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.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
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.
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