I have faithful readers hiding out there somewhere, and I feel the need to apologize to them. As a result of my extended absence, this post may run a bit long, even as I attempt to simplify it.
The Black and Gold Security Firm - Here we have the modernized version of ancient groups that have hunted vampyres for centuries. Two groups, to be precise. The Brotherhood of Steel and the Grey Hand. The former was an offshoot of the Ordre du Temple, or Templiers...more commonly known as Templar Knights. Primarily French, this group discovered the existence of vampyres, saw these creatures as the epitome of evil, and took new vows to wiping out creatures of the night. Pope Clement V allowed them to become completely disassociated with the Templars in 1305, thereby saving them from the downfall of the Templars in 1307. What's more, the vows of these new knights were aligned in such a way as to eradicate all previous commitments.
The Grey Hand was very different. Unbeknownst to historians, Bushido (Way of the Warrior) was founded long before it was properly recorded in Japan. One of the reasons for this was that several dishonorable acts were still permitted, and Heaven forbid the Japanese allow their most high-strung history allow for the ritualistic murder of babies for mystic power. Founded around 220 A.D., the Grey Hand took its name from the idea that they did evil for the sake of good. They were "demon fighters" of the East, and very few in number...
Which is why neither of these groups saw so much as a footnote in history. Their members were too few. They were so obscure that our records, which hold nuggets of history you will never find, regardless of how you search the Internet, took several days to find, get digitally scanned, and faxed over from Europe. They hadn't even been copied into out computer archives because, at a glance, they were meaningless.
Funny how a little torture can make a man break his vows that are centuries old. You don't send new members to spy on Eddie Verdone, especially when such reconnaissance is to be used in a strike against the vampyre population of California. An experienced criminal can spot a "tail," the best of the best tails, given enough time. Add a few extra decades of experience and supernatural abilities, and said tail might as well hold a neon sign above their heads that reads, "I'm following you!"
The boy that Eddie caught was, believe it or not, the "son of a blacksmith." Actually, he was the son of a design engineer, and we learned about a few new weapons that would definitely had made our unlives a disaster. Like breakaway stakes. Because of the lack of proper aerodynamics, the projectile had to be fired at close range using a crossbow. The head was loosely connected to the piercing portion of the stake, and should someone try to simply grab and pull, the head would pull away from the body, leaving the stake buried inside. This meant a gory expedition into the vampyre's chest for remove the whole thing. And if you're in a situation where stakes are being fired, and there just might be someone on hand to remove such a projectile, usually the situation is so tense that there's no time to go digging. The truly terrifying aspect of this weapon was that they knew just what of which to make the stakes.
Most important was the learning of a joining of forces in 2001. For five years prior, these two groups had been trying to reach one another. Two underground organizations seeking one another out? Take two people - deaf, dumb, and blind - and start them out on opposite sides of a warehouse, with instructions to find the other. Then wish them luck. That's what it was like for these groups.
Just like my example, they found each other via accident, because that was really the only way it would happen. An agent from each side was following the same mark when they bumped into one another. Their bosses were soon deep in discussion as to how to operate together without tainting the others abilities. Holy knights consorting with people who ritualistically killed children? That was bad. People who held to moral middle ground exposed to men who existed "in the Light" could be equally as bad. The final arrangement: combine information, but no cooperative teams.
My apologies, again. By leaving out details, I'm misleading you a bit. It is important to note that the Brotherhood of Steel is strictly comprised of men. The Grey Hand is not so sexist in their membership. Though both are founded in specific areas of the map, they now have agents from around the globe.
Big Trouble in The Big Apple - "Batman" thought that a few weeks of hiding would be enough before he resurfaced. He really must be new to our ranks, because he failed to realize that vampyres, due to their extended existence, are a patient breed, as well as being able to hold a grudge for decades. I...
What I really want to do is find the dolt that created this vampyre and introduce him or her to something we call the long burn. This requires a staked vampyre, one knitted quilt, a thick blanket, and a day-runner. The vampire is stripped of all clothes, wrapped in the quilt, then wrapped in the blanket, and dragged to a sunny spot. Just because there's a stake in the vampyre doesn't mean it can't feel pain. Once an hour, the day-runner takes off the thick blanket, allowing bits of sunlight to poke through the quilt. This is done in five-minute intervals once an hour. The process starts at sunrise, and continues until an hour before sundown, at which point the blanket and quilt are removed to finish the process, if it hasn't been completed by then. This extended agony is reserved for our highest crimes, and siring a moron that can't be put down quickly is one such crime.
Eddie escaped this because he and I were right on the problem the moment Sean McCullough went blew all mental circuitry.
So Batman surfaces and gets right back to killing criminals. If you could track every vampyre in New York City, you'd see them converge in one spot. The same could be said of the two hunting groups I've mentioned. Though they were staging a theater of war here in CA, they still had plenty of agents in NY. The result was a blood bath the likes of which haven't been seen since the World Trade Center came down. Vampyres, hunters, and over 527 people who had nothing to do with any of those groups became part of this mess, including police, fire fighters, and paramedics. For 15 blocks, 6th and 7th Avenues were strewn with bodies, including 47 headless vampyres and 22 hunters.
Nigel Wentworth knew there was no hiding this disaster, and so we coordinated a tale of Batman sparking a "vampire" massacre in the streets of NY. "Mass hysteria" was cited in many articles around the world. But, ohhhh, what I wouldn't give for the infamous "flashy-thing" from Men in Black. Any witness that came forward to tell the "truth" was tracked down and eliminated. We left it to the mortals to clean up most of the mess. Our only effort was to remove the vampyre bodies. We couldn't risk someone connecting 47 corpses, all of which appeared to have hemolytic anemia. That would be too coincidental.
I will leave it to your imagination as to how much more we had to do to hide the true vampyre presence in this mess. And if you happen to know something about any of this, I HIGHLY recommend that you never say a single word about it, not even to your favorite pet. Bury it in any way you can. Let your life be destroyed by drugs or alcohol for all I care. The alternative is to have your life erased completely.
Meanwhile, back at home... - The hunters made a mistake by announcing their presence with six of the seven deadly sins. They must have thought that we'd become scared and limit our activities. Instead, we increased security without letting it show. We are the masters of the night, not them. If we were new to this game, we might well have ducked our heads as low as possible. The result was us going about our regular business, with hidden extras hiding in nearby shadows.
And whom did they choose to strike? Me, of course. The Brotherhood of Steel paid me a daytime visit in the hopes of catching me at my weakest. But as I've mentioned in previous posts, my home has been designed for me to be able to do what I must, even while the purity is high in the sky. They waited for Shay and Tina to leave for school, and then they moved in.
I confess that they were well armed and prepared for their venture into my house. They must have studied blueprints for weeks before dropping by. The phone lines were cut and a signal scrambler was set up about mid-property so that cell phones were useless. They were quick, but cautious...all ten of them. What they didn't know was that I was no longer alone in my home, nor were any of us sleeping during the day.
Ten vampyre hunters, armed with their holy Light and weapons, were greeted by five stalkers of the night, including myself. It was a fairly straightforward fight. They came in, moved with rapid stealth down the sub-levels of my home, and found Eddie, myself, and a few friends playing Poker. (I was down $50,000!) While some of us were hurt rather badly during the fight, they never managed to kill any of us. When they were down to two men, the survivors opted to escape. They knew about the doors and windows of my estate; intruders activate steel curtains that cover all paths of egress. It's why they attempted to use a grenade to blast a hole in a wall on the ground level to escape.
Surprise! What is not on public record to anyone looking at the schematics of my home is that between the insulation and drywall are thick sheets of iron and lead. Put simply, my home is a metal box with a great deal of dressing to make it look aesthetically pleasing. Thus, the grenade destroyed the pretty parts, but did nothing to help them escape. While the damage inside is being repaired, the exterior of the house looks fine. Thus, all the remaining hunters know is that ten men went in and none came out.
This drama is sure to continue. After the attack on me several nights ago, they may try again or take more extreme measures. Since I am growing unfortunately attached to Tina and Shay, I am breaking my own rules and temporarily moving them into the main house. I have also called the school to inform them we will all be out of town for a funeral. Not only are they displeased by being "grounded" for their protection, but I also had the school send over a package with extra work for the girls while they are "away." This prompted Tina to explode into a tirade, mostly in Spanish, often referring to me as "el Diablo."
"Yes," I said when she was finished. "Decadent amounts of money, orgasms during breakfast, and the most diabolical of all...homework!"
"Oh, I can never show my face at noon. And you'll only see me walking by the light of the moon."
Friday, September 19, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Prey for us sinners.
So...Molly Murphy also encountered some of the seven deadly sins. After my call last Saturday night, she had a security team sweep her "palace" in San Diego. She owns an apartment building, reserving the penthouse suite and the four floors beneath for herself. It's almost impossible to get to these areas without the ability to scale walls or the power of flight.
Thus, Pride was found on top of the elevator car. How does one create a body to represent pride? By covering it, not in clothes, but copies of certificates and pictures, all of which denoted Molly's various accomplishments. The virtuous certificates received from the community for her generous donations to such things as hospitals and charities, pictures of her accepting awards during late night galas, and a Xerox copy of the title on the building she resides in.
She could not fathom the meaning of this corpse until I explained it. "You can pretend to be proud of the façade you put on for others; we know who and what you are."
Sloth was found in the basement. Molly's day-runner, David, was found garbed in the clothes of an Egyptian slave, wearing shackles on his wrists and ankles. Because those precious drops of vampyre blood make him a bit harder to kill, his heart had been removed. The message: "Here is your servant, who does your bidding when you are too lazy to do so yourself."
Gluttony seemed obvious to us, until our investigative team did an autopsy. With all the symbolism thrown at us thus far, the overweight woman, discovered in the boiler room of her building, seemed too obvious. Once stripped, our medical examiner found the woman's belly had been cut open post mortem, and a bladder of sheep's skin was used to replace her stomach. After this bladder was carefully removed and examined, it was cut open. It was filled with twenty-dollar bills and blood from multiple sources - dogs, cats, rats, humans. Written on all of the bills were the words, "Wrath is coming."
Forensics is not my game. Mine is communication, and the symbolism in these gruesome messages was more than apparent to me. I was given the "honor" of viewing one of these bills, and the writing resembled that of a child's. Unless the mythical Damien had arrived from The Exorcist, I honesty doubted the killer was a youth of any kid. But since I handle money in such large amounts on a regular basis, I immediately noticed something others had not.
American money has the seal from the Department of the Treasury, dated 1789 (the DOT was founded 2 September 1789). The seal's coat of arms depicts balancing scales, said to represent justice, a key, meant to be a symbol of official authority, and a chevron with 13 stars for the original States. The money inside Gluttony - a total of $12,000 - was counterfeit. The scales were off-balance, and there was a lock in place of the key. And there was something odd about the lock...
While I slept, the DOT took measures to make counterfeiting more difficult. One such measure was the printing of numbers using ink that changes colors when altering the angle of the bill. I've noticed it on twenty and hundred dollar bills. When looking directly at it, the numbers printed in the lower right corner appear green. If one starts to alter the angle, the numbers turn black.
Once cleaned, the funny money in Gluttony's stomach cavity showed to have something similar on that DOT seal's lock. It would appear gold at first, but turn black.
It wasn't until Wednesday night that we would learn more about the Black and Gold Security Firm.
Thus, Pride was found on top of the elevator car. How does one create a body to represent pride? By covering it, not in clothes, but copies of certificates and pictures, all of which denoted Molly's various accomplishments. The virtuous certificates received from the community for her generous donations to such things as hospitals and charities, pictures of her accepting awards during late night galas, and a Xerox copy of the title on the building she resides in.
She could not fathom the meaning of this corpse until I explained it. "You can pretend to be proud of the façade you put on for others; we know who and what you are."
Sloth was found in the basement. Molly's day-runner, David, was found garbed in the clothes of an Egyptian slave, wearing shackles on his wrists and ankles. Because those precious drops of vampyre blood make him a bit harder to kill, his heart had been removed. The message: "Here is your servant, who does your bidding when you are too lazy to do so yourself."
Gluttony seemed obvious to us, until our investigative team did an autopsy. With all the symbolism thrown at us thus far, the overweight woman, discovered in the boiler room of her building, seemed too obvious. Once stripped, our medical examiner found the woman's belly had been cut open post mortem, and a bladder of sheep's skin was used to replace her stomach. After this bladder was carefully removed and examined, it was cut open. It was filled with twenty-dollar bills and blood from multiple sources - dogs, cats, rats, humans. Written on all of the bills were the words, "Wrath is coming."
Forensics is not my game. Mine is communication, and the symbolism in these gruesome messages was more than apparent to me. I was given the "honor" of viewing one of these bills, and the writing resembled that of a child's. Unless the mythical Damien had arrived from The Exorcist, I honesty doubted the killer was a youth of any kid. But since I handle money in such large amounts on a regular basis, I immediately noticed something others had not.
American money has the seal from the Department of the Treasury, dated 1789 (the DOT was founded 2 September 1789). The seal's coat of arms depicts balancing scales, said to represent justice, a key, meant to be a symbol of official authority, and a chevron with 13 stars for the original States. The money inside Gluttony - a total of $12,000 - was counterfeit. The scales were off-balance, and there was a lock in place of the key. And there was something odd about the lock...
While I slept, the DOT took measures to make counterfeiting more difficult. One such measure was the printing of numbers using ink that changes colors when altering the angle of the bill. I've noticed it on twenty and hundred dollar bills. When looking directly at it, the numbers printed in the lower right corner appear green. If one starts to alter the angle, the numbers turn black.
Once cleaned, the funny money in Gluttony's stomach cavity showed to have something similar on that DOT seal's lock. It would appear gold at first, but turn black.
It wasn't until Wednesday night that we would learn more about the Black and Gold Security Firm.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Let us prey.
It would seem that my best opportunity to write of my nocturnal activities is during those hours when I can do little else. To briefly recap, I had found the corpse I'd named Avarice. Now we move onto Lust.
She was an attractive woman, probably mid-20's, dressed, as all things, a Catholic schoolgirl. I have never truly understood that perverse fantasy, but this body seemed quite typical of such visions. The exceptionally short, plaid miniskirt, tight, white blouse, knee-high white socks. The poor woman's hair had even been pulled back into ponytails. I could not see her face, as a picture had been glued over it. The picture was of Shay and Tina, seated at school.
Whoever chose to decorate my property with bodies made a mistake. They seem to think that my girls are strictly around to sate some kind of sexual desire. Although they are certainly receiving satisfaction along those lines, I believe I've made my intentions pertaining to them quite clear.
Upset though I might have become, why didn't the killer eliminate my girls? He - and I use the masculine pronoun simply for its ease - was able to capture an image of them at school, so he knows who they are. He's probably followed them home from school. The defenses of my home are good, but not impossible to bypass, as was proven when he left the bodies on my property. The corpses were mortal, not vampyres, which shows a willingness to kill whomever is at hand. So, again...Why not kill Shay and Tina?
Unless he knows their true age and isn't willing to kill children?
Envy was the worst of all the bodies. It was a senior citizen, male, with numerous joints affected by severe arthritis. Various wrinkles and twisted joints had a tear painted next to them. A sign of depression that mortals must age. How deep did this envy go? The answer to that was given in the condition of the corpse. It was bent at the waist...in the wrong direction. The killer was so infuriated that he'd bent the poor old man's body backwards.
Your imagination is running wild, isn't it? There are plenty of ways to main a body in such a way. The application of machinery and a bit of physics, perhaps? Then again, when you consider who is keeping this journal, your mind may have leapt to the physical power of a vampyre. But as I said, we have reason to believe we have hunters in our midst; real hunters that can tap into mystic abilities. Despite its potential consequences, I believe the vampyre hunter used something call the Strength of Shadows.
The hunter whose power comes from sin can summon superhuman strength from shadows. That is, he absorbs the shadows themselves, converting what is immaterial into very real physical prowess. Since this ability is often used at night, when the shadows are actually fewer, (they blend with the natural darkness only too easily), it is incredibly draining.
I once confronted a hunter in the late 1940's in a warehouse, where there were shadows aplenty. For a vampyre to claim to have seen something terrifying is to say the limits of horror were reached and exceeded. The man's muscles swelled so much with power garnered from the shadows that his skin split, revealing muscle tissue that appeared to drip with blackened blood. This was meant to be his final act, as he believed he had me cornered. What he didn't know was of my excessive speed. Combined with my precognitive abilities, it turned into a waste of his time, energy, and very life. Strength, by itself, does not convey any degree of invulnerability. Without the protective covering of skin, which was torn in countless places, he managed to shred a few veins. He collapsed after he lost quite a bit of blood, and had soon gone the way of the dodo.
From what little I learned after that encounter, it is up to the hunter on how many shadows to absorb. Too many, as is what happened that night, could mean the end of the hunter's life, and certainly spells a lengthy recovery period if he survives.
Back to the corpses on the grounds of my home...There was a mad scramble to remove them. We needed information, but could not turn the bodies over to the police. Direct contact with the authorities makes it difficult to subtly pull strings. Luckily, we have our own specialists in forensics. There is a dark humor at having a vampyre that can run blood tests.
What we know so far:
1. All of the bodies were killed using a powerful neuro-paralytic toxin administered via dart gun. (Bruising around the impact holes indicates something struck them at high speed.) The poison was so potent that it operated faster than the nerve conduction velocity, meaning that they were dead before they even felt the dart.
2. The brazen killer left fingerprints on the photos of the girls. Of course, the prints matched nothing in any database into which we hacked.
3. The suit has been traced back to Jason Levy, land developer extraordinaire and vampyre, who was found dead shortly after we realized who owned the suit originally.
4. The old man meant to represent Envy was Samuel Medwedosko, reported missing from his assisted living facility on Sunday.
My tale continues, but I've decided to get some rest before sundown. Until my next entry, dear readers.
She was an attractive woman, probably mid-20's, dressed, as all things, a Catholic schoolgirl. I have never truly understood that perverse fantasy, but this body seemed quite typical of such visions. The exceptionally short, plaid miniskirt, tight, white blouse, knee-high white socks. The poor woman's hair had even been pulled back into ponytails. I could not see her face, as a picture had been glued over it. The picture was of Shay and Tina, seated at school.
Whoever chose to decorate my property with bodies made a mistake. They seem to think that my girls are strictly around to sate some kind of sexual desire. Although they are certainly receiving satisfaction along those lines, I believe I've made my intentions pertaining to them quite clear.
Upset though I might have become, why didn't the killer eliminate my girls? He - and I use the masculine pronoun simply for its ease - was able to capture an image of them at school, so he knows who they are. He's probably followed them home from school. The defenses of my home are good, but not impossible to bypass, as was proven when he left the bodies on my property. The corpses were mortal, not vampyres, which shows a willingness to kill whomever is at hand. So, again...Why not kill Shay and Tina?
Unless he knows their true age and isn't willing to kill children?
Envy was the worst of all the bodies. It was a senior citizen, male, with numerous joints affected by severe arthritis. Various wrinkles and twisted joints had a tear painted next to them. A sign of depression that mortals must age. How deep did this envy go? The answer to that was given in the condition of the corpse. It was bent at the waist...in the wrong direction. The killer was so infuriated that he'd bent the poor old man's body backwards.
Your imagination is running wild, isn't it? There are plenty of ways to main a body in such a way. The application of machinery and a bit of physics, perhaps? Then again, when you consider who is keeping this journal, your mind may have leapt to the physical power of a vampyre. But as I said, we have reason to believe we have hunters in our midst; real hunters that can tap into mystic abilities. Despite its potential consequences, I believe the vampyre hunter used something call the Strength of Shadows.
The hunter whose power comes from sin can summon superhuman strength from shadows. That is, he absorbs the shadows themselves, converting what is immaterial into very real physical prowess. Since this ability is often used at night, when the shadows are actually fewer, (they blend with the natural darkness only too easily), it is incredibly draining.
I once confronted a hunter in the late 1940's in a warehouse, where there were shadows aplenty. For a vampyre to claim to have seen something terrifying is to say the limits of horror were reached and exceeded. The man's muscles swelled so much with power garnered from the shadows that his skin split, revealing muscle tissue that appeared to drip with blackened blood. This was meant to be his final act, as he believed he had me cornered. What he didn't know was of my excessive speed. Combined with my precognitive abilities, it turned into a waste of his time, energy, and very life. Strength, by itself, does not convey any degree of invulnerability. Without the protective covering of skin, which was torn in countless places, he managed to shred a few veins. He collapsed after he lost quite a bit of blood, and had soon gone the way of the dodo.
From what little I learned after that encounter, it is up to the hunter on how many shadows to absorb. Too many, as is what happened that night, could mean the end of the hunter's life, and certainly spells a lengthy recovery period if he survives.
Back to the corpses on the grounds of my home...There was a mad scramble to remove them. We needed information, but could not turn the bodies over to the police. Direct contact with the authorities makes it difficult to subtly pull strings. Luckily, we have our own specialists in forensics. There is a dark humor at having a vampyre that can run blood tests.
What we know so far:
1. All of the bodies were killed using a powerful neuro-paralytic toxin administered via dart gun. (Bruising around the impact holes indicates something struck them at high speed.) The poison was so potent that it operated faster than the nerve conduction velocity, meaning that they were dead before they even felt the dart.
2. The brazen killer left fingerprints on the photos of the girls. Of course, the prints matched nothing in any database into which we hacked.
3. The suit has been traced back to Jason Levy, land developer extraordinaire and vampyre, who was found dead shortly after we realized who owned the suit originally.
4. The old man meant to represent Envy was Samuel Medwedosko, reported missing from his assisted living facility on Sunday.
My tale continues, but I've decided to get some rest before sundown. Until my next entry, dear readers.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Things that go bump in the day.
I'm overdue to complete the tale of my embrace, but I must also confess that it was filler until something of interest came along. There's only so many times I can tell you of my action-packed life, in which I made several phone calls and received embarrassing amounts of money for doing so. If I were to obsessively post about my virgins, readers will begin thinking that my one and only concern are humans of a certain sexual status. My lack of posts, however, should be a clear indication that something is afoot in my world.
As with almost anything that becomes part of a story in my life, explanations are necessary. Vampyres, as I have hinted, have various mystic ties. The idea that science can explain parts of our existence is utterly ridiculous. Ultra-violet rays from the sun cause our flesh to burn? Nonsense! Science is completely helpless to explain how I live without a beating heart, or how my body doesn't decay without the other biological functions of the human body.
The vampyre's existence is, to even the most observant eye, loosely connected to magic. This applies to other creatures, such as werewolves. Yes, werewolves exist, though not as imagined by the cinema. With no offense intended to the Wiccan religion, there are also witches and warlocks, whose ties to magic are more direct and obvious.
These other mystic beings know of us, and we know of them, and all parties are seemingly content to leave the others alone. Occasionally, however, other groups steeped in mysticism appear that are not so complacent. To say that they appear is incorrect. It is that they reappear, and they like to let us know when they've gathered strength.
Vampyre hunters. They come in several varieties. They might be smart or stupid, real or imagined, weak or strong, small or large. In my decades of existence, I have met varying combinations of these qualities. The most amusing had to be an overweight, deranged vampyre hunter that also had the unfortunate condition of dwarfism. She was persistent, and almost literally underfoot after a week of pursuing me. I really didn't want to kill her, so I knocked her unconscious, nailed her into a padded coffin with an oxygen tank, and shipped her to Brazil. Thankfully, I never saw or heard from her again, although rumor reached me that there was a would-be vampyric midget terrorizing the streets of some Brazilian city or another.
The real deal is something with which to be reckoned. Their magic stems from religion itself, and they power comes from one of two places: absolute purity or souls tainted by some of the most gruesome acts. The former is incredibly and blessedly rare, as they carry the purity of the sun on their side. The former eventually learns to harness darkness itself, bending shadows to their will, using that darkness to their full advantage. Hunters tend to run independently, but from time to time, they unite, and that's where the vampyre community begins to have its problems.
Saturday night was when our troubles began, and we have been up to our necks in the mystery of what appears to be a cult of hunters. We are currently assuming that we are facing a cult of dark users, as their opening statements to various members of our community were less than enlightened.
Our opposition delivered the seven deadly sins to us. I was given the messages of avarice, lust, and envy...all in the form of corpses.
The first body to greet me was Avarice. He was clad in a $10,000 Brioni suit not properly fit to his body, meaning that the corpse and suit did not know one another in life. His mouth was stuffed with faux gemstones, such as amber, turquoise, and tiger's eye. What caught my critical eye was an extremely rare, flawless pink diamond, which would cost a small fortune unto itself. The corpse had no wallet, the fingerprints had been sliced off, and his teeth apparently pulled out systematically.
I could smell the other bodies nearby, but ignored them for a moment to check on the girls. After their adventures on Thursday, I asked that they not venture out at night, and gave them Cheryl's phone number in case of a daytime emergency. I instructed the girls, after a brief feed, to stay inside with the doors locked, and to not come out under any circumstances.
The last thing I needed was an investigative team of vampyres on my grounds, all but drooling at the idea that there was virgin blood nearby.
As I walked the property back to Avarice, I called Eddie, who always makes for good emergency muscle, and Molly, whom I deemed it important I inform. She would relate her own tails later that night.
Staring at Avarice, I tried to decipher the message he was meant to convey. Clearly, the suit and the diamond demonstrated that whoever had left this body behind had a source of money, and was more than willing to throw it away on a macabre message. Who would have such money? Aside from the wealthy who would not delve into a confrontation with vampyres, there are other vampyres that are a bit out of touch with how things are supposed to be done, and the Church. The Vatican has been known to sponsor such vigilantes, whether they are of pure or tainted origin. What matters to them is that the evil of vampyres be destroyed.
The gems in the mouth? Well, I think I figured out that rather swiftly. It is a combined message of, "I hope you choke," and that excessive wealth leads down the path to destruction.
Most disturbing about the body, and those as yet to be discovered, was that they were not vampyres. The responsible party had been willing to kill the innocent to get their message out. The man at my feet might well have been a patron in a bar that, after a few beers, had been lured into a trap, where he was murdered and dressed to play a specific role.
More on this at a later time. My phones are ringing, which means the information network may have news for me.
As with almost anything that becomes part of a story in my life, explanations are necessary. Vampyres, as I have hinted, have various mystic ties. The idea that science can explain parts of our existence is utterly ridiculous. Ultra-violet rays from the sun cause our flesh to burn? Nonsense! Science is completely helpless to explain how I live without a beating heart, or how my body doesn't decay without the other biological functions of the human body.
The vampyre's existence is, to even the most observant eye, loosely connected to magic. This applies to other creatures, such as werewolves. Yes, werewolves exist, though not as imagined by the cinema. With no offense intended to the Wiccan religion, there are also witches and warlocks, whose ties to magic are more direct and obvious.
These other mystic beings know of us, and we know of them, and all parties are seemingly content to leave the others alone. Occasionally, however, other groups steeped in mysticism appear that are not so complacent. To say that they appear is incorrect. It is that they reappear, and they like to let us know when they've gathered strength.
Vampyre hunters. They come in several varieties. They might be smart or stupid, real or imagined, weak or strong, small or large. In my decades of existence, I have met varying combinations of these qualities. The most amusing had to be an overweight, deranged vampyre hunter that also had the unfortunate condition of dwarfism. She was persistent, and almost literally underfoot after a week of pursuing me. I really didn't want to kill her, so I knocked her unconscious, nailed her into a padded coffin with an oxygen tank, and shipped her to Brazil. Thankfully, I never saw or heard from her again, although rumor reached me that there was a would-be vampyric midget terrorizing the streets of some Brazilian city or another.
The real deal is something with which to be reckoned. Their magic stems from religion itself, and they power comes from one of two places: absolute purity or souls tainted by some of the most gruesome acts. The former is incredibly and blessedly rare, as they carry the purity of the sun on their side. The former eventually learns to harness darkness itself, bending shadows to their will, using that darkness to their full advantage. Hunters tend to run independently, but from time to time, they unite, and that's where the vampyre community begins to have its problems.
Saturday night was when our troubles began, and we have been up to our necks in the mystery of what appears to be a cult of hunters. We are currently assuming that we are facing a cult of dark users, as their opening statements to various members of our community were less than enlightened.
Our opposition delivered the seven deadly sins to us. I was given the messages of avarice, lust, and envy...all in the form of corpses.
The first body to greet me was Avarice. He was clad in a $10,000 Brioni suit not properly fit to his body, meaning that the corpse and suit did not know one another in life. His mouth was stuffed with faux gemstones, such as amber, turquoise, and tiger's eye. What caught my critical eye was an extremely rare, flawless pink diamond, which would cost a small fortune unto itself. The corpse had no wallet, the fingerprints had been sliced off, and his teeth apparently pulled out systematically.
I could smell the other bodies nearby, but ignored them for a moment to check on the girls. After their adventures on Thursday, I asked that they not venture out at night, and gave them Cheryl's phone number in case of a daytime emergency. I instructed the girls, after a brief feed, to stay inside with the doors locked, and to not come out under any circumstances.
The last thing I needed was an investigative team of vampyres on my grounds, all but drooling at the idea that there was virgin blood nearby.
As I walked the property back to Avarice, I called Eddie, who always makes for good emergency muscle, and Molly, whom I deemed it important I inform. She would relate her own tails later that night.
Staring at Avarice, I tried to decipher the message he was meant to convey. Clearly, the suit and the diamond demonstrated that whoever had left this body behind had a source of money, and was more than willing to throw it away on a macabre message. Who would have such money? Aside from the wealthy who would not delve into a confrontation with vampyres, there are other vampyres that are a bit out of touch with how things are supposed to be done, and the Church. The Vatican has been known to sponsor such vigilantes, whether they are of pure or tainted origin. What matters to them is that the evil of vampyres be destroyed.
The gems in the mouth? Well, I think I figured out that rather swiftly. It is a combined message of, "I hope you choke," and that excessive wealth leads down the path to destruction.
Most disturbing about the body, and those as yet to be discovered, was that they were not vampyres. The responsible party had been willing to kill the innocent to get their message out. The man at my feet might well have been a patron in a bar that, after a few beers, had been lured into a trap, where he was murdered and dressed to play a specific role.
More on this at a later time. My phones are ringing, which means the information network may have news for me.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Mortal Dilemmas
I'm interrupting the tale of my embrace because that damnable sun is shining out there, somewhere, and I have spent many hours contemplating the events of last evening.
In the interest of being good girls for their surrogate father, my virgins have practically attacked their schooling. I have received regular evening reports on how things are during the day for them, and their first week of classes has been relatively uneventful...until last night.
My attractive teens were invited to join a study group at a café. The lure, as I learned afterward, was that they would pool their young minds to tackle various assignments and go their separate ways come sunset. The youths that initiated this were athletes from the school, and transparent enough to see that they were hoping to gain a great deal of aid accomplishing goals without having to actually do much of the work. But there was an ulterior motive to even that translucent plan...
As per what has become ritual, I was up within the hour before sunset. With nothing on my agenda for the evening, I was composing my next post when my phone rang. It was Tina, and she was on the cusp of complete panic. Shay was behaving oddly, her speech slurred and coordination seemingly obliterated. Tina had made every effort to get her back to the car and bring her home, but the "jocks" were running interference. Tina had finally broken away from them and made her call to me.
Bless whatever dark powers granted me my gifts! I ignored my car and used my unnatural speed to get to them. The minutes stretched before me like hours, as I wondered what was happening to my girls.
I must pause here to give you a brief description of myself. I am average in every way. I stand at 5' 9", weigh approximately 160 lbs., am Caucasian, have brown hair, and no outstanding scars, birthmarks, or other defining features. Were I forced to use this material as the name of a superhero, I would be "Captain Common." You must also keep in mind that I have been trapped in the appearance of a 27-year-old for well over a century. Yes, I could alter my features, but that was furthest from my mind as I arrived at the café.
One honestly has to wonder what they feed the children today. These athletes from the school would be judged the sons of blacksmiths when I was young, as their chests and arms rippled with muscular power. Most were close to 6' in height, if not more, making me look almost tiny by comparison.
Three of these monstrous "children" were handling Shay in a most ungentlemanly manner. Had Tina not delayed them past sunset, my ebony princess might well be of the most common blood by now. What followed was very much like a scene from a movie.
The brazen and lecherous athletes were practically fondling Shay in public, and I approached from a discrete place at normal speed. "Excuse me," I began, "but I believe my daughters want to go home, and you are in their way."
They looked from Shay, to Tina, and finally to me before breaking out in laughter. "'Daughters?!?'" one said. "You been sliding your wick in the chocolate and bean dip?"
"Your ethnic jibe will gain you no ground," I countered. "My daughters wish to leave, and I will not let you stop them."
Now the second dolt spoke up. "Check out Mr. Dictionary and the triple-digit vocabulary!"
The third added, "There's no way you're old enough to be their father."
I had not the patience to battle unarmed opponents in a battle of wits, and so I played to the most base natures of humanity; those of gain and loss. Gesturing to a nearby table, I said, "Seat the girls here, and we'll make a wager. The bet will be for my girls and a quarter."
"Huh?" said the apparent leader, with all the intellect of a Neanderthal.
"A quarter," I repeated. "It's the big coin that represents 25 cents. Seat the young ladies, hand me a quarter, and our bet will be on."
"What bet?" asked genius number three.
"Oh, it's quite simple. If I convince you that my concern for them is that of a parent watching over his children, you get your quarter back and we'll be on our way. If you remain unconvinced, I will allow you take them off to whatever lair you maintain and have your way with them."
From the corner of my eye, I could see Tina about to scream some protest or another, but I gestured for her to remain silent, and she obeyed.
"You're off to a bad start, dude, if giving up your kids is your idea of being a dad," the leader quipped, digging into his pocket and producing a quarter. He handed it to me while the other two sat the girls at the table and stood guard over them.
"The situation is simplicity itself," I began. I held the quarter within their view, but concealed from anyone else who might be paying attention. My fingers went to work as I said, "That I am not the girls' biological father is obvious. I assure you that my appearance is deceptive when it comes to my true age. There is nothing I can say to convince you of my true caring for them, but I assure you that your lives are about to change. You see, not only will I be leaving with my ladies, but you will become their daytime guardians."
Number two scoffed at this, even though his eyes were becoming glued to my hands.
"It's true. You will protect them with your very lives, if necessary. You will do this voluntarily. The facts are not as you see them, and you know nothing about me, them, or the mess that you've gotten yourselves into by mistreating my girls. If you do not take on the role I have described, I'm afraid you'll have to answer directly to me. Am I understood?"
At this point, I handed the quarter to the leader. I had, with no apparent effort, folded it into eighths.
His eyes wide and mouth agape, the leader shakily took the ruined coin and stared at it.
"Am...I...understood?" I asked more forcefully.
"Y-y-yes, sir," said the leader.
"Tina, take Shay home and be sure she begins drinking a lot of water. Whatever these fools slipped into her drink should dilute. I will meet you there shortly."
As my girls left, the three athletes appeared to be rooted to the spot, frozen in action. This suited me just fine, as it allowed me to retrieve the evidence from the palm of the ringleader. "If I find out that you've slackened in your duties," I said softly, but dangerously, "I will find you and use my considerable skills to make what I've done to this coin seem like a kindness. The same applies to spreading word of this little event. What I may well tell the world is my choice, not yours."
I turned and started to walk away, adding pleasantly and with a backward wave, "Have a good evening, boys. Don't stay out too late."
Once again, actions prove louder than words.
Tina was relieved when I arrived at the guesthouse, as getting Shay to ingest fluids became difficult; the girl had slipped into unconsciousness, which likely was part of the boys' plans. Tina wasn't feeling all that well either, and I confirmed it with a taste of her blood that she'd been given something. I suppose she's lucky she didn't wrap the car around a pole on the drive home, and both girls are spending the day at home to recover.
Meanwhile, my problem with all of this is that I'm discovering that I care about my well-kept virgins. They were meant to be a means to an end, a source of food. That I find myself growing fond of them in such a short time has me honestly wondering what's wrong with me. Decades have passed since my emotions have run so deep. This is not to say I've been a completely neutral party to any and all in my life, but as I reflected on the events last night, I began to think of the worst. It was the trolley accident in Manhattan all over again. Instead of runaway horses trampling my daughter to death, it was a group of brutes inadvertently slaying my foster children.
To this day, I don't know what Antoinette was doing out at that hour, but I watched in horror as her body was battered and broken mere yards away. Remember that I can only see my future, not others. Minutes before the accident, I could see myself losing my composure, but not see why. The rage that consumed me that night left me little memory of slaughtering those horses and the driver. I was forced to remain outside of New York after that, from 1889 to 1899, in the hopes that witnesses would forget what they saw.
I fear what I'm feeling for Shay and Tina. To lose them, and, subsequently, my control, would make me an outcast amongst my own. I thought I'd managed to distance myself from such emotional depth, and it makes me wonder if my final sunrise isn't a short series of blunders away.
In the interest of being good girls for their surrogate father, my virgins have practically attacked their schooling. I have received regular evening reports on how things are during the day for them, and their first week of classes has been relatively uneventful...until last night.
My attractive teens were invited to join a study group at a café. The lure, as I learned afterward, was that they would pool their young minds to tackle various assignments and go their separate ways come sunset. The youths that initiated this were athletes from the school, and transparent enough to see that they were hoping to gain a great deal of aid accomplishing goals without having to actually do much of the work. But there was an ulterior motive to even that translucent plan...
As per what has become ritual, I was up within the hour before sunset. With nothing on my agenda for the evening, I was composing my next post when my phone rang. It was Tina, and she was on the cusp of complete panic. Shay was behaving oddly, her speech slurred and coordination seemingly obliterated. Tina had made every effort to get her back to the car and bring her home, but the "jocks" were running interference. Tina had finally broken away from them and made her call to me.
Bless whatever dark powers granted me my gifts! I ignored my car and used my unnatural speed to get to them. The minutes stretched before me like hours, as I wondered what was happening to my girls.
I must pause here to give you a brief description of myself. I am average in every way. I stand at 5' 9", weigh approximately 160 lbs., am Caucasian, have brown hair, and no outstanding scars, birthmarks, or other defining features. Were I forced to use this material as the name of a superhero, I would be "Captain Common." You must also keep in mind that I have been trapped in the appearance of a 27-year-old for well over a century. Yes, I could alter my features, but that was furthest from my mind as I arrived at the café.
One honestly has to wonder what they feed the children today. These athletes from the school would be judged the sons of blacksmiths when I was young, as their chests and arms rippled with muscular power. Most were close to 6' in height, if not more, making me look almost tiny by comparison.
Three of these monstrous "children" were handling Shay in a most ungentlemanly manner. Had Tina not delayed them past sunset, my ebony princess might well be of the most common blood by now. What followed was very much like a scene from a movie.
The brazen and lecherous athletes were practically fondling Shay in public, and I approached from a discrete place at normal speed. "Excuse me," I began, "but I believe my daughters want to go home, and you are in their way."
They looked from Shay, to Tina, and finally to me before breaking out in laughter. "'Daughters?!?'" one said. "You been sliding your wick in the chocolate and bean dip?"
"Your ethnic jibe will gain you no ground," I countered. "My daughters wish to leave, and I will not let you stop them."
Now the second dolt spoke up. "Check out Mr. Dictionary and the triple-digit vocabulary!"
The third added, "There's no way you're old enough to be their father."
I had not the patience to battle unarmed opponents in a battle of wits, and so I played to the most base natures of humanity; those of gain and loss. Gesturing to a nearby table, I said, "Seat the girls here, and we'll make a wager. The bet will be for my girls and a quarter."
"Huh?" said the apparent leader, with all the intellect of a Neanderthal.
"A quarter," I repeated. "It's the big coin that represents 25 cents. Seat the young ladies, hand me a quarter, and our bet will be on."
"What bet?" asked genius number three.
"Oh, it's quite simple. If I convince you that my concern for them is that of a parent watching over his children, you get your quarter back and we'll be on our way. If you remain unconvinced, I will allow you take them off to whatever lair you maintain and have your way with them."
From the corner of my eye, I could see Tina about to scream some protest or another, but I gestured for her to remain silent, and she obeyed.
"You're off to a bad start, dude, if giving up your kids is your idea of being a dad," the leader quipped, digging into his pocket and producing a quarter. He handed it to me while the other two sat the girls at the table and stood guard over them.
"The situation is simplicity itself," I began. I held the quarter within their view, but concealed from anyone else who might be paying attention. My fingers went to work as I said, "That I am not the girls' biological father is obvious. I assure you that my appearance is deceptive when it comes to my true age. There is nothing I can say to convince you of my true caring for them, but I assure you that your lives are about to change. You see, not only will I be leaving with my ladies, but you will become their daytime guardians."
Number two scoffed at this, even though his eyes were becoming glued to my hands.
"It's true. You will protect them with your very lives, if necessary. You will do this voluntarily. The facts are not as you see them, and you know nothing about me, them, or the mess that you've gotten yourselves into by mistreating my girls. If you do not take on the role I have described, I'm afraid you'll have to answer directly to me. Am I understood?"
At this point, I handed the quarter to the leader. I had, with no apparent effort, folded it into eighths.
His eyes wide and mouth agape, the leader shakily took the ruined coin and stared at it.
"Am...I...understood?" I asked more forcefully.
"Y-y-yes, sir," said the leader.
"Tina, take Shay home and be sure she begins drinking a lot of water. Whatever these fools slipped into her drink should dilute. I will meet you there shortly."
As my girls left, the three athletes appeared to be rooted to the spot, frozen in action. This suited me just fine, as it allowed me to retrieve the evidence from the palm of the ringleader. "If I find out that you've slackened in your duties," I said softly, but dangerously, "I will find you and use my considerable skills to make what I've done to this coin seem like a kindness. The same applies to spreading word of this little event. What I may well tell the world is my choice, not yours."
I turned and started to walk away, adding pleasantly and with a backward wave, "Have a good evening, boys. Don't stay out too late."
Once again, actions prove louder than words.
Tina was relieved when I arrived at the guesthouse, as getting Shay to ingest fluids became difficult; the girl had slipped into unconsciousness, which likely was part of the boys' plans. Tina wasn't feeling all that well either, and I confirmed it with a taste of her blood that she'd been given something. I suppose she's lucky she didn't wrap the car around a pole on the drive home, and both girls are spending the day at home to recover.
Meanwhile, my problem with all of this is that I'm discovering that I care about my well-kept virgins. They were meant to be a means to an end, a source of food. That I find myself growing fond of them in such a short time has me honestly wondering what's wrong with me. Decades have passed since my emotions have run so deep. This is not to say I've been a completely neutral party to any and all in my life, but as I reflected on the events last night, I began to think of the worst. It was the trolley accident in Manhattan all over again. Instead of runaway horses trampling my daughter to death, it was a group of brutes inadvertently slaying my foster children.
To this day, I don't know what Antoinette was doing out at that hour, but I watched in horror as her body was battered and broken mere yards away. Remember that I can only see my future, not others. Minutes before the accident, I could see myself losing my composure, but not see why. The rage that consumed me that night left me little memory of slaughtering those horses and the driver. I was forced to remain outside of New York after that, from 1889 to 1899, in the hopes that witnesses would forget what they saw.
I fear what I'm feeling for Shay and Tina. To lose them, and, subsequently, my control, would make me an outcast amongst my own. I thought I'd managed to distance myself from such emotional depth, and it makes me wonder if my final sunrise isn't a short series of blunders away.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Nothing like the books: Part 2
The concept that slavery was the issue of the war is a misconception. Of vampyres embraced much later, I was startled to learn that elementary education seemed to teach it as such. Slavery was part of the problem, being a thread that was weaved into many aspects of out lives.
Such was the case when Kansas and Nebraska joined the Union. Some group of geniuses in Washington DC thought it better to let the denizens of Kansas decide for themselves if slavery would be a part of their mandate. The light of such "wisdom," and I say that with the deepest contempt and sarcasm, was realized when the new State became a place of violence, earning the moniker "Bleeding Kansas."
Then there was the brilliance of John Brown, who thought he, and he alone, could lead the slaves in rebellion. He led his massive liberation front - all of 19 other men beside himself - in a raid on the Harpers Ferry Armory. The date was 16 October 1859. His grand plan was to steal supplies, including over 100,000 muskets and rifles, and distribute them to slaves. Then, according to his calculations on human nature, the slaves would instantaneously join his following and rise up against slavery. One could say his success is measured by the aftermath, as Mr. Brown was hanged on 2 December 1859.
As I said, slavery was a thread weaved into almost everything, but was not the cause of the war. Brown's actions were seen as a political movement by a new political group, called "Republicans," that was slowly causing the dissolving of the Whig party. Because the concept of abolition was seeing its way into so many aspects of politics, current events, along with history, would lose its focus.
Allow me to exemplify this. Abraham Lincoln is now views as the President that freed the slaves. We of the army called him "Uncle Abe," because reports would reach us of how much the loss of life haunted him, and for his habit of commuting death sentences for deserters. The slaves that were eventually freed would call him "Father Abraham." But his grand Emancipation Proclamation was something that he did not want to do. He was a great compromiser, and was rumored at the time to have said something along the lines of, "If I could maintain the Union by freeing the slave, I would do it. If I could maintain the Union be not freeing the slaves, I would do it. And if I could maintain the Union by freeing some, and not freeing others, I would do that too." In that one statement, he showed exactly how important slavery was. He didn't give one whit about slavery, so long as the country remained united.
To the south, in Confederate territory, it was cut even more clearly. When a captured Rebel was asked why he was fighting, his answer was this simple: "Because you're down here." Most fighting in the war on their side of the line didn't even own slaves.
No, the true cause was States' Rights. It was believed that if the Federal government said one thing, an individual State had the right to say, "No...We don't like that law, so we're not adopting it." This, of course, was a lingering emotion from the Revolution just over 80 years before hand. We had great distaste for the rule coming across the pond from England, and so we said no. When England tried to enforce its law on us, we forcefully said no.
You're probably wondering why I'm going through this history lesson. Part of it is nostalgia for my mortal existence. The other part is to show where my focus was. The Salem witch-hunts were long done with, and "modern" man had greater concerns. We were a clueless lot that was unaware vampyres were roaming out battlefields at night, seeking out the dying for easy meals.
For us mortals in the Union army, our focus was on current events. March, 1864, in one of our campfire intelligence reports, it became the news of the day that U.S. ("Unconditional Surrender") Grant had been placed in charge of everything. The veterans could look at his past campaigns and see a man who saw troops as mere numbers; cannon fodder as the means to an end. At the same time, we were tired of inept leadership, and would take a commander who got things done, even if the thing done was get us killed. At least we knew our lives would count for something, because it was widely told that Grant was a "doer," not a schemer.
The start of April saw a kind of madness the likes of which no soldier, from General to Private, had previously withstood. At the time, we placed the blame on Grant, but it was that damned goggle-eyed snapping turtle, Major General George Meade who was at fault. The fat was being cut from the army, with doddering military leaders being sent home, while units were reorganized and consolidated. I was a victim of such changes, not only being moved from Company M in the 8th NY Cavalry to Company H, but seeing a demotion in the process, from Sergeant to Private.
When my commander called me into his tent to give me the news, I had no idea what was afoot. We were already upset by the reorganization, as well as too many new faces, so I thought I'd perhaps said the wrong thing to a senator's son. My demotion had anything but a calming effect, despite the kind way Lieutenant Colonel William H. Benjamin broke it to me. "As you know, we're shifting men around to make this army more effective, as per orders from on high. We're shifting you to Company H, and, because we already have too many sergeants and corporals there already, I have no choice but to reduce your rank to private. G-d knows, we have too many of those, too, but it's all I can do right now."
Having taken commands and issued commands, I could empathize with old Bill. Just the same, it didn't stop me from giving protest. "Sir, with all due respect, I've served my unit dutifully, and at times with distinction. Isn't...Isn't there some way to promote me instead? I mean, my wife and daughter back home...a reduction in pay for loyal service, while bounty jumpers are making off with a small fortune..."
(As an incentive for enlistment, a bounty of $400 was offered to me who joined the army. While there were a few who took their money and joined properly, there were many more "jumpers," who would join a unit, stay long enough to collect their money, desert, change their names, and join yet a different unit to collect the bounty again! Some went through this routine so many times that when role call came around, they'd forget which name they were using at the time and fail to answer. The result was nightmarish on the morale of those who'd served faithfully and fed blood to the earth in service to our nation, and not our billfolds.)
He smiled warmly at me, and gave me what was probably the last good news of my mortal life. "Let's be clear about a few things, son. I may be pulling chevrons from your sleeve, but there's no way on G-d's green Earth I'm throwing all of you to the wolves. You'll keep your pay, as is, even if I have to pay you from my own pocket. I know good men when I see them, and I'm only demoting you to pacify the 'surgeons' amputating my existential limbs. Your request for promotion instead of demotion comes too late, however..."
My heart started sinking. Promotions amongst we lowly non-commission soldiers was uncommon, with higher ranks usually reserved for "gentlemen." I opened my mouth to protest further, when Bill held up a hand to stop me.
"I say 'too late' because I've already submitted you for promotion. It's the paperwork, Charles. Grant is up to his neck, trying to get this army to do something in the Spring, and every other general and his mother is in a meeting about one thing or another. Once I get the official word, I'll be able to give you the proper insignia and the appropriate pay raise on the books."
And so I found myself under the command of my friend, Andrew Dickerson, silently hoping that all the paperwork would be signed, and I'd be sending more money home than before. The less honorable men in our unit taunted me and my demotion, to which I was forced to fatten the occasional eye or lip. Others who truly knew me took me aside and did there best to empathize with me.
Little did I know that my life with the army, my life amongst mortals, was rapidly coming to a close. What history would call the Battle of the Wilderness was fast approaching, and with it, the end of life as I knew it.
(Author's note: Many of the events herein are historical fact. Bleeding Kansas; John Brown, his raid on the Harpers Ferry Armory, and subsequent hanging; the promotion of Hiram Ulysses Grant to Commander of the Union Army in March of 1864; the consolidation of the army in April, 1864; bounty "jumpers;" and the very existence of Lt. Col. William H. Benjamin, who led the 8th NY...all real. Artistic license has been taken with the character of Benjamin, as well as with the demotion of Charles Mills, who entered the army as a sergeant and left as a private.)
Such was the case when Kansas and Nebraska joined the Union. Some group of geniuses in Washington DC thought it better to let the denizens of Kansas decide for themselves if slavery would be a part of their mandate. The light of such "wisdom," and I say that with the deepest contempt and sarcasm, was realized when the new State became a place of violence, earning the moniker "Bleeding Kansas."
Then there was the brilliance of John Brown, who thought he, and he alone, could lead the slaves in rebellion. He led his massive liberation front - all of 19 other men beside himself - in a raid on the Harpers Ferry Armory. The date was 16 October 1859. His grand plan was to steal supplies, including over 100,000 muskets and rifles, and distribute them to slaves. Then, according to his calculations on human nature, the slaves would instantaneously join his following and rise up against slavery. One could say his success is measured by the aftermath, as Mr. Brown was hanged on 2 December 1859.
As I said, slavery was a thread weaved into almost everything, but was not the cause of the war. Brown's actions were seen as a political movement by a new political group, called "Republicans," that was slowly causing the dissolving of the Whig party. Because the concept of abolition was seeing its way into so many aspects of politics, current events, along with history, would lose its focus.
Allow me to exemplify this. Abraham Lincoln is now views as the President that freed the slaves. We of the army called him "Uncle Abe," because reports would reach us of how much the loss of life haunted him, and for his habit of commuting death sentences for deserters. The slaves that were eventually freed would call him "Father Abraham." But his grand Emancipation Proclamation was something that he did not want to do. He was a great compromiser, and was rumored at the time to have said something along the lines of, "If I could maintain the Union by freeing the slave, I would do it. If I could maintain the Union be not freeing the slaves, I would do it. And if I could maintain the Union by freeing some, and not freeing others, I would do that too." In that one statement, he showed exactly how important slavery was. He didn't give one whit about slavery, so long as the country remained united.
To the south, in Confederate territory, it was cut even more clearly. When a captured Rebel was asked why he was fighting, his answer was this simple: "Because you're down here." Most fighting in the war on their side of the line didn't even own slaves.
No, the true cause was States' Rights. It was believed that if the Federal government said one thing, an individual State had the right to say, "No...We don't like that law, so we're not adopting it." This, of course, was a lingering emotion from the Revolution just over 80 years before hand. We had great distaste for the rule coming across the pond from England, and so we said no. When England tried to enforce its law on us, we forcefully said no.
You're probably wondering why I'm going through this history lesson. Part of it is nostalgia for my mortal existence. The other part is to show where my focus was. The Salem witch-hunts were long done with, and "modern" man had greater concerns. We were a clueless lot that was unaware vampyres were roaming out battlefields at night, seeking out the dying for easy meals.
For us mortals in the Union army, our focus was on current events. March, 1864, in one of our campfire intelligence reports, it became the news of the day that U.S. ("Unconditional Surrender") Grant had been placed in charge of everything. The veterans could look at his past campaigns and see a man who saw troops as mere numbers; cannon fodder as the means to an end. At the same time, we were tired of inept leadership, and would take a commander who got things done, even if the thing done was get us killed. At least we knew our lives would count for something, because it was widely told that Grant was a "doer," not a schemer.
The start of April saw a kind of madness the likes of which no soldier, from General to Private, had previously withstood. At the time, we placed the blame on Grant, but it was that damned goggle-eyed snapping turtle, Major General George Meade who was at fault. The fat was being cut from the army, with doddering military leaders being sent home, while units were reorganized and consolidated. I was a victim of such changes, not only being moved from Company M in the 8th NY Cavalry to Company H, but seeing a demotion in the process, from Sergeant to Private.
When my commander called me into his tent to give me the news, I had no idea what was afoot. We were already upset by the reorganization, as well as too many new faces, so I thought I'd perhaps said the wrong thing to a senator's son. My demotion had anything but a calming effect, despite the kind way Lieutenant Colonel William H. Benjamin broke it to me. "As you know, we're shifting men around to make this army more effective, as per orders from on high. We're shifting you to Company H, and, because we already have too many sergeants and corporals there already, I have no choice but to reduce your rank to private. G-d knows, we have too many of those, too, but it's all I can do right now."
Having taken commands and issued commands, I could empathize with old Bill. Just the same, it didn't stop me from giving protest. "Sir, with all due respect, I've served my unit dutifully, and at times with distinction. Isn't...Isn't there some way to promote me instead? I mean, my wife and daughter back home...a reduction in pay for loyal service, while bounty jumpers are making off with a small fortune..."
(As an incentive for enlistment, a bounty of $400 was offered to me who joined the army. While there were a few who took their money and joined properly, there were many more "jumpers," who would join a unit, stay long enough to collect their money, desert, change their names, and join yet a different unit to collect the bounty again! Some went through this routine so many times that when role call came around, they'd forget which name they were using at the time and fail to answer. The result was nightmarish on the morale of those who'd served faithfully and fed blood to the earth in service to our nation, and not our billfolds.)
He smiled warmly at me, and gave me what was probably the last good news of my mortal life. "Let's be clear about a few things, son. I may be pulling chevrons from your sleeve, but there's no way on G-d's green Earth I'm throwing all of you to the wolves. You'll keep your pay, as is, even if I have to pay you from my own pocket. I know good men when I see them, and I'm only demoting you to pacify the 'surgeons' amputating my existential limbs. Your request for promotion instead of demotion comes too late, however..."
My heart started sinking. Promotions amongst we lowly non-commission soldiers was uncommon, with higher ranks usually reserved for "gentlemen." I opened my mouth to protest further, when Bill held up a hand to stop me.
"I say 'too late' because I've already submitted you for promotion. It's the paperwork, Charles. Grant is up to his neck, trying to get this army to do something in the Spring, and every other general and his mother is in a meeting about one thing or another. Once I get the official word, I'll be able to give you the proper insignia and the appropriate pay raise on the books."
And so I found myself under the command of my friend, Andrew Dickerson, silently hoping that all the paperwork would be signed, and I'd be sending more money home than before. The less honorable men in our unit taunted me and my demotion, to which I was forced to fatten the occasional eye or lip. Others who truly knew me took me aside and did there best to empathize with me.
Little did I know that my life with the army, my life amongst mortals, was rapidly coming to a close. What history would call the Battle of the Wilderness was fast approaching, and with it, the end of life as I knew it.
(Author's note: Many of the events herein are historical fact. Bleeding Kansas; John Brown, his raid on the Harpers Ferry Armory, and subsequent hanging; the promotion of Hiram Ulysses Grant to Commander of the Union Army in March of 1864; the consolidation of the army in April, 1864; bounty "jumpers;" and the very existence of Lt. Col. William H. Benjamin, who led the 8th NY...all real. Artistic license has been taken with the character of Benjamin, as well as with the demotion of Charles Mills, who entered the army as a sergeant and left as a private.)
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Nothing like the books: Part 1
My nights can be entirely uneventful, as was last night, leaving me with little more than to peruse the Internet for what history has written about the "facts." There is nothing that truly covers experience, however, and it is a known fact that history is written by the victors. Had the Confederate Army won what they called the Second American Revolution, I'm quite certain the United States would be a lot smaller, and while another country, the Confederate States of America, would occupy the southern half of our current nation.
These thoughts come to me after writing about young Corporal John Packham. It often becomes difficult to think of little else beyond my mortal life when even the smallest of memories is summoned.
The 8th New York Cavalry mustered in Rochester, NY, on 23 November 1861. What made me join the cavalry? The fact that I owned a horse. It was often as simple as that. One had a better chance of landing a position in the army based upon the strangest factors. "Oh, you have a horse? Here's a spot in the cavalry. You can understand orders and relay them? Here's a few stripes for your arm; welcome to the army, sergeant." Had I been educated at a university or known someone with an ounce of political power, I might well have been made an officer. As it was, my completed education at the elementary levels and experience as a ranch hand on a horse-breeding ranch made me prime material to become a sergeant in Company M of the 8th NY.
We moved on to Washington, DC, where "Little Mac" (Major General George B. McClellan) was busy teaching the army to be an army. He was appointed to leading the army by "Uncle Abe" (Abraham Lincoln) months after the disaster that became known as Bull Run.
That fight was a fiasco. Both armies were little more than over-sized street gangs. From what details I was able to get from the papers, they came together thinking that this would be the one and only battle of the war. Hindsight being 20/20, they were all fools.
Even civilians showed a distinct lack of intelligence. Can you imagine a battlefield dotted with spectators along the perimeter? SPECTATORS! They'd come down to watch our boys whup the Rebels and put an end to the silly rebellion. Then, once we'd shown the South what we could do, everyone would return to their parlors and toast the Union victory while waiting Jefferson Davis and his misbegotten "country" to sue for peace.
Gunfire, the whizzing of a bullet as it passed your ear, and the sight of blood often has the effect of changing one's perspective rapidly. The papers held little detail of the battle itself, other than to report that the Union army was whipped. Advancement became retreat, which in turn became a rout. Rumors of "Stonewall" Jackson were beginning spread in the aftermath; a devil the South now had in its employ that would eventually bring its terrible power to bear in the Capitol.
Thus, Brigadier General Irvin McDowell slipped from favor and Little Mac replaced him.
Odd how the lowest among the rank and file learned who was in charge of the army. There were three ways of learning such vital information. The rarest of all was an official document stating the new leadership. Slightly more common was to read about it in a newspaper. But the normal way of gaining such vital news was around a campfire. "Hey! Did you hear? (Name of some person we could care less about) has been named Commander of the Army!" Is was very much like that almost a year after my unit was formed, when Sergeant Andrew Dickerson from Company H joined us for morning coffee on 7 November 1862 and told us all that Little Mac had been replaced by Major General Ambrose Burnside two days before.
This was actually good news to some of us. McClellan was very capable when it came to making green boys into army men. The grapevine also held that he was a grand planner, a schemer to an extreme. When it came to execution, however, he "couldn't confidently pee on a bush in the woods."
My education has grown since those years. Even then, however, I would ponder the great mystery, "What the hell was I doing?" It wasn't the issue of slavery. There were times when I wished I'd owned a couple of Negros so I could possibly double the work I was accomplishing on my ranch. I guess it was a part of me that bought into Lincoln's inaugural speech. "A house divided against itself cannot stand." To be perfectly honest, I don't think I fully understood what that even meant, probably because I kept trying to envision it literally. In my mind, I would see a house split down its center, then imagined both sides leaning against the other. Weren't those two sides now holding one another up? Wasn't the house divided still standing?
No. My thoughts were more along the lines that we'd fought for independence less than a century before, and our recent ancestors' blood suddenly appeared to have been shed for nothing. We were a nation still in its infancy, our freedom gained by tearing loose the umbilical and learning to stand without a parent nation holding us up. It was as though our revolution has could be summed up as a group of small countries that somehow managed to unite long enough to throw off tyrannical rule of another, and had come away to remain a nation of small countries. I could not see that as the intent of our Founding Fathers. I believe they wanted to see our independent territories united. The idea of "State's Rights" superseding that intent was, at best, vexing to me.
I could go on waxing philosophical about the origins of the United States, but after a night of staring at a computer screen, the time has come to get some rest. There's more to come, as the night of my embrace came during this tragic schism in American history.
These thoughts come to me after writing about young Corporal John Packham. It often becomes difficult to think of little else beyond my mortal life when even the smallest of memories is summoned.
The 8th New York Cavalry mustered in Rochester, NY, on 23 November 1861. What made me join the cavalry? The fact that I owned a horse. It was often as simple as that. One had a better chance of landing a position in the army based upon the strangest factors. "Oh, you have a horse? Here's a spot in the cavalry. You can understand orders and relay them? Here's a few stripes for your arm; welcome to the army, sergeant." Had I been educated at a university or known someone with an ounce of political power, I might well have been made an officer. As it was, my completed education at the elementary levels and experience as a ranch hand on a horse-breeding ranch made me prime material to become a sergeant in Company M of the 8th NY.
We moved on to Washington, DC, where "Little Mac" (Major General George B. McClellan) was busy teaching the army to be an army. He was appointed to leading the army by "Uncle Abe" (Abraham Lincoln) months after the disaster that became known as Bull Run.
That fight was a fiasco. Both armies were little more than over-sized street gangs. From what details I was able to get from the papers, they came together thinking that this would be the one and only battle of the war. Hindsight being 20/20, they were all fools.
Even civilians showed a distinct lack of intelligence. Can you imagine a battlefield dotted with spectators along the perimeter? SPECTATORS! They'd come down to watch our boys whup the Rebels and put an end to the silly rebellion. Then, once we'd shown the South what we could do, everyone would return to their parlors and toast the Union victory while waiting Jefferson Davis and his misbegotten "country" to sue for peace.
Gunfire, the whizzing of a bullet as it passed your ear, and the sight of blood often has the effect of changing one's perspective rapidly. The papers held little detail of the battle itself, other than to report that the Union army was whipped. Advancement became retreat, which in turn became a rout. Rumors of "Stonewall" Jackson were beginning spread in the aftermath; a devil the South now had in its employ that would eventually bring its terrible power to bear in the Capitol.
Thus, Brigadier General Irvin McDowell slipped from favor and Little Mac replaced him.
Odd how the lowest among the rank and file learned who was in charge of the army. There were three ways of learning such vital information. The rarest of all was an official document stating the new leadership. Slightly more common was to read about it in a newspaper. But the normal way of gaining such vital news was around a campfire. "Hey! Did you hear? (Name of some person we could care less about) has been named Commander of the Army!" Is was very much like that almost a year after my unit was formed, when Sergeant Andrew Dickerson from Company H joined us for morning coffee on 7 November 1862 and told us all that Little Mac had been replaced by Major General Ambrose Burnside two days before.
This was actually good news to some of us. McClellan was very capable when it came to making green boys into army men. The grapevine also held that he was a grand planner, a schemer to an extreme. When it came to execution, however, he "couldn't confidently pee on a bush in the woods."
My education has grown since those years. Even then, however, I would ponder the great mystery, "What the hell was I doing?" It wasn't the issue of slavery. There were times when I wished I'd owned a couple of Negros so I could possibly double the work I was accomplishing on my ranch. I guess it was a part of me that bought into Lincoln's inaugural speech. "A house divided against itself cannot stand." To be perfectly honest, I don't think I fully understood what that even meant, probably because I kept trying to envision it literally. In my mind, I would see a house split down its center, then imagined both sides leaning against the other. Weren't those two sides now holding one another up? Wasn't the house divided still standing?
No. My thoughts were more along the lines that we'd fought for independence less than a century before, and our recent ancestors' blood suddenly appeared to have been shed for nothing. We were a nation still in its infancy, our freedom gained by tearing loose the umbilical and learning to stand without a parent nation holding us up. It was as though our revolution has could be summed up as a group of small countries that somehow managed to unite long enough to throw off tyrannical rule of another, and had come away to remain a nation of small countries. I could not see that as the intent of our Founding Fathers. I believe they wanted to see our independent territories united. The idea of "State's Rights" superseding that intent was, at best, vexing to me.
I could go on waxing philosophical about the origins of the United States, but after a night of staring at a computer screen, the time has come to get some rest. There's more to come, as the night of my embrace came during this tragic schism in American history.
Monday, September 1, 2008
I need tights.
Yes, dear readers...I need tights, a cape, a day job that manages to land me vital information without my looking for it, and a clever disguise to fool friends, family, and coworkers. For that last, I'm contemplating a pair of glasses. That should fool everyone, right?
Liam Faust, along with his handler, Madison, made a critical error last night. Thankfully, all of the pieces fell into place, and "The New Teeth on the Block" are not in nearly as much trouble as they think.
My first call was to the Seattle Police Department, where I learned from my contact there that the corpse was discovered by a building maintenance man around 7:00 AM. As per their rule books, the police did their singing and dancing, including a charming little number called "Canvassing the Neighborhood." (Forgive my sardonic tone, but it's really quite silly to me, considering we control the system so well in our subtle ways.) Because this was a vampyre corpse that Liam left on his own apartment building, they likely knocked on his door, but he was asleep and didn't answer. All the better, because if he was taken in for questioning and started to scream and smolder in the sun, this would have been a nightmare beyond reckoning.
The corpse...Ah, bless Liam's inactive heart, but the boy was lucky enough to cut off the head and leave the stake in its heart. This ties in nicely with a psychological profile that I faxed over not long ago.
"Unknown subject is probably a paranoid schizophrenic with a fixation on vampires. The decapitated head is likely to be found in a river with its mouth stuffed with garlic and a holy symbol, as sources state such rituals prevent a vampire from rising again. Subject is likely unaware that the corpse did not turn to ash in sunlight as he expected, and is confident that his victim is thoroughly destroyed.
"Subject likely shows confidence in sunlight and well-lit rooms, but sinks into his deepest schisms of paranoia in deep shadows and during the night. Given the strength needed to remove the head with what appears to be a small blade (reference coroner's report, pg. 2), subject is likely male. Since the stake appears to be made of [miscellaneous wood, because I'm still not giving away that secret], it may have been created using sporting equipment. Subject may be employed at a sports facility, sporting goods supplier, or manufacturer.
"Detailed profile to follow after further evidence is supplied."
The evidence? A stake, clothes, and a corpse. Everything is awaiting what I would have called pure fantasy back in 1983. Since no prints have been found on the body, they might exist on the clothes. Believing a serial killer is just starting his work, they will be scanning the clothing with a laser and attempting to reconstruct fingerprints from the readout. But - Oh my! The clothes are about to go missing. I can see it now as my agent inside the police department says, "It must be a clerical error. We'll follow the chain of evidence and see when it might have gone missing."
Burned in a metal drum in some back alley, most likely. All for the low, low price of $5,000. Serpico, my agent is not.
To my contact at the Seattle Times goes $10,000 for working up an article entitled "The Hunter at Midnight," giving her full credit for coining the name, "The Seattle Vampire Hunter." I fed her the story, along with every false detail I could, which will allow for potential mistakes by Liam in the future. Why, I might even suggest to him that he purposely leave unfinished work lying about to perpetuate the ongoing fiction. And because Gustav seems to be the leading the front-page, my contact's story will appear on page one of the local section of the paper. This is favorable in my eyes, as it leaves the tale public, but buries it deep beneath the news that nature's wrath is beating the coast of Louisiana.
So, not only is the illusory in place, with the police about to begin a wild goose chase for a head that no longer exists, evidence that's been destroyed, and a psychotic individual with a vampyre fixation, but luck was on our side when they ran the prints of the victim. He's a wanted felon, with numerous charges of sexual assault and attempted murder. I didn't even have to insert that fallacy; it's the G-d's honest truth! This will move the search for his killer back a few steps, as the police will view it more along the lines of vigilante justice. Why, it will be just like some police show on television, with the veteran cop grumbling, "One more scumbag off the streets. I say we give the killer a medal."
Meanwhile, behind the curtain, Madison has received a reprimand. The job of a "handler" is to handle the situation of an uneducated vampyre, not to handle the vampyre him or herself. If she cannot conduct herself in a professional manner, she will be invited to go freelance, like Eddie Verdone; he simply chose to go about his own business, despite having been offered a position amongst the midline echelon, like myself.
There is also the little matter of taking money from Liam's bounties. Madison is being paid for her services. She need not play him for a fool. Every vampire of self-worth needs that kind of money to establish a proper home, and her demand for half of Liam's bounty was selfish and greedy. We sin enough daily; we need not add base avarice to the list. Exceptional avarice is another story altogether.
Thus, "Super Charles" has saved the night once again. As long as Liam and Madison don't make any further mistakes, the current psychotic killing should become a cold case, with no chance of being solved. Oh, we might have that dynamic duo throw the police a false bone in the way of another corpse from the mysterious vampyre killer, but I'll likely save that for when we need a distraction in that neighborhood.
Now, with my night spent spinning webs, and the day spent arranging the skein neatly, I think I will peruse the web for a proper costume for "Vamp-Man," hero of the nocturnal community.
Liam Faust, along with his handler, Madison, made a critical error last night. Thankfully, all of the pieces fell into place, and "The New Teeth on the Block" are not in nearly as much trouble as they think.
My first call was to the Seattle Police Department, where I learned from my contact there that the corpse was discovered by a building maintenance man around 7:00 AM. As per their rule books, the police did their singing and dancing, including a charming little number called "Canvassing the Neighborhood." (Forgive my sardonic tone, but it's really quite silly to me, considering we control the system so well in our subtle ways.) Because this was a vampyre corpse that Liam left on his own apartment building, they likely knocked on his door, but he was asleep and didn't answer. All the better, because if he was taken in for questioning and started to scream and smolder in the sun, this would have been a nightmare beyond reckoning.
The corpse...Ah, bless Liam's inactive heart, but the boy was lucky enough to cut off the head and leave the stake in its heart. This ties in nicely with a psychological profile that I faxed over not long ago.
"Unknown subject is probably a paranoid schizophrenic with a fixation on vampires. The decapitated head is likely to be found in a river with its mouth stuffed with garlic and a holy symbol, as sources state such rituals prevent a vampire from rising again. Subject is likely unaware that the corpse did not turn to ash in sunlight as he expected, and is confident that his victim is thoroughly destroyed.
"Subject likely shows confidence in sunlight and well-lit rooms, but sinks into his deepest schisms of paranoia in deep shadows and during the night. Given the strength needed to remove the head with what appears to be a small blade (reference coroner's report, pg. 2), subject is likely male. Since the stake appears to be made of [miscellaneous wood, because I'm still not giving away that secret], it may have been created using sporting equipment. Subject may be employed at a sports facility, sporting goods supplier, or manufacturer.
"Detailed profile to follow after further evidence is supplied."
The evidence? A stake, clothes, and a corpse. Everything is awaiting what I would have called pure fantasy back in 1983. Since no prints have been found on the body, they might exist on the clothes. Believing a serial killer is just starting his work, they will be scanning the clothing with a laser and attempting to reconstruct fingerprints from the readout. But - Oh my! The clothes are about to go missing. I can see it now as my agent inside the police department says, "It must be a clerical error. We'll follow the chain of evidence and see when it might have gone missing."
Burned in a metal drum in some back alley, most likely. All for the low, low price of $5,000. Serpico, my agent is not.
To my contact at the Seattle Times goes $10,000 for working up an article entitled "The Hunter at Midnight," giving her full credit for coining the name, "The Seattle Vampire Hunter." I fed her the story, along with every false detail I could, which will allow for potential mistakes by Liam in the future. Why, I might even suggest to him that he purposely leave unfinished work lying about to perpetuate the ongoing fiction. And because Gustav seems to be the leading the front-page, my contact's story will appear on page one of the local section of the paper. This is favorable in my eyes, as it leaves the tale public, but buries it deep beneath the news that nature's wrath is beating the coast of Louisiana.
So, not only is the illusory in place, with the police about to begin a wild goose chase for a head that no longer exists, evidence that's been destroyed, and a psychotic individual with a vampyre fixation, but luck was on our side when they ran the prints of the victim. He's a wanted felon, with numerous charges of sexual assault and attempted murder. I didn't even have to insert that fallacy; it's the G-d's honest truth! This will move the search for his killer back a few steps, as the police will view it more along the lines of vigilante justice. Why, it will be just like some police show on television, with the veteran cop grumbling, "One more scumbag off the streets. I say we give the killer a medal."
Meanwhile, behind the curtain, Madison has received a reprimand. The job of a "handler" is to handle the situation of an uneducated vampyre, not to handle the vampyre him or herself. If she cannot conduct herself in a professional manner, she will be invited to go freelance, like Eddie Verdone; he simply chose to go about his own business, despite having been offered a position amongst the midline echelon, like myself.
There is also the little matter of taking money from Liam's bounties. Madison is being paid for her services. She need not play him for a fool. Every vampire of self-worth needs that kind of money to establish a proper home, and her demand for half of Liam's bounty was selfish and greedy. We sin enough daily; we need not add base avarice to the list. Exceptional avarice is another story altogether.
Thus, "Super Charles" has saved the night once again. As long as Liam and Madison don't make any further mistakes, the current psychotic killing should become a cold case, with no chance of being solved. Oh, we might have that dynamic duo throw the police a false bone in the way of another corpse from the mysterious vampyre killer, but I'll likely save that for when we need a distraction in that neighborhood.
Now, with my night spent spinning webs, and the day spent arranging the skein neatly, I think I will peruse the web for a proper costume for "Vamp-Man," hero of the nocturnal community.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Their OTHER reason they stay.
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.
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.
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.