about to come to a halt. I will be covering half of your insurance to drive this car. The two of you will cover the other half. I will also pay for none of your gas. Remember that all of this will be erased from your lives and returned to mine should you go out on a date and undo the key reason I've brought you into my life in this way. Always keep in mind that I can take away much more than I've given."
I tell you, these girls are astounding. After making my little speech, they showed me their rooms. Both have the same printout taped to their bedroom mirrors. It reads as follows:
REMEMBER!
Remember where you were when he found you.
Remember what you were prepared to do to eat.
Remember how desperate you were for a roof over your head.
Remember all that he has given in a very short time.
Remember that he hasn't asked you to die for him.
Remember that if you break his rules, there will be a heavy price to pay.
Remember that you are, under no circumstances, to break your silence about his true nature.
If you forget any of this, remember that you will never be able to outrun him or his fury if you screw up the good thing you have now.
I was stunned, to say the very least. While I have slept through the day, they have been making it clear unto themselves that they may never find better than what they have now. Yes, I literally ask them to bleed for me, but they are correct; I have not asked them to die for me. Most incredible is that this was not planned on anyone's part. I spoke, and they felt the need to show how deep their devotion to me goes. All in all, it was extremely touching.
For a minute, I could do little more than feel touched. If my heart still beat, it would have pounded with affection for these two teenaged angels. And when I found my voice, I asked, "Why? What inspired you to write...this?"
It was Tina who answered. "You're like the best dad in the world, only deader."
There was no stopping my laughter then, nor can I hold back the residual chuckle I'm experiencing now.
Little did they know that their private garage was hiding a "Venom Red" 2008 Dodge Viper, which I showed them after giving them a few minutes to complain. Shay became weak in the knees and required my support to get back into the house. Though they were virtually speechless at such generosity, I warned them that should they create any difficulties with the use of this car, their next form on conveyance will be a used AMC Gremlin, and I showed them pictures to solidify the threat. Where they had experienced near-orgasmic delight with the Viper, they felt even greater terror at the idea of being seen in what was once voted "the Ugliest Car in America."
We also had a serious talk about finances. With various other forged documents now on hand for them, both have chosen to have half of their monthly allowance invested by my broker. In another generous gesture, I will be advancing a year's worth to the broker, thereby giving him more to work with and help bear greater fruit.
"But my ability to give has its limits," I told them. "I am doing all of this for you because of what you are doing for me. Thanks to you ladies, I no longer have to waste part of my evening tracking down a meal, or, worse yet, relying on a refrigerated supply of blood bags. You now have a home, a computer for each of you, a separate allowance for food, are enrolled in a private school, and have bought fresh clothes at my expense. On top of that, you both now have a car to share that costs upwards around $100,000. There is no rent or utility bills. In all these ways, you are very lucky.
"Access to my wallet, however, is about to come to a halt. I will be covering half of your insurance to drive this car. The two of you will cover the other half. I will also pay for none of your gas. Remember that all of this will be erased from your lives and returned to mine should you go out on a date and undo the key reason I've brought you into my life in this way. Always keep in mind that I can take away much more than I've given."
I tell you, these girls are astounding. After making my little speech, they showed me their rooms. Both have the same printout taped to their bedroom mirrors. It reads as follows:
REMEMBER!
Remember where you were when he found you.
Remember what you were prepared to do to eat.
Remember how desperate you were for a roof over your head.
Remember all that he has given in a very short time.
Remember that he hasn't asked you to die for him.
Remember that if you break his rules, there will be a heavy price to pay.
Remember that you are, under no circumstances, to break your silence about his true nature.
If you forget any of this, remember that you will never be able to outrun him or his fury if you screw up the good thing you have now.
I was stunned, to say the very least. While I have slept through the day, they have been making it clear unto themselves that they may never find better than what they have now. Yes, I literally ask them to bleed for me, but they are correct; I have not asked them to die for me. Most incredible is that this was not planned on anyone's part. I spoke, and they felt the need to show how deep their devotion to me goes. All in all, it was extremely touching.
For a minute, I could do little more than feel touched. If my heart still beat, it would have pounded with affection for these two teenaged angels. And when I found my voice, I asked, "Why? What inspired you to write...this?"
It was Tina who answered. "You're like the best dad in the world, only deader."
There was no stopping my laughter then, nor can I hold back the residual chuckle I'm experiencing now.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
No guts, no glory.
Well, New Teeth has followed up with me, and a handler is on the way to get the child educated in our ways, as well as formalize his assignment.
Like me, he has established a blog. It shows a sense of daring, though his writing style reflects his age clearly. His age, of course, not being the actual 17 when he was turned, but also includes those years as a denizen of the night. His education remains incomplete, as I doubt he was able to show up for homeroom that morning after he was embraced. If you wish to follow his escapades, you can find his blog at: http://www.liamfaust.blogspot.com/ .
"Mainstreams." That's what he calls myself and other vampyres that work the aspects of our world properly. He lays claim to the name "Liam," which I don't doubt. Perhaps he is just the person we need - a vampyre that walks in both the "proper" realm and the dirty underground that tends to exist.
Those of us who use time, education, and ingenuity tend to be exceedingly wealthy. Our reserves make Bill Gates look like a pauper. Thus, I during my calls with the parties running Washington State, I suggested that if Liam is to put his head literally in the line of fire, he should be rewarded well for his efforts. The prices I proposed run between $20,000 and $50,000 per head Liam brings in. That would be real heads.
I plan on having no further contact with Liam unless his assignments bring a need for someone of my profession. Since the embrace brings different abilities to each vampyre, along with the standards of greater speed and strength, I don't know how successful he'll be. I do, however, wish him all the luck in our darkened world.
Like me, he has established a blog. It shows a sense of daring, though his writing style reflects his age clearly. His age, of course, not being the actual 17 when he was turned, but also includes those years as a denizen of the night. His education remains incomplete, as I doubt he was able to show up for homeroom that morning after he was embraced. If you wish to follow his escapades, you can find his blog at: http://www.liamfaust.blogspot.com/ .
"Mainstreams." That's what he calls myself and other vampyres that work the aspects of our world properly. He lays claim to the name "Liam," which I don't doubt. Perhaps he is just the person we need - a vampyre that walks in both the "proper" realm and the dirty underground that tends to exist.
Those of us who use time, education, and ingenuity tend to be exceedingly wealthy. Our reserves make Bill Gates look like a pauper. Thus, I during my calls with the parties running Washington State, I suggested that if Liam is to put his head literally in the line of fire, he should be rewarded well for his efforts. The prices I proposed run between $20,000 and $50,000 per head Liam brings in. That would be real heads.
I plan on having no further contact with Liam unless his assignments bring a need for someone of my profession. Since the embrace brings different abilities to each vampyre, along with the standards of greater speed and strength, I don't know how successful he'll be. I do, however, wish him all the luck in our darkened world.
Welcome to my world.
I am awake at this absurd hour because of a problem in NY. It's not even my territory, and I'm a sleepless ball of decadence because of - yes, even I find this hard to believe - Batman.
The man who does my job in the NY region is Nigel Wentworth. He's 50 years my junior, but very charming, intelligent, and savvy in the ways of keeping our world hidden from mortal eyes. Little did we know that a nationwide problem was brewing in Manhattan while I was posting my last e-mail reply, and the result was a disaster the likes of which I am unaccustomed.
It starts with a nameless vampyre, whom I will call MM (for Maximum Moron) sitting down with a member of the press and giving an interview. The kicker is that MM was dressed as Batman. Yes, the comic book character, but in a costume to represent the updated version now seen in theaters. To our utter shock, he allowed them to take pictures demonstrating his "superpowers," including a leap that covered thirty feet in height. Oh, but the topper was a photo of him smiling, with all four canines extended.
The interview, itself, was helpful to Nigel in that he's been searching for months for the vampyre that's been draining the criminal element dry. In true vigilante style, someone has been hunting "the bad guys" and feeding until they're dead. Bodies were being found all over NY with puncture marks in their necks. Instead of using the "lick trick," which hides marks of feeding, MM, the magical dolt beyond understanding, has been leaving evidence for all the world to see.
But only we know that last fact. You see, it's the habit of the police to withhold information from the public so that when they catch the real killer, said killer will be the only one besides the police about that little detail. They chose the hide the marks...and not by accident.
The term "spin-doctor" not only refers to the concept of putting a specific spin on a story, but also because of the webs we weave. One of the reasons I haven't been doing much since July is that I've been re-spinning my web. I need contacts in newspapers, television stations, with the police, and various informants on the streets. My salary from the vampyre community may seem grotesquely high, but a good portion of that money is redistributed amongst my agents that roam the day and night.
Nigel has the same, and yesterday morning, in the New York Daily News, was the story, "An Interview with Batman." Since most of our denizens sleep through the day, we remained unaware of the story. Only when Nigel awoke did he discover every phone he had was ringing non-stop. By then, it was worse than he could have imagined. The Associated Press had picked up the story, and it was now on the Internet. "Meet the Real, Batman."
Remember when I said that I'm working on this blog to stave off boredom? Well, MM has chosen to use his powers for good, and is fighting crime. How humanitarian. How noble. How utterly and completely STUPID to give a nighttime interview and allow pictures to be taken!
Nigel and I are guessing that he's either an old vampyre that's lost touch with reality, or a young vampyre that thinks he can use his gifts to perform good deeds. Either way, it became an entire night of phone calls and the throwing away of over $500,000 on my part. It was as bad, if not worse, for Nigel in NY. The same occurred with spin-doctors all over the globe, as we have been away for over 18 hours, trying to undo what one twit did.
Our work so far:
1. "Batman" has been exposed as a hoax. Because they were merely photos, higher quality pictures have surfaced that clearly show wires holding him aloft during his majestic leap." YouTube was put to use, as one of our lackeys was given the assignment of "attacking Batman." In the video, he demonstrates how to apply false canines. They are, after all, available during Halloween, without an entire set of fake teeth.
2. The reporter and photographer who took the story have been paid to confess that they were taken in by a huckster of exceptional ability. "Everything just looked so real," she will be reported as saying in tomorrow's newspaper. While Nigel already has contacts inside The New York Daily News, we decided another would not be such a bad idea, and so he will throw her the occasionally expensive bone for her silence.
3. The money I mentioned has been spread far and wide for word to be spread that MM is a hoax in every way. It will be a bullet nationwide on every television news program that this "snake oil salesman" was simply trying to put a better face on the fact that he is killing criminals. There is a justice system for a reason, and he is not above the law.
4. A warrant has been issued for the vigilante known as "Batman." Suspect is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, and a special code for police has been established. If they see him, they call in that code, a phone call is made, and then our people will rush to the scene to take care of the situation. To have the police engage a rogue member of our own is to risk needless death of mortals and further exposure of our world.
5. Since the doctors have been on the phone so much with one another, trying to make sure all of our stories match, we've all placed calls to our regional Princes and Princesses, requesting word be spread that such tomfoolery will not be tolerated. Antics such as those of MM now carry a sentence of final sunrise.
6. Agents are now working every airport that can be reached within two hours. Because MM hid behind a mask, they are looking for anyone who looks as though he's missed the summer sun for some time.
The least of our problems, and one that I find the most humorous, is that a lawyer somehow reached Nigel. We're not sure how the lawyer knew to contact Nigel, and it's being researched. The barrister represents DC Comics, and is looking to sue someone for copyright infringement. Like we asked for this stupidity and wanted to steal their material. How, pray tell, are we supposed to have known in advance that a vampyre would go rogue and start using a trademarked character? Nigel was quite funny is his reply. "Look, you unadulterated git. When he's found, he will probably resist arrest. He will be turned to little more than minced meat by the end of such an encounter. If you like, I'll see what I can do about having the corpse delivered to your doorstep, and you can sue it for all the money you think you can get. Now stop wasting my time, or I will find what vampyres I can, if they even exist, and sue you for creating a vigilante that works by night. That was the vampyre gig first, you know, and rumor has it they've been around a lot longer than your precious Batman." And he hung up.
Now, before I receive a dozen e-mails asking why I'm not being eliminated for this blog, I feel the need to remind all readers that there is nothing here that can be proven. I am not providing pictures. The news stories and videos you may find are now about a hoax. Nigel, and English immigrant, doesn't have the last name of Wentworth. As far as anyone knows, this all remains fiction. Right?
I'm off to try and gain a few hours rest. I will do what I can to keep you all appraised of our adventures with "Batman."
PS: The girls down in the guesthouse have been trying to teach me more about the goings-on of the Internet. One of their favorite lessons has been about using these sideways faces. They tell me that the use of these faces would add personality to my posts. (They know of my blog, but haven't read it. The computers I've given then have been set up so that they cannot access anything associated to the word "vampyre" or "vampire.") Since this seems to be something of cultural importance, I may start adding them to my posts, if only to seem more savvy.
The man who does my job in the NY region is Nigel Wentworth. He's 50 years my junior, but very charming, intelligent, and savvy in the ways of keeping our world hidden from mortal eyes. Little did we know that a nationwide problem was brewing in Manhattan while I was posting my last e-mail reply, and the result was a disaster the likes of which I am unaccustomed.
It starts with a nameless vampyre, whom I will call MM (for Maximum Moron) sitting down with a member of the press and giving an interview. The kicker is that MM was dressed as Batman. Yes, the comic book character, but in a costume to represent the updated version now seen in theaters. To our utter shock, he allowed them to take pictures demonstrating his "superpowers," including a leap that covered thirty feet in height. Oh, but the topper was a photo of him smiling, with all four canines extended.
The interview, itself, was helpful to Nigel in that he's been searching for months for the vampyre that's been draining the criminal element dry. In true vigilante style, someone has been hunting "the bad guys" and feeding until they're dead. Bodies were being found all over NY with puncture marks in their necks. Instead of using the "lick trick," which hides marks of feeding, MM, the magical dolt beyond understanding, has been leaving evidence for all the world to see.
But only we know that last fact. You see, it's the habit of the police to withhold information from the public so that when they catch the real killer, said killer will be the only one besides the police about that little detail. They chose the hide the marks...and not by accident.
The term "spin-doctor" not only refers to the concept of putting a specific spin on a story, but also because of the webs we weave. One of the reasons I haven't been doing much since July is that I've been re-spinning my web. I need contacts in newspapers, television stations, with the police, and various informants on the streets. My salary from the vampyre community may seem grotesquely high, but a good portion of that money is redistributed amongst my agents that roam the day and night.
Nigel has the same, and yesterday morning, in the New York Daily News, was the story, "An Interview with Batman." Since most of our denizens sleep through the day, we remained unaware of the story. Only when Nigel awoke did he discover every phone he had was ringing non-stop. By then, it was worse than he could have imagined. The Associated Press had picked up the story, and it was now on the Internet. "Meet the Real, Batman."
Remember when I said that I'm working on this blog to stave off boredom? Well, MM has chosen to use his powers for good, and is fighting crime. How humanitarian. How noble. How utterly and completely STUPID to give a nighttime interview and allow pictures to be taken!
Nigel and I are guessing that he's either an old vampyre that's lost touch with reality, or a young vampyre that thinks he can use his gifts to perform good deeds. Either way, it became an entire night of phone calls and the throwing away of over $500,000 on my part. It was as bad, if not worse, for Nigel in NY. The same occurred with spin-doctors all over the globe, as we have been away for over 18 hours, trying to undo what one twit did.
Our work so far:
1. "Batman" has been exposed as a hoax. Because they were merely photos, higher quality pictures have surfaced that clearly show wires holding him aloft during his majestic leap." YouTube was put to use, as one of our lackeys was given the assignment of "attacking Batman." In the video, he demonstrates how to apply false canines. They are, after all, available during Halloween, without an entire set of fake teeth.
2. The reporter and photographer who took the story have been paid to confess that they were taken in by a huckster of exceptional ability. "Everything just looked so real," she will be reported as saying in tomorrow's newspaper. While Nigel already has contacts inside The New York Daily News, we decided another would not be such a bad idea, and so he will throw her the occasionally expensive bone for her silence.
3. The money I mentioned has been spread far and wide for word to be spread that MM is a hoax in every way. It will be a bullet nationwide on every television news program that this "snake oil salesman" was simply trying to put a better face on the fact that he is killing criminals. There is a justice system for a reason, and he is not above the law.
4. A warrant has been issued for the vigilante known as "Batman." Suspect is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous, and a special code for police has been established. If they see him, they call in that code, a phone call is made, and then our people will rush to the scene to take care of the situation. To have the police engage a rogue member of our own is to risk needless death of mortals and further exposure of our world.
5. Since the doctors have been on the phone so much with one another, trying to make sure all of our stories match, we've all placed calls to our regional Princes and Princesses, requesting word be spread that such tomfoolery will not be tolerated. Antics such as those of MM now carry a sentence of final sunrise.
6. Agents are now working every airport that can be reached within two hours. Because MM hid behind a mask, they are looking for anyone who looks as though he's missed the summer sun for some time.
The least of our problems, and one that I find the most humorous, is that a lawyer somehow reached Nigel. We're not sure how the lawyer knew to contact Nigel, and it's being researched. The barrister represents DC Comics, and is looking to sue someone for copyright infringement. Like we asked for this stupidity and wanted to steal their material. How, pray tell, are we supposed to have known in advance that a vampyre would go rogue and start using a trademarked character? Nigel was quite funny is his reply. "Look, you unadulterated git. When he's found, he will probably resist arrest. He will be turned to little more than minced meat by the end of such an encounter. If you like, I'll see what I can do about having the corpse delivered to your doorstep, and you can sue it for all the money you think you can get. Now stop wasting my time, or I will find what vampyres I can, if they even exist, and sue you for creating a vigilante that works by night. That was the vampyre gig first, you know, and rumor has it they've been around a lot longer than your precious Batman." And he hung up.
Now, before I receive a dozen e-mails asking why I'm not being eliminated for this blog, I feel the need to remind all readers that there is nothing here that can be proven. I am not providing pictures. The news stories and videos you may find are now about a hoax. Nigel, and English immigrant, doesn't have the last name of Wentworth. As far as anyone knows, this all remains fiction. Right?
I'm off to try and gain a few hours rest. I will do what I can to keep you all appraised of our adventures with "Batman."
PS: The girls down in the guesthouse have been trying to teach me more about the goings-on of the Internet. One of their favorite lessons has been about using these sideways faces. They tell me that the use of these faces would add personality to my posts. (They know of my blog, but haven't read it. The computers I've given then have been set up so that they cannot access anything associated to the word "vampyre" or "vampire.") Since this seems to be something of cultural importance, I may start adding them to my posts, if only to seem more savvy.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Replies: Part 2
Up early again. Really, this kind of nonsense is irritating. Almost everyone I know is still asleep at this hour, and I would much rather visit the girls in the guesthouse than have them nosing around my home.
On the up side, I received an interesting e-mail has reached me, and I have decided to reply here. Once again, the message in its entirety, and then I will break it down.
Dear Mr. Miller,
I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's. I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me. It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland.
The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks. WTF am I suppose to do?
Is there any advice you can give?
Sincerely,
New Teeth
Well, NT, you have quite the conundrum on your hands, but I will advise you as best I can. Allow me to go through the ritual of breaking down your letter, and we'll see what comes of it.
"Dear Mr. Miller,"
Already, you have my attention and respect. A good start, young man, because the assumption that we're friendly enough that you can use my first name freely would cast doubt on the remainder of your message.
"I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's."
I will assume you mean the 1990's, and not the 16, 17, or 1890's. Such details are important. In point of fact, by the standards of other vampyres, I remain "young" as well, despite my 171 years. There are those in our community that have greater faith in someone with more years. Armando Rodriguez, for example, who runs the NY region (which include the 12 northern counties if NJ). There is a little drama unfolding in my unlife over the fact that I am approximately 50 years older than the man he is currently using for my job in his region. While I may get to that another time, be assured that the specifics of your age are exceptionally important to some.
"I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me."
Oh my. Let me be the first to say that I grieve for your circumstances. As you point out in your second paragraph, you are not trapped at an awkward age. This is merely a minor obstacle, though, when you consider that there have been fools through our history that have sired much younger vampyres.
Can you imagine being trapped at age 12? I know of only one still alive that was created at such a tender age. It took her decades to learn how to survive, and centuries to become powerful enough to oppose what was once law. Her name is Maria Santori, and whomever it was that brought her into our fold has been destroyed for the crime of turning a child. Because it was no fault of Maria's, she was granted 20 years to prove she could survive without serious aid of others.
She vanished. Yes, you read that correctly. Maria, under the watchful eyes of the Vampyre Council in Italy, disappeared without a trace when it was almost time for judgment to be made. For some time, it remained unknown what had happened to her, and records indicated that the council believed she'd surrendered to fate and faced her final sunrise.
They were wrong. What happened was that the one and only misfit amongst the misfits had learned the secret of the Sleep of Empowerment. This is a complicated ritual that involves sleeping for a very long time. My 25 years did not even come close to what she did. Without the proper ritual, I awoke with only a mild boost to my abilities. Maria not only completed that which is needed for empowerment, but slept for 600 years. When she reappeared, she was stronger and faster than the majority of the vampyre world, making it nigh impossible to follow through with any sentence that might be pronounced against her.
Consider yourself lucky that you were not 12 when you were turned, because now it is vampyre law that any such creation is to be immediately destroyed.
You also have my condolences on the loss of your family. I was forced to watch from afar as mine died of old age.
Oh...I will get to that insane group of vampyres later.
"It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland."
Here, I must commend you on keeping your senses. Can you possibly imagine the mess you might have created had you gone to a friend and said, "My family has been murdered and now I'm a vampyre"? There are too many entropic values to even work out the situation mathematically. Whatever the results might have been, I cannot imagine any outcome being good.
For your information, Seattle falls under the jurisdiction of the Regional Princess, Molly Murphy. (Her true name is being withheld until certain facts can be verified.) Her base of operations is in San Francisco, and she controls Alaska, Arizona, California, Hawaii, Idaho, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, and Washington. (Territory in the United States is established using the Federal Reserve District Map.)
"The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks."
Drunks?!? They are the "spoiled milk" of the vampyre diet! You might as well feed on vermin to survive.
As for being trapped at age 17, I believe I covered that.
"WTF am I suppose to do?"
You can imagine my confusion at this point, as my first guess was that "WTF" stood for "World Taekwondo Federation." Thankfully, a quick search on the Internet cleared that up swiftly and your sentence made sense again. I would like to stress that a degree of class become a part of your mien, even in e-mails, as you will be taken infinitely more serious without even abbreviated foul language.
"Is there any advice you can give?
"Sincerely,
"New Teeth"
Here is what I'm going to do. I am going to await a second e-mail from you. If you are serious about your dilemmas, then I will forward your e-mails to the Baron of Washington State, who will then probably contact the governor controlling Seattle. If you are a mortal playing some kind of game, I suggest you give up this up immediately. If you are who you say you are...
This rogue group of vampyres that turned you has been a thorn in the side of our community for some time. Without my services to hide some of the messes created by "dolts with fangs," there have been even greater disasters that many have scrambled to clean up. These lunatics spawning sirelings on a whim are a disaster, and I have been attempting to find whatever I can that might lead me to their source.
After contact is made by our authorities in Washington and you are properly educated, I will arrange for you to be given free reign over dealing with this particular problem. It will remove an issue from my growing list of tasks, and I can assure you that you will never have to steal to survive again.
No matter what you choose to do, I must make clear to you two things. Never, ever feed on another vampyre. Yes, your power would increase as you absorb all that is your victim, but it will also earn you the distrust of the entire vampyre community. The bounty placed on your head would likely have supernatural hunters appearing at your every turn. The other thing is discretion. If you bring our problems into mortal light, you will become a problem as well. Only if you wish to learn the exquisite agony of final sunrise will you make such a blunder.
On the up side, I received an interesting e-mail has reached me, and I have decided to reply here. Once again, the message in its entirety, and then I will break it down.
Dear Mr. Miller,
I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's. I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me. It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland.
The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks. WTF am I suppose to do?
Is there any advice you can give?
Sincerely,
New Teeth
Well, NT, you have quite the conundrum on your hands, but I will advise you as best I can. Allow me to go through the ritual of breaking down your letter, and we'll see what comes of it.
"Dear Mr. Miller,"
Already, you have my attention and respect. A good start, young man, because the assumption that we're friendly enough that you can use my first name freely would cast doubt on the remainder of your message.
"I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's."
I will assume you mean the 1990's, and not the 16, 17, or 1890's. Such details are important. In point of fact, by the standards of other vampyres, I remain "young" as well, despite my 171 years. There are those in our community that have greater faith in someone with more years. Armando Rodriguez, for example, who runs the NY region (which include the 12 northern counties if NJ). There is a little drama unfolding in my unlife over the fact that I am approximately 50 years older than the man he is currently using for my job in his region. While I may get to that another time, be assured that the specifics of your age are exceptionally important to some.
"I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me."
Oh my. Let me be the first to say that I grieve for your circumstances. As you point out in your second paragraph, you are not trapped at an awkward age. This is merely a minor obstacle, though, when you consider that there have been fools through our history that have sired much younger vampyres.
Can you imagine being trapped at age 12? I know of only one still alive that was created at such a tender age. It took her decades to learn how to survive, and centuries to become powerful enough to oppose what was once law. Her name is Maria Santori, and whomever it was that brought her into our fold has been destroyed for the crime of turning a child. Because it was no fault of Maria's, she was granted 20 years to prove she could survive without serious aid of others.
She vanished. Yes, you read that correctly. Maria, under the watchful eyes of the Vampyre Council in Italy, disappeared without a trace when it was almost time for judgment to be made. For some time, it remained unknown what had happened to her, and records indicated that the council believed she'd surrendered to fate and faced her final sunrise.
They were wrong. What happened was that the one and only misfit amongst the misfits had learned the secret of the Sleep of Empowerment. This is a complicated ritual that involves sleeping for a very long time. My 25 years did not even come close to what she did. Without the proper ritual, I awoke with only a mild boost to my abilities. Maria not only completed that which is needed for empowerment, but slept for 600 years. When she reappeared, she was stronger and faster than the majority of the vampyre world, making it nigh impossible to follow through with any sentence that might be pronounced against her.
Consider yourself lucky that you were not 12 when you were turned, because now it is vampyre law that any such creation is to be immediately destroyed.
You also have my condolences on the loss of your family. I was forced to watch from afar as mine died of old age.
Oh...I will get to that insane group of vampyres later.
"It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland."
Here, I must commend you on keeping your senses. Can you possibly imagine the mess you might have created had you gone to a friend and said, "My family has been murdered and now I'm a vampyre"? There are too many entropic values to even work out the situation mathematically. Whatever the results might have been, I cannot imagine any outcome being good.
For your information, Seattle falls under the jurisdiction of the Regional Princess, Molly Murphy. (Her true name is being withheld until certain facts can be verified.) Her base of operations is in San Francisco, and she controls Alaska, Arizona, California, Hawaii, Idaho, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, and Washington. (Territory in the United States is established using the Federal Reserve District Map.)
"The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks."
Drunks?!? They are the "spoiled milk" of the vampyre diet! You might as well feed on vermin to survive.
As for being trapped at age 17, I believe I covered that.
"WTF am I suppose to do?"
You can imagine my confusion at this point, as my first guess was that "WTF" stood for "World Taekwondo Federation." Thankfully, a quick search on the Internet cleared that up swiftly and your sentence made sense again. I would like to stress that a degree of class become a part of your mien, even in e-mails, as you will be taken infinitely more serious without even abbreviated foul language.
"Is there any advice you can give?
"Sincerely,
"New Teeth"
Here is what I'm going to do. I am going to await a second e-mail from you. If you are serious about your dilemmas, then I will forward your e-mails to the Baron of Washington State, who will then probably contact the governor controlling Seattle. If you are a mortal playing some kind of game, I suggest you give up this up immediately. If you are who you say you are...
This rogue group of vampyres that turned you has been a thorn in the side of our community for some time. Without my services to hide some of the messes created by "dolts with fangs," there have been even greater disasters that many have scrambled to clean up. These lunatics spawning sirelings on a whim are a disaster, and I have been attempting to find whatever I can that might lead me to their source.
After contact is made by our authorities in Washington and you are properly educated, I will arrange for you to be given free reign over dealing with this particular problem. It will remove an issue from my growing list of tasks, and I can assure you that you will never have to steal to survive again.
No matter what you choose to do, I must make clear to you two things. Never, ever feed on another vampyre. Yes, your power would increase as you absorb all that is your victim, but it will also earn you the distrust of the entire vampyre community. The bounty placed on your head would likely have supernatural hunters appearing at your every turn. The other thing is discretion. If you bring our problems into mortal light, you will become a problem as well. Only if you wish to learn the exquisite agony of final sunrise will you make such a blunder.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Wal-Mart: they have EVERYTHING!
As I discovered last night, they have virgins available for purchase!
Okay, I confess that that's not entirely true. While it may be the fantasy of mortals and vampyres alike that Wal-Mart have a virgin aisle, it would be akin to those with unfulfilled paternal or maternal instincts wishing the baby section carried real babies. Still, the truth of the matter is that I acquired a pair of virgins last night, and they are splendid specimens.
Since I have awakened, I've been in need of a day-runner. Eddie - that lucky bastard - has Cheryl, whom he took on in the mid-1970's. She is a true day-runner, in that he feeds her three drops of his blood every month, and she ages slower, heals faster, and is immune to disease. Without that tiny dose of vampyric essence, Cheryl would slip into a coma and die within a week. She knew this before she took the position and didn't seem to mind at all. Her point of view is that she would at least die peacefully.
Little did Eddie know what a true prize she would turn out to be. Cheryl has a preternatural ability to read the Wall Street Journal beyond the words and numbers on the pages. Thanks to her, Eddie runs his cons and scams as a minor supplement to his existing wealth, but he need not do a thing if he chooses. And while she took on the responsibility of checking in on me when Eddie could not during my slumber, she is not mine. She bound to Eddie and answers only to him.
The day-runner's responsibilities are fairly basic. During the day, they do that which a vampyre cannot. Last night, I was presented with a task that I would have left to a day-runner. I discovered I needed light bulbs. And just because I am wealthy beyond anything I could have imagined back in the 1860's doesn't mean I throw away money when I could save it.
A fascinating aspect of California is that this State remains a repository for runaways. There is an illusion that the west coast offers some kind of haven, as well as easy opportunities for dreams to be fulfilled. Too few find anything as wonderful as their fantasies, and the innocents drawn to this place find themselves doing things they'd never imagined when they first ran away from home.
Thus, I was not entirely stunned when this girl, little more than a child, approached me haltingly and asked if I was "looking for a party." (Honestly, these lines adopted from movies can be so cliché!) She indicated a companion nearby that, to be perfectly honest, looked terrified at the prospect that I might agree.
It was quite the conundrum for me. I'd made my purchase, most of the night still lay before me, and I'd caught their scent. The pair of them were virgins!
Tina was the one that approached me. She's a mere 16 years, wide in the hips, with the permanently tanned complexion of her Mexican heritage. What I found most enticing about her, aside from the sweet scent of innocence coming off her, was her long, lustrous brown hair. Even braided, it fell to her waistline.
Shay is a year younger, and has the most perfect ebony skin I have seen in quite some time. She was almost glowing under the sodium lights of the parking lot. The poor girl already looked adorable in her fear that I would agree to take advantage of them, but I discovered later that she was dazzling when happy and smiling.
I beckoned Shay forward. "Let me guess," I said to the two of them. "In a fit of teenaged angst, the pair of you ran away individually and came here to chase some dream that has been shattered beyond repair. Starving, homeless, and growing desperate, you accidentally met and teamed together. Now you are offering, for lack of a better word, 'services' to earn an embarrassingly small amount of money - because you will not 'go all the way' to earn the big bucks - just to keep your stomachs from caving in. Now, because things are becoming infinitely worse, the duo of virgins is preparing to lose what they're not ready to lose, and also gearing up to do things with one another, all in the name of hopelessness and money. Am I correct?"
Two eyes became saucers. It's my job to pay attention to detail, and reading their expressions and body language could be accomplished by the blind. The only supernatural aspect hinted at was my knowledge that they had yet to commit the most sexual act.
While everyone in the vampyre community is tainted by a line of evil that stretches back countless millennia, not all are so debased as to destroy everything that comes within view. With this in mind, three thoughts came to me, and one of them was actually a kindness. First, I could gain a pair of day-runners. Next, if not inducted as Cheryl was, they could be a source of nourishment for me for quite some time. Finally, I could rescue them from the nightmare of their current lives.
I offered them a life, in exchange for running me a few errands during the day and allowing me to feed on one of them each night. I would alternate so as not to cause either any harm. The bonus is that the blood of the innocent is energizing. A few sips from a virgin neck is a meal unto itself with my kind. The final rule I laid before them was that they must retain their virginity until such time as all parties agreed it was time for them to be on their way.
What, pray tell, do they get in return? Well, let's start with the guesthouse on my property, with three bedrooms, a kitchen, full bathroom, living room, and dining room. Room and board will be provided by me in their entirety. Their every requirement will be met, along with a monthly allowance of $2,000 for each; they can spend it or save it as they like. What they do with their nights is up to them, provided one is on hand when I awaken, and that no guests are ever brought onto my property.
And to their utter dismay, I have arranged through Eddie for Cheryl to enroll them in high school. (Maybe I'm more evil than I thought.)
Okay, I confess that that's not entirely true. While it may be the fantasy of mortals and vampyres alike that Wal-Mart have a virgin aisle, it would be akin to those with unfulfilled paternal or maternal instincts wishing the baby section carried real babies. Still, the truth of the matter is that I acquired a pair of virgins last night, and they are splendid specimens.
Since I have awakened, I've been in need of a day-runner. Eddie - that lucky bastard - has Cheryl, whom he took on in the mid-1970's. She is a true day-runner, in that he feeds her three drops of his blood every month, and she ages slower, heals faster, and is immune to disease. Without that tiny dose of vampyric essence, Cheryl would slip into a coma and die within a week. She knew this before she took the position and didn't seem to mind at all. Her point of view is that she would at least die peacefully.
Little did Eddie know what a true prize she would turn out to be. Cheryl has a preternatural ability to read the Wall Street Journal beyond the words and numbers on the pages. Thanks to her, Eddie runs his cons and scams as a minor supplement to his existing wealth, but he need not do a thing if he chooses. And while she took on the responsibility of checking in on me when Eddie could not during my slumber, she is not mine. She bound to Eddie and answers only to him.
The day-runner's responsibilities are fairly basic. During the day, they do that which a vampyre cannot. Last night, I was presented with a task that I would have left to a day-runner. I discovered I needed light bulbs. And just because I am wealthy beyond anything I could have imagined back in the 1860's doesn't mean I throw away money when I could save it.
A fascinating aspect of California is that this State remains a repository for runaways. There is an illusion that the west coast offers some kind of haven, as well as easy opportunities for dreams to be fulfilled. Too few find anything as wonderful as their fantasies, and the innocents drawn to this place find themselves doing things they'd never imagined when they first ran away from home.
Thus, I was not entirely stunned when this girl, little more than a child, approached me haltingly and asked if I was "looking for a party." (Honestly, these lines adopted from movies can be so cliché!) She indicated a companion nearby that, to be perfectly honest, looked terrified at the prospect that I might agree.
It was quite the conundrum for me. I'd made my purchase, most of the night still lay before me, and I'd caught their scent. The pair of them were virgins!
Tina was the one that approached me. She's a mere 16 years, wide in the hips, with the permanently tanned complexion of her Mexican heritage. What I found most enticing about her, aside from the sweet scent of innocence coming off her, was her long, lustrous brown hair. Even braided, it fell to her waistline.
Shay is a year younger, and has the most perfect ebony skin I have seen in quite some time. She was almost glowing under the sodium lights of the parking lot. The poor girl already looked adorable in her fear that I would agree to take advantage of them, but I discovered later that she was dazzling when happy and smiling.
I beckoned Shay forward. "Let me guess," I said to the two of them. "In a fit of teenaged angst, the pair of you ran away individually and came here to chase some dream that has been shattered beyond repair. Starving, homeless, and growing desperate, you accidentally met and teamed together. Now you are offering, for lack of a better word, 'services' to earn an embarrassingly small amount of money - because you will not 'go all the way' to earn the big bucks - just to keep your stomachs from caving in. Now, because things are becoming infinitely worse, the duo of virgins is preparing to lose what they're not ready to lose, and also gearing up to do things with one another, all in the name of hopelessness and money. Am I correct?"
Two eyes became saucers. It's my job to pay attention to detail, and reading their expressions and body language could be accomplished by the blind. The only supernatural aspect hinted at was my knowledge that they had yet to commit the most sexual act.
While everyone in the vampyre community is tainted by a line of evil that stretches back countless millennia, not all are so debased as to destroy everything that comes within view. With this in mind, three thoughts came to me, and one of them was actually a kindness. First, I could gain a pair of day-runners. Next, if not inducted as Cheryl was, they could be a source of nourishment for me for quite some time. Finally, I could rescue them from the nightmare of their current lives.
I offered them a life, in exchange for running me a few errands during the day and allowing me to feed on one of them each night. I would alternate so as not to cause either any harm. The bonus is that the blood of the innocent is energizing. A few sips from a virgin neck is a meal unto itself with my kind. The final rule I laid before them was that they must retain their virginity until such time as all parties agreed it was time for them to be on their way.
What, pray tell, do they get in return? Well, let's start with the guesthouse on my property, with three bedrooms, a kitchen, full bathroom, living room, and dining room. Room and board will be provided by me in their entirety. Their every requirement will be met, along with a monthly allowance of $2,000 for each; they can spend it or save it as they like. What they do with their nights is up to them, provided one is on hand when I awaken, and that no guests are ever brought onto my property.
And to their utter dismay, I have arranged through Eddie for Cheryl to enroll them in high school. (Maybe I'm more evil than I thought.)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Replies: Part 1
It would seem that my blog has garnered some attention, online and off. All seem to be along the same line of questioning, but I will start with my one and only electronic mail thus far. Its subject heading was “Squee!” I have no idea what this actually means. I looked it up and it has no definition. If someone could clarify, I would be most grateful.
First, the entire “e-mail,” and then I shall break it down.
Dear Chuck,
Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires! I hope to become one some day. But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog? I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny
Paragraphs, my dear…Paragraphs. New idea, new paragraph. Not that I’m what some might call a “grammar Nazi,” but it would help you to appear infinitely more intelligent if you were to separate your ideas. (I should talk, with all of my fragments and beginning sentences with a conjunction! Shame on us all, eh?)
Now for the breakdown.
“Dear Chuck,”
Okay…While I have no chance of getting Eddie to alter his habit of calling me by that moniker, I prefer Charles or Charlie. Chuck, Chucky, Big C, or, as a fledgling recently called me, “Yo, C”…They are all out. I am asking politely this time. If I must demand it, you will be most displeased.
“Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires!”
My thanks to Cheryl for clearing this up for me. For the unlife of me, I could not understand how one could “less than three vampires.” I still have much to learn, and that makeshift symbol is meant to be a heart, which in turn means love. Meanwhile, I suppose a kind of thanks is in order.
“I hope to become one some day.”
I sincerely doubt that. The process of becoming a vampyre scars the body, mind, and soul. I’ll get to it later, but this desire of yours certainly confirms the “misguided” part of your signature.
“But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog?”
An excellent question, and the part that requires most of my attention. It would seem Eddie asked something similar, although his exact words were, “Chuck, what the hell are you doing?!?” Cheryl summed it up with, “You’re crazy.” And a phone call from on high warned me to “be very, very careful.”
Meanwhile, I’m doing it simply to have something to do. “Immortal” is a word that is tossed about rather freely amongst the brethren and sisterhood. To be truly immortal is to be incapable of dying. I have already made it very clear that we can, in fact, experience true death. However, we stop aging after the embrace, and the years appear to grow longer during our existence. We need something to do. Collecting holy symbols has its limitations. There are only so many that can be acquired before the well runs dry. What’s more, that particular hobby of mine sometimes costs a great deal of money. But a blog…Here I have something to absorb my time that costs only as much as my Internet connection.
Well, that, and possibly my unlife should I make a mistake. And that’s why I’ve actually been bending some of the facts. My tales thus far, and those that will come in the future, run parallel to the truth. Do you honestly think Eddie’s last name is really Verdone? And Cheryl...I was stuck for making up a last name for her during my writing, and so she is just “Cheryl.” And my name…”Miller” is not only a fake last name, but so common that you could spend a lifetime searching and never find the correct person. When I named Jean-Paul du Lac…Well, he hasn’t used his proper name in centuries, and records (if you can even find them) show he died in 1669. (I only know his original name because it came up in conversation at a gathering in New York in 1967.) The time a mortal would have to invest into the real facts and track us down would, in the end, find someone in their twilight years confronting a powerful travesty of nature.
So, Misguided Bunny, and all others who are wondering what I’m doing, I am merely engaging in a new hobby.
“I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
“Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny”
Oh, you foolish, foolish little girl!
Vampyres are often creatures used to tell tales of horror. Indeed, we can be creatures that instill fear. It is the unknown that creates the most terror, and as creatures of the night, we exist in a realm where shadows hide many secrets. Sometimes, however, what is known can be even more terrifying.
I was kind and deleted your phone number for this very pubic post. I did so because, given the same resources that I have, a mere mortal could turn your life into a nightmare. As it is, imagine what a vampyre could do!
Oh, let’s not leave it to your imagination. Allow me to share what mine can do.
We establish contact, and for three months we get to know each other well. Correction: I get to know you well, while you buy into every fabrication with which I can come up. I make a call, give my three reasons for wanting to make you my sireling, and I agree to make your desire to become a vampyre a reality.
But why share this information with you. Everyone loves surprises, right?
Because of the resources at my fingertips, I already know all there is to know about your family. Like the handgun your father has, and his license to carry a concealed weapon. I already know your address, thanks to a few keystrokes on this marvelous computer of mine. I also know who lives at your home, and I assure you that your beloved little sister will be vital to your dreams.
My first step will be to make it impossible for anyone to make a call out of your home. The landline from your house, as well as every cell phone for 500 yards, will be useless. Will I sneak or barge in deep in the night? Oh, let’s have some fun and smash the front door off its hinges. Wake the whole family and have them wonder who might be so brazen.
Daddy comes running down the stairs, gun in hand, and, when he sees me, empties his Remington (silly James Bond fan) into my chest. I take the gun from him, removing a finger in the process, and lodge the weapon inside his head through the top of his skull. It would take little effort on my part to accomplish this much, and what will likely upset me most is that the hole where his finger used to be has pumped blood onto my $3,000 suit. (I own nothing that costs less than that.)
What a shame…Mommy has seen the whole thing. Well, we can’t have her screaming the way she is, so I extend all of my teeth and tear out most of her throat. Should she reach the Gates of Heaven, she can explain that her presence is due to her daughter’s inexplicable love of the unnatural.
Hmmm…Who’s left? Ah, yes! You and your darling little sister. At her tender age of 12, she’s likely still a virgin, and…Yes, I can smell it on her. That innocence! Oh, it is so sweet! While you cower in your room, trying desperately to figure out why your cell phone isn’t working, I find and forcefully escort your sister to where you are.
Now is the time for the classic monologue of the villain. “My dear, dear Misguided Bunny,” I begin, “here, at last, is where your dream of joining us comes true. So far, it has only cost you a set of parents. Now, unfortunately, it will also cost you a sister. You see, the embrace requires the blood of a virgin. It’s as close to purity as a mortal can get, and I must take in as much as I can and let my own essence corrupt it. The ritual of binding the pure with the impure is vital to the process. It only takes a few seconds for her blood to become properly tainted, and then I give it all back to you. It will be similar to the bite I give her, but it’s a reversal of the flow, forcing her altered blood into your body. When I am done, you will experience what we call a living death. For some, it is only mildly uncomfortable. For others, it is quite painful. For most, it’s somewhere in between.”
Then, whether or not you have changed your mind, I embrace you. As you are taken by the throes of living death, you catch glimpses of your sister on the floor, too weak to do anything but stare at the ceiling. She’s not dead. Not yet. A couple of weeks in a hospital and numerous transfusions, and she’ll be fine…provided she’s found soon enough.
Of course, you won’t be there to watch her recover, if she ever does. No, you and I must leave the scene as swiftly as possible, and get back to a safe house until we can catch a night flight the next day back to CA. You will never, ever be able to see her again. Any attempt to do so – to reattach yourself to your old life – will complicate things for our community, and likely lead to a sentence of final dawn. No more sunrises. No more sunsets. Do you enjoy food? You can forget that aspect of mortal life, because you will be on a diet that strictly consists of blood…
But this is imagination at play, dear Bunny. I refuse to prey on the young, and an adult virgin is a rarity. It’s why I have yet to have a sireling of my own. Besides, I would much rather keep you as a fan.
There is, of course, one thing about the above fantasy that truly bothers me. Imagine the true horror of ruining a $3,000 suit!
First, the entire “e-mail,” and then I shall break it down.
Dear Chuck,
Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires! I hope to become one some day. But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog? I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny
Paragraphs, my dear…Paragraphs. New idea, new paragraph. Not that I’m what some might call a “grammar Nazi,” but it would help you to appear infinitely more intelligent if you were to separate your ideas. (I should talk, with all of my fragments and beginning sentences with a conjunction! Shame on us all, eh?)
Now for the breakdown.
“Dear Chuck,”
Okay…While I have no chance of getting Eddie to alter his habit of calling me by that moniker, I prefer Charles or Charlie. Chuck, Chucky, Big C, or, as a fledgling recently called me, “Yo, C”…They are all out. I am asking politely this time. If I must demand it, you will be most displeased.
“Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires!”
My thanks to Cheryl for clearing this up for me. For the unlife of me, I could not understand how one could “less than three vampires.” I still have much to learn, and that makeshift symbol is meant to be a heart, which in turn means love. Meanwhile, I suppose a kind of thanks is in order.
“I hope to become one some day.”
I sincerely doubt that. The process of becoming a vampyre scars the body, mind, and soul. I’ll get to it later, but this desire of yours certainly confirms the “misguided” part of your signature.
“But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog?”
An excellent question, and the part that requires most of my attention. It would seem Eddie asked something similar, although his exact words were, “Chuck, what the hell are you doing?!?” Cheryl summed it up with, “You’re crazy.” And a phone call from on high warned me to “be very, very careful.”
Meanwhile, I’m doing it simply to have something to do. “Immortal” is a word that is tossed about rather freely amongst the brethren and sisterhood. To be truly immortal is to be incapable of dying. I have already made it very clear that we can, in fact, experience true death. However, we stop aging after the embrace, and the years appear to grow longer during our existence. We need something to do. Collecting holy symbols has its limitations. There are only so many that can be acquired before the well runs dry. What’s more, that particular hobby of mine sometimes costs a great deal of money. But a blog…Here I have something to absorb my time that costs only as much as my Internet connection.
Well, that, and possibly my unlife should I make a mistake. And that’s why I’ve actually been bending some of the facts. My tales thus far, and those that will come in the future, run parallel to the truth. Do you honestly think Eddie’s last name is really Verdone? And Cheryl...I was stuck for making up a last name for her during my writing, and so she is just “Cheryl.” And my name…”Miller” is not only a fake last name, but so common that you could spend a lifetime searching and never find the correct person. When I named Jean-Paul du Lac…Well, he hasn’t used his proper name in centuries, and records (if you can even find them) show he died in 1669. (I only know his original name because it came up in conversation at a gathering in New York in 1967.) The time a mortal would have to invest into the real facts and track us down would, in the end, find someone in their twilight years confronting a powerful travesty of nature.
So, Misguided Bunny, and all others who are wondering what I’m doing, I am merely engaging in a new hobby.
“I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
“Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny”
Oh, you foolish, foolish little girl!
Vampyres are often creatures used to tell tales of horror. Indeed, we can be creatures that instill fear. It is the unknown that creates the most terror, and as creatures of the night, we exist in a realm where shadows hide many secrets. Sometimes, however, what is known can be even more terrifying.
I was kind and deleted your phone number for this very pubic post. I did so because, given the same resources that I have, a mere mortal could turn your life into a nightmare. As it is, imagine what a vampyre could do!
Oh, let’s not leave it to your imagination. Allow me to share what mine can do.
We establish contact, and for three months we get to know each other well. Correction: I get to know you well, while you buy into every fabrication with which I can come up. I make a call, give my three reasons for wanting to make you my sireling, and I agree to make your desire to become a vampyre a reality.
But why share this information with you. Everyone loves surprises, right?
Because of the resources at my fingertips, I already know all there is to know about your family. Like the handgun your father has, and his license to carry a concealed weapon. I already know your address, thanks to a few keystrokes on this marvelous computer of mine. I also know who lives at your home, and I assure you that your beloved little sister will be vital to your dreams.
My first step will be to make it impossible for anyone to make a call out of your home. The landline from your house, as well as every cell phone for 500 yards, will be useless. Will I sneak or barge in deep in the night? Oh, let’s have some fun and smash the front door off its hinges. Wake the whole family and have them wonder who might be so brazen.
Daddy comes running down the stairs, gun in hand, and, when he sees me, empties his Remington (silly James Bond fan) into my chest. I take the gun from him, removing a finger in the process, and lodge the weapon inside his head through the top of his skull. It would take little effort on my part to accomplish this much, and what will likely upset me most is that the hole where his finger used to be has pumped blood onto my $3,000 suit. (I own nothing that costs less than that.)
What a shame…Mommy has seen the whole thing. Well, we can’t have her screaming the way she is, so I extend all of my teeth and tear out most of her throat. Should she reach the Gates of Heaven, she can explain that her presence is due to her daughter’s inexplicable love of the unnatural.
Hmmm…Who’s left? Ah, yes! You and your darling little sister. At her tender age of 12, she’s likely still a virgin, and…Yes, I can smell it on her. That innocence! Oh, it is so sweet! While you cower in your room, trying desperately to figure out why your cell phone isn’t working, I find and forcefully escort your sister to where you are.
Now is the time for the classic monologue of the villain. “My dear, dear Misguided Bunny,” I begin, “here, at last, is where your dream of joining us comes true. So far, it has only cost you a set of parents. Now, unfortunately, it will also cost you a sister. You see, the embrace requires the blood of a virgin. It’s as close to purity as a mortal can get, and I must take in as much as I can and let my own essence corrupt it. The ritual of binding the pure with the impure is vital to the process. It only takes a few seconds for her blood to become properly tainted, and then I give it all back to you. It will be similar to the bite I give her, but it’s a reversal of the flow, forcing her altered blood into your body. When I am done, you will experience what we call a living death. For some, it is only mildly uncomfortable. For others, it is quite painful. For most, it’s somewhere in between.”
Then, whether or not you have changed your mind, I embrace you. As you are taken by the throes of living death, you catch glimpses of your sister on the floor, too weak to do anything but stare at the ceiling. She’s not dead. Not yet. A couple of weeks in a hospital and numerous transfusions, and she’ll be fine…provided she’s found soon enough.
Of course, you won’t be there to watch her recover, if she ever does. No, you and I must leave the scene as swiftly as possible, and get back to a safe house until we can catch a night flight the next day back to CA. You will never, ever be able to see her again. Any attempt to do so – to reattach yourself to your old life – will complicate things for our community, and likely lead to a sentence of final dawn. No more sunrises. No more sunsets. Do you enjoy food? You can forget that aspect of mortal life, because you will be on a diet that strictly consists of blood…
But this is imagination at play, dear Bunny. I refuse to prey on the young, and an adult virgin is a rarity. It’s why I have yet to have a sireling of my own. Besides, I would much rather keep you as a fan.
There is, of course, one thing about the above fantasy that truly bothers me. Imagine the true horror of ruining a $3,000 suit!
Friday, August 22, 2008
"The greatest trick...
...the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." I love that line from The Usual Suspects. And if that statement were taken as an axiom, then we are all devils in our own right.
I've been busy since waking in July, catching up with the world and its new found wonders. Not only did Eddie buy a personal computer, (which was obviously not a Commodore 64 as I had suspected when I'd hung up the cell phone), but also something called a DVD player and more than a few DVDs. Along with several excellent films, there was an abundant supply of what we both refer to as comedies.
Take this "Blade" character. "Ooooh...The Day Walker!" If any such thing were vaguely possible, vampyres across the globe have chased after it centuries ago. The last thing we'd do is speak with the shock and awe of the vampyres depicted in the film. No, we'd hunt him down and dissect him until all the secrets of his very existence were revealed. That trilogy of film brought about many bits of interesting of fiction. Using the most powerful sun block to walk in the Purity...disintegrating at the instant of final death...our flesh burning from ultraviolet light. Silliness to the highest degree.
I feel it important to dispel some of these illusions before I go on with anything else, as I sense e-mails and comments will start occupying most of my time on this Internet. Oh, I certainly invite people to ask questions, but I honestly don't want to waste time on foolishness brought to my attention because some writer out there has an over-active imagination.
There is only one circumstance that would cause a vampyre to turn to ash rapidly, and that's exposure to the sun. It's the most agonizing 60 seconds one can experience. Medical science tells us that searing the flesh will cause the nervous system to shut down, blessedly relieving someone being immolated of ongoing pain. That's not the case for a vampyre. We feel it the whole time; every ounce of suffering registers, and I only know of only a few that managed to hold back their screams for a bit before attempting to vocalize what was being felt. On those occasions that I was exposed to sun, I did not prove to be so strong. There are no words to properly describe the sensation. I would suggest bathing in a pool of magma, but then you'd never survive long enough to gain a full understanding.
Another little known fact is that a dead vampyre exposed to the Purity does not turn to ash. Such a thing only happens if a "living" member of the brethren is left in the light.
The Purity. That's what we sometimes call the sun. You see, there is a degree of mysticism behind our existence. Becoming one of the undead is a somewhat complicated process, and we come away with our immortal souls tainted. For all of the imaginative inventions of books and movies, it is the purity of sunlight that burns us to cinders.
The next comedic aspect on the list is holy water. Please, people...it's water! Water "blessed" by a man, no less. In a conversation with one of the sisters some time ago, she had this to say: "After 283 years, I have yet to meet the mortal that is without so much as a drop of sin marring his soul. Until G-d, Himself, comes down from on high and blesses the water, we will be able to bathe in the stuff."
Oh...I should get this out of the way before people wonder. We have taken on the habit of the Hebrews and refuse to spell out His name. It may be mere superstition or it could be actual fact, but we don't speak of Him for fear of drawing His eyes to us. For that reason, we skip the O when speaking of G-d.
Garlic, not casting a shadow, no reflection in mirrors, unable to cross running water, holy symbols, inability to enter a private place without invitation...I honestly don't know who comes up with all of this nonsense. My collection of holy symbols, either for their artistry or because they're antiques, certainly dismisses that myth.
A stake through the heart...Now there we have a touch of the truth. It will paralyze us. Not the "limp as a rag doll" kind of paralysis, but a "locked in position like a marble statue" kind of paralysis. Of course, getting a stake into the heart of a vampyre is the real trick. First of all, you need the right kind of stake, and if you think I'm telling you what it needs to be made of, you're barking up the wrong tree. Your next problem is trying to get the stake into the heart of an active vampyre. We don't sleep as deeply as some stories would like you to believe. We are not immobile or in a coma. Most of us sleep in something that makes noise. Even those who go with a traditional coffin use the "squeaky hinge" trick. Those noises tend to get the vampyre awake, out of bed, and very mobile. If the one holding the stake is a mere mortal, then it is between you and G-d as to who will win...the human or the supernatural creature of the night?
While our bodies can take a great deal of abuse, we have our limits. Severe brain trauma, separating the head from the neck, draining the vampyre empty, or chewing up the body so badly that it can't be recognized - such as with a wood-chipper - usually does the trick.
So let's take a slightly closer look at our dearly departed miscreant, Sean McCullough. Eddie dislodged enough of Sean's brain box to put an end to that fiasco. Rather than posing any kind of problem by leaving his corpse behind, it was a boon, as it stopped the police from eying any feeding vampyres and lovers nibbling on one another's necks. The former scenario would have been a true disaster, because the victim of a feeding would likely be closely examined and wind up providing all the evidence needed to confirm out existence.
Eddie did some minimal checking and confirmed Sean was autopsied. That's as far as Eddie's efforts went, because it was well-known what would be found in a detailed examination of the corpse. The organs don't look any different than a mortal's. Extending our canines takes concentration, and when said concentration is lost, they retract. (To be honest, we can extend all of our teeth, but we're looking to puncture for sustenance, not savage the body for a blood bath.) No doubt Sean lost all concentration when he lost most of his head, so his canines retracted. As for blood tests, a coroner would find the victim was suffering from hemolytic anemia, which is a disease that causes the breakdown of red blood cells faster that the body can reproduce them. (The truth is more complicated than that, but to the mortal eye, that's all that can be seen.)
In this way, mankind lends a hand in maintaining our nonexistence.
I've been busy since waking in July, catching up with the world and its new found wonders. Not only did Eddie buy a personal computer, (which was obviously not a Commodore 64 as I had suspected when I'd hung up the cell phone), but also something called a DVD player and more than a few DVDs. Along with several excellent films, there was an abundant supply of what we both refer to as comedies.
Take this "Blade" character. "Ooooh...The Day Walker!" If any such thing were vaguely possible, vampyres across the globe have chased after it centuries ago. The last thing we'd do is speak with the shock and awe of the vampyres depicted in the film. No, we'd hunt him down and dissect him until all the secrets of his very existence were revealed. That trilogy of film brought about many bits of interesting of fiction. Using the most powerful sun block to walk in the Purity...disintegrating at the instant of final death...our flesh burning from ultraviolet light. Silliness to the highest degree.
I feel it important to dispel some of these illusions before I go on with anything else, as I sense e-mails and comments will start occupying most of my time on this Internet. Oh, I certainly invite people to ask questions, but I honestly don't want to waste time on foolishness brought to my attention because some writer out there has an over-active imagination.
There is only one circumstance that would cause a vampyre to turn to ash rapidly, and that's exposure to the sun. It's the most agonizing 60 seconds one can experience. Medical science tells us that searing the flesh will cause the nervous system to shut down, blessedly relieving someone being immolated of ongoing pain. That's not the case for a vampyre. We feel it the whole time; every ounce of suffering registers, and I only know of only a few that managed to hold back their screams for a bit before attempting to vocalize what was being felt. On those occasions that I was exposed to sun, I did not prove to be so strong. There are no words to properly describe the sensation. I would suggest bathing in a pool of magma, but then you'd never survive long enough to gain a full understanding.
Another little known fact is that a dead vampyre exposed to the Purity does not turn to ash. Such a thing only happens if a "living" member of the brethren is left in the light.
The Purity. That's what we sometimes call the sun. You see, there is a degree of mysticism behind our existence. Becoming one of the undead is a somewhat complicated process, and we come away with our immortal souls tainted. For all of the imaginative inventions of books and movies, it is the purity of sunlight that burns us to cinders.
The next comedic aspect on the list is holy water. Please, people...it's water! Water "blessed" by a man, no less. In a conversation with one of the sisters some time ago, she had this to say: "After 283 years, I have yet to meet the mortal that is without so much as a drop of sin marring his soul. Until G-d, Himself, comes down from on high and blesses the water, we will be able to bathe in the stuff."
Oh...I should get this out of the way before people wonder. We have taken on the habit of the Hebrews and refuse to spell out His name. It may be mere superstition or it could be actual fact, but we don't speak of Him for fear of drawing His eyes to us. For that reason, we skip the O when speaking of G-d.
Garlic, not casting a shadow, no reflection in mirrors, unable to cross running water, holy symbols, inability to enter a private place without invitation...I honestly don't know who comes up with all of this nonsense. My collection of holy symbols, either for their artistry or because they're antiques, certainly dismisses that myth.
A stake through the heart...Now there we have a touch of the truth. It will paralyze us. Not the "limp as a rag doll" kind of paralysis, but a "locked in position like a marble statue" kind of paralysis. Of course, getting a stake into the heart of a vampyre is the real trick. First of all, you need the right kind of stake, and if you think I'm telling you what it needs to be made of, you're barking up the wrong tree. Your next problem is trying to get the stake into the heart of an active vampyre. We don't sleep as deeply as some stories would like you to believe. We are not immobile or in a coma. Most of us sleep in something that makes noise. Even those who go with a traditional coffin use the "squeaky hinge" trick. Those noises tend to get the vampyre awake, out of bed, and very mobile. If the one holding the stake is a mere mortal, then it is between you and G-d as to who will win...the human or the supernatural creature of the night?
While our bodies can take a great deal of abuse, we have our limits. Severe brain trauma, separating the head from the neck, draining the vampyre empty, or chewing up the body so badly that it can't be recognized - such as with a wood-chipper - usually does the trick.
So let's take a slightly closer look at our dearly departed miscreant, Sean McCullough. Eddie dislodged enough of Sean's brain box to put an end to that fiasco. Rather than posing any kind of problem by leaving his corpse behind, it was a boon, as it stopped the police from eying any feeding vampyres and lovers nibbling on one another's necks. The former scenario would have been a true disaster, because the victim of a feeding would likely be closely examined and wind up providing all the evidence needed to confirm out existence.
Eddie did some minimal checking and confirmed Sean was autopsied. That's as far as Eddie's efforts went, because it was well-known what would be found in a detailed examination of the corpse. The organs don't look any different than a mortal's. Extending our canines takes concentration, and when said concentration is lost, they retract. (To be honest, we can extend all of our teeth, but we're looking to puncture for sustenance, not savage the body for a blood bath.) No doubt Sean lost all concentration when he lost most of his head, so his canines retracted. As for blood tests, a coroner would find the victim was suffering from hemolytic anemia, which is a disease that causes the breakdown of red blood cells faster that the body can reproduce them. (The truth is more complicated than that, but to the mortal eye, that's all that can be seen.)
In this way, mankind lends a hand in maintaining our nonexistence.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Learning Curve
An hour before sundown. How typical that I should sleep for so long, only to awaken with the habit of rising early. At least my home is secure against sunlight, or I would have to lie in bed for that extra time until it was safe.
A glance at the big picture indicates that 25 years is not a long time. The very planet has been around a lot longer than that. But humanity and its ingenuity seem quite capable of speeding things along in a quarter century.
Take this "Internet." Data scattered electronically all over the globe, and all one needs is the savvy to milk it to find one's desires. However, care must be taken at every keystroke. It's not called the "misinformation highway" for nothing.
My first call was to Eddie using a fascinating little device called a "cell phone." I can only guess that it gets its name from its size. It's practically microscopic! And so many functions packed into it! Aside from its capacity to make a phone call, it also seems to be able to make movies, take pictures, store and play music, and play video games! Thankfully, Eddie left simple instructions on how to call him, rather than leave it to me to leaf through the sizable manual until I found the information I needed.
The first order of business from him was an explanation of some changes. One of our brethren took our secrets and dragged them into the public light, which had a reverse effect. In 1991, using the nom de plume of Mark Rein-Hagen, Jean-Paul du Lac released a game called Vampire: The Masquerade. The initial reaction from our kind, as I understand it, was one of panic; some of our greatest secrets were now available at any book store. Instead of taking it seriously, however, it was seen by mortals as merely a game and a great source of fiction. Oh, some have taken it as far as to engage in something called "live-action role-playing." Overall, the brethren's first reaction was much ado about nothing.
In turn, our society adapted certain aspects of this "game." Princes, Princesses, Barons, Governors, and Dukes were established around the globe. The other thing that seeped into our ways was a reference to the character sheet used in the game. It affected our way of speaking about others. Some examples:
1. "Careful. He's got all his dots in his arms and none in his head." This refers to someone who prefers to talk with his fists.
2. "Too many skills, not enough dots." It's our way of describing a witless wonder.
3. "I'll need more dice." More of something is needed. Be it time, resources, money, equipment...Usually its exact context is understood only by those directly involved in that particular conversation.
After these bits of information, Eddie told me exactly what happened after Sean attacked me. "If there were any dots in his head at the start, he erased them," Eddie said. "He double-clamped your jugular (meaning that he was feeding on me using all four canines, instead of just the upper set, as is normal). I didn't know that, so when I tried to pull him off you, a good chunk of your neck went with him. I was so freaked out that he'd started feeding on one of us that I didn't notice. Only thing going through my head was to remove his. None of it was pretty. My swing with the machete was wild, and kind of cut diagonally, from his right ear to his left shoulder. Only when I saw what was left of his jaw still trying to chew on nothing did I see bits of your neck stuck in his teeth. Then I really freaked, because one look at you and I could see you weren't closing."
Closing. It's a natural function of a brethren's body to seal a wound almost instantly. There are two primary reasons why closing would not occur. Either the wound is so severe that it requires extra time, or the body is so weak that it hasn't the strength to accomplish the deed. In my case, it might well have been both. You see, neither Eddie nor I could estimate how long Sean was feeding on me. No one stops to check the time under uncontrolled circumstances. Suffice to say, less than another minute and I would not be writing this.
"Anyway, I decorated the loon's body just enough to identify him as a cop-killer," Eddie continued, "which meant five-oh wasn't gonna be working too hard to find the 'vigilantes' that took care of justice for them.
"But then there was the joy of getting you back to your place and getting you to bed. First order of business was to get you some juice. I knew the younger the better, with 'nerd blood' being as close to a virgin as we were gonna get at that late hour. So I rubber-stamped (Eddie's way of saying he knocked someone out without really hurting them) some geek near the University of Redlands - the one in Burbank - and got him to you. Gave you just enough so that I wasn't completely dragging you every step of the way, and then we were headed back to your place."
It occurs to me that our kind tends to be a vicious lot. Feeding off one another may be taboo, but that doesn't mean an associate won't hesitate to put a live grenade in your mouth when you're at your weakest. But Eddie...For all his scheming and scamming, he's a stand up guy when he considers you a friend.
Eddie went on. "I knew you were still in real bad shape. I didn't know it was 25 years worth of bad shape, but bad shape nonetheless. You were gonna need someone to look after your affairs while you recovered, and I kinda figured I was responsible for getting you into this mess. So I asked you where you kept your 'care package' was, and, boy, I think you were all too happy to tell me. If you had a sister for sale, I could've bought her for a quarter!"
You need to understand...A "care package" is both a curse and a blessing. It's paperwork you sign that allows a third party to handle all of your affairs should you become incapacitated. It's a blessing if you have an Eddie of your own, because you know he'll do right by you. It's a curse if you make the mistake of signing control over to some self-involved idiot who'll drag you out into the sun the first chance he gets, then make off with everything thing you own.
My call with Eddie was rapidly coming to a close. "I'll be by in a few days," he said, "so we can go over some papers and you can see exactly what I did while you napped. By the way, your property taxes are insane. You were good on the financial front, but I took the liberty of re-investing some of the extra so you'd wake up and not have to worry about earning your next dollar right away. I had Cheryl handle the legalities of all that, including the taxes on earned interest.
"Speaking of Cheryl, it was either me or her that kept an eye on you. Every night, man, for twenty-five years. One of us would always check on you.
"In the downstairs storage, you'll find some grade A juice stored away. No bitching allowed that it's cold. I've been swapping it out whenever the date said it expired, cause I knew you'd need some 'get-up-and-go' right away when you decided to drag your lazy ass out of bed.
"Upstairs, you'll find the place spotless. Had a cleaning crew come in once every four months the dust the place down. Since regular people-types don't know where your real bed is, there was nothing to worry about. You'll also find that I added some furniture and something called a 'personal computer.' Man, I can't wait for you to find out what that baby can do."
We said our good-byes and he hung up, leaving me to imagine why he could possibly be so excited over a computer. I mean, really...What's so impressive about a Commodore 64?
A glance at the big picture indicates that 25 years is not a long time. The very planet has been around a lot longer than that. But humanity and its ingenuity seem quite capable of speeding things along in a quarter century.
Take this "Internet." Data scattered electronically all over the globe, and all one needs is the savvy to milk it to find one's desires. However, care must be taken at every keystroke. It's not called the "misinformation highway" for nothing.
My first call was to Eddie using a fascinating little device called a "cell phone." I can only guess that it gets its name from its size. It's practically microscopic! And so many functions packed into it! Aside from its capacity to make a phone call, it also seems to be able to make movies, take pictures, store and play music, and play video games! Thankfully, Eddie left simple instructions on how to call him, rather than leave it to me to leaf through the sizable manual until I found the information I needed.
The first order of business from him was an explanation of some changes. One of our brethren took our secrets and dragged them into the public light, which had a reverse effect. In 1991, using the nom de plume of Mark Rein-Hagen, Jean-Paul du Lac released a game called Vampire: The Masquerade. The initial reaction from our kind, as I understand it, was one of panic; some of our greatest secrets were now available at any book store. Instead of taking it seriously, however, it was seen by mortals as merely a game and a great source of fiction. Oh, some have taken it as far as to engage in something called "live-action role-playing." Overall, the brethren's first reaction was much ado about nothing.
In turn, our society adapted certain aspects of this "game." Princes, Princesses, Barons, Governors, and Dukes were established around the globe. The other thing that seeped into our ways was a reference to the character sheet used in the game. It affected our way of speaking about others. Some examples:
1. "Careful. He's got all his dots in his arms and none in his head." This refers to someone who prefers to talk with his fists.
2. "Too many skills, not enough dots." It's our way of describing a witless wonder.
3. "I'll need more dice." More of something is needed. Be it time, resources, money, equipment...Usually its exact context is understood only by those directly involved in that particular conversation.
After these bits of information, Eddie told me exactly what happened after Sean attacked me. "If there were any dots in his head at the start, he erased them," Eddie said. "He double-clamped your jugular (meaning that he was feeding on me using all four canines, instead of just the upper set, as is normal). I didn't know that, so when I tried to pull him off you, a good chunk of your neck went with him. I was so freaked out that he'd started feeding on one of us that I didn't notice. Only thing going through my head was to remove his. None of it was pretty. My swing with the machete was wild, and kind of cut diagonally, from his right ear to his left shoulder. Only when I saw what was left of his jaw still trying to chew on nothing did I see bits of your neck stuck in his teeth. Then I really freaked, because one look at you and I could see you weren't closing."
Closing. It's a natural function of a brethren's body to seal a wound almost instantly. There are two primary reasons why closing would not occur. Either the wound is so severe that it requires extra time, or the body is so weak that it hasn't the strength to accomplish the deed. In my case, it might well have been both. You see, neither Eddie nor I could estimate how long Sean was feeding on me. No one stops to check the time under uncontrolled circumstances. Suffice to say, less than another minute and I would not be writing this.
"Anyway, I decorated the loon's body just enough to identify him as a cop-killer," Eddie continued, "which meant five-oh wasn't gonna be working too hard to find the 'vigilantes' that took care of justice for them.
"But then there was the joy of getting you back to your place and getting you to bed. First order of business was to get you some juice. I knew the younger the better, with 'nerd blood' being as close to a virgin as we were gonna get at that late hour. So I rubber-stamped (Eddie's way of saying he knocked someone out without really hurting them) some geek near the University of Redlands - the one in Burbank - and got him to you. Gave you just enough so that I wasn't completely dragging you every step of the way, and then we were headed back to your place."
It occurs to me that our kind tends to be a vicious lot. Feeding off one another may be taboo, but that doesn't mean an associate won't hesitate to put a live grenade in your mouth when you're at your weakest. But Eddie...For all his scheming and scamming, he's a stand up guy when he considers you a friend.
Eddie went on. "I knew you were still in real bad shape. I didn't know it was 25 years worth of bad shape, but bad shape nonetheless. You were gonna need someone to look after your affairs while you recovered, and I kinda figured I was responsible for getting you into this mess. So I asked you where you kept your 'care package' was, and, boy, I think you were all too happy to tell me. If you had a sister for sale, I could've bought her for a quarter!"
You need to understand...A "care package" is both a curse and a blessing. It's paperwork you sign that allows a third party to handle all of your affairs should you become incapacitated. It's a blessing if you have an Eddie of your own, because you know he'll do right by you. It's a curse if you make the mistake of signing control over to some self-involved idiot who'll drag you out into the sun the first chance he gets, then make off with everything thing you own.
My call with Eddie was rapidly coming to a close. "I'll be by in a few days," he said, "so we can go over some papers and you can see exactly what I did while you napped. By the way, your property taxes are insane. You were good on the financial front, but I took the liberty of re-investing some of the extra so you'd wake up and not have to worry about earning your next dollar right away. I had Cheryl handle the legalities of all that, including the taxes on earned interest.
"Speaking of Cheryl, it was either me or her that kept an eye on you. Every night, man, for twenty-five years. One of us would always check on you.
"In the downstairs storage, you'll find some grade A juice stored away. No bitching allowed that it's cold. I've been swapping it out whenever the date said it expired, cause I knew you'd need some 'get-up-and-go' right away when you decided to drag your lazy ass out of bed.
"Upstairs, you'll find the place spotless. Had a cleaning crew come in once every four months the dust the place down. Since regular people-types don't know where your real bed is, there was nothing to worry about. You'll also find that I added some furniture and something called a 'personal computer.' Man, I can't wait for you to find out what that baby can do."
We said our good-byes and he hung up, leaving me to imagine why he could possibly be so excited over a computer. I mean, really...What's so impressive about a Commodore 64?
A short nap.
Twenty-five years. That's how long I've slept, hidden in a chamber beneath my mansion in the Hollywood Hills. This was no mean feat. Documents were signed and large sums of money exchanged hands before I could get my rest. This takes a bit of explanation, so I ask that you be patient as I tell you in detail what happened.
It started with Eddie Carbone, who embraced a con artist named Sean McCullough.
Eddie was what some might call an "entrepreneur" who headed an organization that excelled in manipulating and skirting the laws of the United States. His main source of income was phony charitable organizations. As long as a mere 5% of the donations he gathered went to that which he was chartered, he could keep the rest. And how could he lose with the name "Disabled Veterans Assistance Program," also known as D-VAP? Oh, it was perfect! His employees wore shirts with the name of his group, and the marks bought into all four words. "Disabled Veterans?" Those were the two that grabbed the public's attention. "Assistance Program?" Well, whatever Eddies organization was helping the vets with, it could be nothing bad, especially when all of the employees on the street carried laminated licenses.
Working the wealthiest corners in Hollywood, Eddie had 50 men and women on the streets, each bringing in around $1,000 a night. His men would take home 10% of the take. That precious 5% was set aside to be distributed on the second Friday of each month. That left Eddie with $42,500 a night to himself. From his personal income, I was given 10%; that's $4,250 for a variety of services that I provided.
Along came Sean McCullough. Twenty-eight, handsome, smart, and simply going through a rough time. This kid came to Hollywood expecting his good looks to carry him onto the silver screen. Unfortunately, he had all the acting skill of hunk of granite. That is, he wasn't talented enough for directors and producers. He had plenty of acting ability to fool Eddie.
Embraced in 1923, you'd think Eddie could spot a con from five miles away. Add his natural 40 natural years to the 60 unnatural, and one could easily say he had plenty of experience under his belt. I was embraced the night of May 5, 1864, and I was 27 at the time. That was 146 years of experience on my part, and Sean even fooled me on the few times I met him.
He had charm. The kind of charisma that could be used to sell prescription glasses to someone without eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why this kid couldn't get a job acting. Was he running his mouth off too much to be considered for even bit parts? Whatever the case may be, I received a disconcerting call from Eddie in July on 1983.
Eddie: Chuck! How's it going?
Me: Good, as long as you don't need me to draw up another half dozen legal documents for you.
Eddie: Nah, nothing like that. I wanted your opinion on something.
Me: Gods above and below! If it's about a woman again, you should know better.
Eddie: No, no. It's this kid working for me...Sean. You remember him?
Me: Pretty boy...Doe eyes...Three horror stories about his life for every good one, right?
Eddie: That's the one. What would you say if I said I was thinking about embracing him?
Here's the deal. In the circles we move in, you don't even mention something like this unless you can give three extremely good reasons to want to do it. I can't say Eddie's reasons were the best, but they were good. First, the personal boost would probably improve the kid's outlook; even as a fledgling, the embrace is enough to change anyone's life for the better...as long as he keeps his head on straight. The next reason was kind of a requirement: know the subject for at least three months. In that time, Sean had been a good boy, and was actually bringing in more money than the rest of Eddie's employees. Finally, Eddie was thinking of promoting the kid to a kind of enforcer to watch over the others. Having someone on hand that was faster and stronger than anyone that'd harass his employees was an all-around bonus, and would stop Eddie from having to get his hands dirty.
I played it safe by avoiding any kind of real commitment. I didn't know Sean, and I was busy cleaning up a mess in Vegas at the time. I told Eddie that he knew whom he had to call for approval, and left it at that.
That approval was given...unfortunately.
Sean turned out to be one of those people who knew the truth about us and never even hinted that he held such knowledge. He played Eddie like a concert pianist, and Eddie was 88 keys waiting to be manipulated.
Once Sean was inducted into our exclusive club and received the "tutorial" on proper behavior, he started writing his own rules. For three days, Hollywood lived under a reign of terror, with reports of some kind of cannibal slaughtering innocents at random. Age, sex, race, religion...None of it mattered. Sean was blood-hungry, and he didn't give a damn if there were witnesses.
Eddie had plenty of people to call in, but our long association made me the one he trusted most. It was also part of my job to keep such incidents under wraps. So I caught a flight just after sundown, and Eddie and I went Sean hunting.
Remember when I said Sean was smart? Well, he was...but not that smart. He established a kind of "game trail." Even the cops caught onto it early, and they paid for it with three very messy corpses.
Eddie and I formed a simple plan. I would play bait. When Sean moved in, I would keep him mildly entertained while Eddie moved in to eliminate his rogue sireling. To be sure Sean would come after me, I used my rather rare talent of "tailoring." That is, I can alter my appearance to enough of an extent that I'm not easily recognized.
Our plan worked. Sean came at me...and it seemed there was no stopping him. Keeping to his own set of rules, he committed what we consider one of the greater sins. He successfully got me locked up and began to feed on me!
From there, I can recall only bits and pieces of what followed. I remember Sean's head coming off, and Eddie dragging me away from the whole messy scenario. He had to help me hold a pen to sign some legal documents, and promised to take care of my financial affairs until I recovered. Then he put me to "bed." The last thing I remember was him closing the lid and saying, "Don't worry about it, Chuck. Get all the rest you need, and we'll talk soon.
Neither of us had a clue that I'd take a nap for 25 years, waking in July of 2008.
It started with Eddie Carbone, who embraced a con artist named Sean McCullough.
Eddie was what some might call an "entrepreneur" who headed an organization that excelled in manipulating and skirting the laws of the United States. His main source of income was phony charitable organizations. As long as a mere 5% of the donations he gathered went to that which he was chartered, he could keep the rest. And how could he lose with the name "Disabled Veterans Assistance Program," also known as D-VAP? Oh, it was perfect! His employees wore shirts with the name of his group, and the marks bought into all four words. "Disabled Veterans?" Those were the two that grabbed the public's attention. "Assistance Program?" Well, whatever Eddies organization was helping the vets with, it could be nothing bad, especially when all of the employees on the street carried laminated licenses.
Working the wealthiest corners in Hollywood, Eddie had 50 men and women on the streets, each bringing in around $1,000 a night. His men would take home 10% of the take. That precious 5% was set aside to be distributed on the second Friday of each month. That left Eddie with $42,500 a night to himself. From his personal income, I was given 10%; that's $4,250 for a variety of services that I provided.
Along came Sean McCullough. Twenty-eight, handsome, smart, and simply going through a rough time. This kid came to Hollywood expecting his good looks to carry him onto the silver screen. Unfortunately, he had all the acting skill of hunk of granite. That is, he wasn't talented enough for directors and producers. He had plenty of acting ability to fool Eddie.
Embraced in 1923, you'd think Eddie could spot a con from five miles away. Add his natural 40 natural years to the 60 unnatural, and one could easily say he had plenty of experience under his belt. I was embraced the night of May 5, 1864, and I was 27 at the time. That was 146 years of experience on my part, and Sean even fooled me on the few times I met him.
He had charm. The kind of charisma that could be used to sell prescription glasses to someone without eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why this kid couldn't get a job acting. Was he running his mouth off too much to be considered for even bit parts? Whatever the case may be, I received a disconcerting call from Eddie in July on 1983.
Eddie: Chuck! How's it going?
Me: Good, as long as you don't need me to draw up another half dozen legal documents for you.
Eddie: Nah, nothing like that. I wanted your opinion on something.
Me: Gods above and below! If it's about a woman again, you should know better.
Eddie: No, no. It's this kid working for me...Sean. You remember him?
Me: Pretty boy...Doe eyes...Three horror stories about his life for every good one, right?
Eddie: That's the one. What would you say if I said I was thinking about embracing him?
Here's the deal. In the circles we move in, you don't even mention something like this unless you can give three extremely good reasons to want to do it. I can't say Eddie's reasons were the best, but they were good. First, the personal boost would probably improve the kid's outlook; even as a fledgling, the embrace is enough to change anyone's life for the better...as long as he keeps his head on straight. The next reason was kind of a requirement: know the subject for at least three months. In that time, Sean had been a good boy, and was actually bringing in more money than the rest of Eddie's employees. Finally, Eddie was thinking of promoting the kid to a kind of enforcer to watch over the others. Having someone on hand that was faster and stronger than anyone that'd harass his employees was an all-around bonus, and would stop Eddie from having to get his hands dirty.
I played it safe by avoiding any kind of real commitment. I didn't know Sean, and I was busy cleaning up a mess in Vegas at the time. I told Eddie that he knew whom he had to call for approval, and left it at that.
That approval was given...unfortunately.
Sean turned out to be one of those people who knew the truth about us and never even hinted that he held such knowledge. He played Eddie like a concert pianist, and Eddie was 88 keys waiting to be manipulated.
Once Sean was inducted into our exclusive club and received the "tutorial" on proper behavior, he started writing his own rules. For three days, Hollywood lived under a reign of terror, with reports of some kind of cannibal slaughtering innocents at random. Age, sex, race, religion...None of it mattered. Sean was blood-hungry, and he didn't give a damn if there were witnesses.
Eddie had plenty of people to call in, but our long association made me the one he trusted most. It was also part of my job to keep such incidents under wraps. So I caught a flight just after sundown, and Eddie and I went Sean hunting.
Remember when I said Sean was smart? Well, he was...but not that smart. He established a kind of "game trail." Even the cops caught onto it early, and they paid for it with three very messy corpses.
Eddie and I formed a simple plan. I would play bait. When Sean moved in, I would keep him mildly entertained while Eddie moved in to eliminate his rogue sireling. To be sure Sean would come after me, I used my rather rare talent of "tailoring." That is, I can alter my appearance to enough of an extent that I'm not easily recognized.
Our plan worked. Sean came at me...and it seemed there was no stopping him. Keeping to his own set of rules, he committed what we consider one of the greater sins. He successfully got me locked up and began to feed on me!
From there, I can recall only bits and pieces of what followed. I remember Sean's head coming off, and Eddie dragging me away from the whole messy scenario. He had to help me hold a pen to sign some legal documents, and promised to take care of my financial affairs until I recovered. Then he put me to "bed." The last thing I remember was him closing the lid and saying, "Don't worry about it, Chuck. Get all the rest you need, and we'll talk soon.
Neither of us had a clue that I'd take a nap for 25 years, waking in July of 2008.
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