[untitled]
From the clay and mire
Thou didst weave my inward parts
Fashioning me as the creature of a lesser god
Long before I knew in my mind to make a choice


[haiku]
my passion ignites
her belly—this kithara
my love's sobriquet



Patrick S. © January 2006

Tuesday, September 11

Exactly eleven years ago, I was sitting in a parked limousine on H Street in Washington DC, just a block away from the White House.  It was a Tuesday.  Just a little after 9:30 a.m., the entire ground shook. Being a native of Southern California, my initial thought was:  Do they have earthquakes on the east coast, too?

Shortly afterward there was a lot of panic and confusion in the streets of DC; apparently the WTC towers in New York had been struck by low-flying commercial aircraft, and another commercial airliner had just gone down about three miles away, just across the Potomac river in Arlington, VA, where it struck the Pentagon.  

Washington DC was officially closed off to all incoming and outgoing traffic almost immediately, and the city fell under martial law.  I cannot even begin to describe the strangeness of that; to see machine-gun-armed military tanks patrolling the streets where all the pedestrians used to be.  It did not feel like the United States of America at all.  

By the next day when the roadways were reopened, I left town with four other people for a trip up the I-95 corridor, and it, too.. was like a chapter out of The Twilight Zone. There was NO traffic. At all.  And all the toll booths were either closed, or the toll booth operators simply waved us through without paying. When we reached the Jersey Turnpike, we took a detour east on the I-78 interstate and pulled over, right there on the dead freeway, to watch the fire and smoke plumes in lower Manhattan from across the river.  

I still have flashbacks to those days, and I cannot watch a 9/11 video without being reminded how easily it can all come to an end; in the twinkling of an eye.

This kind of makes me laugh. I wonder if someone on the DeviantART Staff thinks that all us End-Users are somehow seeing-impaired and in dire need of gigantic thumbnail images.  

heh

Following the official opening of the amusement park's midway after the Easter Holliday, the first weekend had been swelled to capacity with eager thrill-seekers, despite the fact that Coney Island was a run-down novelty from yester-year. In fact, the park was so decrepit that it had been threatened numerous times over the past thirty years or so with permanent closure. Ahh, but New Yorkers didn't want a fancy new amusement park, or anything else in its stead, for that matter. They only wanted their nostalgia. And despite the fact that Coney Island operated at a financial loss and was a complete eyesore, the amusement park re-opened once again, and right on schedule. Afterall, it was the home of the famous Coney Island hotdog and the boardwalk, around which many a song and storybook legend had been written.

Under the Boardwalk.
Down by the sea. Past sunset, a lone figure lurked in the shadows silently observing the goings-on of all the other figures down there lurking in the shadows. There was nothing at all romantic nor nostalgic about being under the boardwalk. These days it was the meeting place for drug deals and prostitution hookups, and every other unsavory societal ill whose transactions took place under the cloak of darkness. But that lone figure's presence had gone entirely unnoticed for nearly half an hour.. until he finally lit a cigarette and inadvertently drew a few wary glances his way. But once all the seedier elements had determined that it wasn't the strong arm of the law skulking about down there in their midst, business resumed.

There were two slutty-looking gals sharing a crackpipe less than fifty feet away. One of which made a beeline for the lone figure seconds after they'd finished and split up.. obviously to work their turf down there under the boardwalk.

"You lookin' for a date, honey?" she asked, holding an unlit cigarette up to her lips. Obviously the cue was for any prospective john to offer her a light if he was the least bit interested.

The fellow expelled a cloud of smoke as he looked her over from head to toe real slow. Slow enough that it caused the hooker to grin a rather saucy grin and turn herself around one full revolution. She held her arms stretched slightly outward at her sides, strutting her stuff. And at one hundred and eighty degrees, she glanced back at him over her shoulder, and gave her big round ghetto booty a bit of a shake before completing her turn.

"Wha'cha got up un'er d'ere?" the fellow finally asked, as if he were taking the bait from the hooker's line.

"You wanna know what I got up under there?" she asked, creeping closer and once again holding her unlit cigarette to her lips.

It was a fair question in her line of business. Some girls had interesting surprises up under their tight skirts.. and their dangly bits weren't female at all. The way she toyed with the fellow spoke volumes, too. Her hesitation, her overt seduction, that she was a hell of a lot more expert when it came to being a tease than the real girls were.. was a dead giveaway.

"Yeah.." he whispered when she'd dared to come so close as to lean herself right up against him. And already the fellow had reached down into his pocket and passed a ten dollar bill into her hand. It was enough to purchase a feel. And maybe even a kiss. But he immediately slipped his hand up under the hooker's short tight skirt, and down into her panties, down between her thighs where she'd tucked her package away, and thus discovered her little secret.

"Well?" she whispered back, grinding her hips briefly against his hand. "If you're lookin' for a date, honey.. you ain't gonna be disappointed."


Patrick S. © May 2012

Just as soon as one car pulled from a parking space near the curb, a bright yellow taxicab vied for the spot while another vehicle waited close on its tail. Reason being.. it was a choice spot and taxis never sat idling in one place for very long. But just as the taxi pulled over curbside, the rear door opened and a slender, ambiguous figure dressed in black leather pants and a long, dark trench stepped out. Waiting on the curb there beneath the lamp post for a little break in the traffic.. the figure turned and gave the other person, just as equally ambiguous when it came to gender, a brief glance.

Why did she glance over? Perhaps that was the one and only thing that distinguished the natives or very long-time residents of New York City from all the recent transplants. In California.. they always looked.  Always.

Needless to say, it was nothing more than a brief glance before that welcomed break in the traffic came, and the leather clad figure stepped off the curb and hurried across the slushy street to the opposite side. To the little pub that wasn't so much to look at from the outside.

Inside, they had a grilled menu that was to die for, and all the windows were fogged up with wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen. Overhead, there was a huge 65-inch LED screen television broadcasting whatever game was being played out on ESPN-East, and the smell of fresh beer running from the taps behind the bar added that unmistakable home-like ambiance to round it all off.

Nancy pulled the big heavy door open by its brass handle, glancing one last time across the street before vanishing inside.

Once inside the bar, Nancy removed her black trench and hung it on an empty branch from a big wooden coat & hat tree. Too, she tapped the grey-brown cakes of slush from her boots onto the floor mat before heading further inside. Beneath it all she was wearing a simple white tank top, looking pretty much like any basic biker chick -- except that Nancy didn't have a motorcycle. In fact, she'd never even been on the back of one in her entire life.

She seemed to know a few folks there. A few of the regulars who came to watch the games on ESPN because the big screen beat the hell out of their cheesy, old-time picture tube television sets. She waved to them as she headed for the bar. Hey, it was no secret that most New Yorkers lived in the dark ages when it came to electronic gadgetry.

Nancy hopped up to a stool somewhere near the center of the bar as she reached across for a small bowl of peanuts there on the counter, turning to watch the game only after ingesting a small handful.

Strangely enough, she could still see the dim silhouette of the kid standing outside on the curb across the street. He was hard to miss all illuminated underneath the glow of halogen lamplight, despite the foggy condensation on the big glass windowpanes. If he was a hooker, she might have felt a brief pang of sympathy for him. But not enough to go out and rescue him from the cold. You know.. let the Salvation Army do it. That was their job, anyhow.

"What can I get you, sugar-britches?"

Behind the bar an older fellow with a close-cropped salt & pepper crew-cut, mopped up little wet rings on the bar with a clean white towel. His nose was slightly out of joint, looking as if it had been broken a time or two in the distant past. And despite his years, the guy was built like an ox.

This wasn't a frou-frou joint. They didn't serve alfalfa sprouts on croissants, and the only thing on the menu that was under 1000 calories.. was a glass of water. It was man-food all the way, baby.

He stopped wiping when Nancy pulled the menu out from between a pair of salt and pepper shakers to study the laminated typeset underneath.

"I want one of those big fried onion blooms, with extra grease on the side. And a half-pound burger. Medium rare. With extra salt and everything on it. Oh and.. " she said as she put the menu away. "A diet Dew."

The two of them busted up laughing before the older man whipped his clean white towel across the bar with a snapping sound.

"That'll be seventy-five dollars, not including the tip, sugar-britches."

"That's a steal of a deal, Normie."

He turned to go then, leaving his newest customer alone once more to acclimate to her surroundings.

It wasn't like Nancy was the only woman in the bar. There was a woman with a dark haired kid sitting at one of the booths across the bar. Her son, maybe?  Ehh.. there were a few women scattered here and there. But the majority of the patrons were men. And to be honest, Nancy was much more at home in a sports bar than she was in some nightclub with strobe lights and disco balls, and an endless parade of fucktards hitting on her all night long. You see.. a woman just couldn't go to a nightclub by herself to relax and enjoy her own damn company. Because every fucktard trying to score kept seeing the imaginary sign tattooed on her forehead that read: 'Hit on me. I'm available and desperate to get laid.'

Normie came back with a beer. Not a diet Dew. And that's what was so damn special about a place like this -- the guy knew her well enough to know she had been pulling his leg. Nancy's burger and onion rings would not be swimming in grease, nor would the meat be dangerously under-cooked. That too, had been a joke. And when he set her beer mug down on a small napkin, the two of them briefly knocked fists.

"Gimme about ten minutes on your burger and rings," he said before wandering off again.

Despite the slight foggy buildup on the windows, seeing through them from the outside was still likely feasible since the lights were far brighter inside the pub. Staring back out however, you'd probably not see much more than the headlights of passing cars. Regardless, after having glued her attention to the large overhead TV screen for at least ten minutes, Nancy turned around to have a look out the window following an eerie, prickling sensation -- the exact kind one gets when being stared at. But she could see nothing more than the headlights of passing cars or the bright glare of traffic lights.

In the meantime Norm had finally returned with Nancy's burger and onion rings. He set them down on the bar before her, briefly glancing at the window afterward.

"You waitin' for someone tonight?"

Nancy turned back around and shook her head- "Oh.. no. I just thought I saw someone out there."

"Between you and me, kiddo," Norm leaned down and said all discretely at if he were about to confide something to the woman. Out of rote habit, Nancy leaned a bit closer, too, to listen-

"Yeah?"

"There's about eleven million people out there. But don't tell 'em you heard it from me."

"You ass," she laughed, reaching across to yank the man's bar towel from his hand. And when she did, she popped him one on the arm with it.

Norm howled and rubbed his arm, acting as if he were bruised and injured.

"You have pretty good aim-" he began before Nancy cut him off to finish the line for him.

Or in this case, in unison- "For a girl."

"No, seriously, Normie.. there was a guy standing out there when I came in. He seemed kinda, you know.." she lifted a finger to her ear and twirled it round and round, indicating the universal finger-sign for loopiness.

"Yeah, yeah.." Norm nodded before turning to glance at the game again about two seconds before a touchdown scored and the entire bar broke into a raucous roar. "Outta that eleven million out there, ten and a half million's freakin' whacko."

Nancy grinned again. He didn't quite get what she meant.  Not an ordinary nutcase, but --

-- and she turned again to stare back at the window. That kind of strangeness. The kind that reminded you of ghouls and goblins and things that hid under the bed at night, waiting to bite off your fingers or toes if you dangled them over the edge the least little bit.


Patrick S. © February 2012

"It's good you finally got to see the ocean then. And even better that there are no beach bums here to spoil it for you on your first visit."

It was quite deserted, all right. But Semjaza smiled, hoping Katie would see the wisdom in having an entire beach and ocean all to herself. Didn't people squander fortunes to buy a mere parcel of beach-front property? And here, Katie didn't have to trade anything at all for hers. Well.. maybe only just her life.  But that was such a trivial price to pay, wasn't it?

Was Katie bound to her life somehow? Was there anything that would make her desperately cling to it, and fight with every fibre of her being to wake from her coma in that hospital emergency room? Semjaza knew she was alone in the world. She didn't even have to tell him that. He'd seen it in the girl's eyes.. she was wandering alone and didn't have a single soul to turn to.. or live for.

Much as he would have liked to, Semjaza was not allowed to simply shove the girl head-long into the sea of forgetfulness. He could only tempt her with its tranquil beauty until she took a dive into it on her own accord. Likewise, unlike some other angels, he would not be truthful and offer up a full disclosure to Katie, that she was merely on the brink of death and hanging by a thread while a trauma team at one of New York's finest hospitals fervently utilized everything at their disposal to resuscitate their Jane Doe accident victim. This was Katie's dilemma, and her own battle.

"What is death, Katie?" he simply asked, sounding more philosophical with the question than rhetorical. But that was the funny thing about death, it was one of the few universal realities that all human beings (and animals) had shared since the dawn of time, and were no closer to deciphering its riddle than they were a hundred thousand years ago. And despite the millions of philosophies and speculations as to what it was, and what truly happened to people after their corporeal bodies had expired, the question still remained -- What is death?

Even the precious few who'd suffered near-death experiences, only to awaken and recount their experiences in vivid detail, had no certainty, no way to prove beyond a shadow of doubt that what they had seen was real or merely a hallucination brought about by lack of oxygen to the brain. Whether this Summerland was the final resting place, or whether it was merely a wayside between Life and Death was indeed, a conundrum. And Semjaza wasn't going to tell her, either.


Patrick S. © February 2012

Most people were given over to the little Oooh's and Ahh's of silent envy when parading past vast collections of art. And though most would never see anything beyond what they were told to see when it came to valuing one piece more highly than another, there were always a small handful who were moved by their own inner channels -- be it a particular brush stroke on one corner of a canvas, a few notes strung precisely together, or even just the sound of several word combinations in the middle of a book whose story was long forgotten. It was their own passion that enabled them to feel the passions of others. The Salieri's of the world, always playing second fiddle to the Mozarts, until at some point they were consumed with rampant covetousness -- I would give anything to be you; to trade places with you.

Soon there would be a small impromptu group of fledgling artists and students alike, assembling out on the terrace. Just a handful of the dedicated ones who'd come with their own easels and their own sketch pads, regardless the medium, whether it be pastels, charcoal, or even a variety of paints. An informal thing it typically was, since none of the local colleges were affiliated with The Cloisters. And if there was a live model to sketch or paint, a collection was taken among themselves to ensure the model was reimbursed for his or her time. Afterall, it wasn't so easy to sit motionless for only a few minutes, let alone a few hours.

Something (or someone) breezed past a young woman who'd been staring at a cross, wallowing in her thoughts so deeply that she probably hadn't even yet noticed others gathering less than fifty feet away just past the doors leading out into the gardens. They were a botanist's wet dream, those gardens, filled with endless varieties of flora and fauna, all perfectly juxtaposed to mimic, if possible, the Garden of Eden. But there was also something a bit dark and subversive underlying The Cloisters, something subtle yet disruptive -- much like the serpent or a flock of ravens roosting in the whispering Mimosa -- and eerily out of place. Yet if you looked around, you'd be hard pressed to place it, to finger the one anomaly.

It didn't help that most religious folks found the place absolutely peaceful, and were the ones least of all to notice anything remiss. Perhaps it was because most religious folks were highly superficial and quite shallow, wearing their fervent zeal more like a fashion statement than a conviction. Neither hot nor cold, they were the hypocrites that swelled the ranks in nearly every single religion upon the earth.

But there was no mistaking that something (or someone) had breezed past, stirring the early autumn air with an other-worldly scent, or presence even -- they were so closely related. And only moments later did a small cluster of dedicated artists and art students slowly disperse after dropping small monetary increments into an opened backpack that presumably had been meant to contain the model's clothing once he or she disrobed. But at the moment the model was fully clothed and facing away from the opened door, perched atop a plain wooden stool in such a way that the sunlight fell over his (or her) hair, and damn near seemed to set it aflame with a rather strange radiance --

-- until at long last he turned completely around, briefly glancing into the stony, rebuilt abbey before his attention settled elsewhere upon one of the gathered artists again, as the rest of them quickly and quietly set up their easels and their workstations.


While it was said that the love of money was the root of all evil, the Devil really had no need in partaking of their mammon. It was simply a formality at that particular juncture. For as much as a rebel as he might've truly been, he wasn't about to break the quaint traditions of fledgling artists. Too, it wasn't so uncommon for a model to command the attention of a gaggle of students, at least until all got quiet and down to serious business -- that part where the outsiders were left only to wonder what it was like to be naked in the midst of a crowd of fully clothed people. But wasn't that always where people's minds went, ever since their fall from grace? The wonder, the titillation, the fear.. of nakedness?

The man rose up from his perch rather fluidly and began to untie a simple robe he had been wearing. And just as it split open to reveal none other than his naked flesh beneath the fabric, his own prismatic gaze fell squarely upon the one individual who seemed to have arrived late, and sans any materials to work with. In his own countenance there was not even a hint of shame, but arrogance. Oh yes.. he knew exactly who and what he was -- the most beautiful in all of creation. Humility was for the lesser creatures, not for Semjaza. And yet these lesser creatures would see naught but a mirror reflection of their own yearning. The would see.. only flesh. Not spirit. Not the angel of light. Only flesh, perfect, unblemished flesh.

Had they known who he was, they would have been sorely disappointed. For he was neither crude nor abrasive. He was not spewing over with all manner of wicked perversions. But on the contrary seemed well pleased to be surrounded by a group of admirers so avid, they were willing to part with their money just for the chance to capture his likeness upon their canvases and their sketch tablets.

"Are you lost?" he asked point blank as the robe slipped down his arms and fell to the stone patio at his feet. And suddenly every eye there was upon the blonde girl as if she were the naked one. A hush swept across the group with heavy anticipation, though for what reason exactly, was anyone's guess. Too, there was a good chance that if Semjaza had asked who would lend the unprepared one a bit out of their own art supplies, they would have unquestioningly fallen all over each other to do the man's bidding. And again without rhyme or reason. But it was one thing to wield that much power, to have that much sway over the minds of lesser creatures.. yet quite another thing to hold back such an enormous power.


Patrick S. © January 2012

Part of her did want to go and sit beside him.  On the bench outside on the platform, for those few minutes it had taken her to show the man how to take a picture with her camera, it had felt so right.  Something in that explosive deja vu had offered a sensation of completeness.  It was strange. Shawn had never felt anything like that in her entire life! (Actually she had, she just hadn't thought of it yet)

She pinched her lips together to hold back the urge to smile too much. There was an undeniable attraction she felt toward him, but it was silly to fan those kinds of flames.  She didn't even know this man, and Shawn wasn't a stupid girl. Although... he did say he was going to the LeMarchand Manor. Same as her. Kind of a coincidence, wasn't it?  

The voice of skepticism finally spoke out and had its say as she carefully placed her camera back inside her leather camera bag:  "Did you just decide that's where you were headed after I told you I was going there, first?"

Yeah, she knew how so many guys were smooth operators like that.  


Edward tilted his head to one side again, obviously intrigued with the girl as she spoke.  Yet he grinned when she vaguely accused him of having no other agenda than to follow her wherever she went.  

"No, I live there," he offered.  

Whatever possessed her to suddenly confess, though, was beyond comprehension:  "Actually, I would like to sit by you.  But I'm afraid it would give you the wrong impression."

Just look at him!  Shawn could tell he already had the wrong impression, and she had done nothing at all to lead him on!  Still she had not budged from her spot near the doors where she stood, still clinging to the lean-pole.


Edward's grin faded away again when she went on to confess her present mixed feelings to him. She'd not wanted to give him the wrong impression, but for a moment his dark brows ruffled in consternation. How many impressions were there?  And how would she ever know if he'd gotten the wrong one?  Edward obviously had never given it an ounce of thought in his entire life, that he could be subconsciously swayed by the actions or reactions of others.  Could he, then?

Pfft.  That was rediculous.

His only real impression of her thus far, was that she was pretty.  And if she continued on with her present discourse, he might also fall in love with her -- which was a nicer way to say that he lusted easily and often chased skirts.  And nevermind that he was already supposedly in love with someone else.  


"And I don't want to give you the wrong impression because... I'm not that kind of girl."

"Well, what kinda girl are you?"


Tapping the seat again right beside him, Edward drew back his hand and left the spot invitingly vacant.  Perhaps a tiny gesture on his part, that he knew how to keep his hands to himself.  

Sure he did!

"I ain't gonna bite you."

It was so tongue-in-cheek, wasn't it?  One of the vampire's most favorite things to say to wary little lambs like herself.  People said that all the damn time to each other, and it was so overused that it often lost its clichéd meaning in the muddle.  But when Edward Holliday said it, much as when the Big Bad Wolf implied the same to Little Red Riding Hood.. it was quite humorous in a sick and perverted way.  Red Riding Hood was a two-dimensional, gullible character who made all the obvious mistakes, and who reaped the consequences because of them.  Even while staring at the Big Bad Wolf's large-toothed maw, even knowing full well that he was a vicious, hungry wolf on the prowl -- she went to him.

And he was most definitely going to bite her.  That was how the story went, afterall.  



Patrick S. © December 2011

Holding a colorful, glossy program booklet in his hands, a tall and fairly thin man waited in a line just outside the Belasco Theater amidst a crowd of eager spectators. Tonight's performance was a reprise of Kiss of the Spider Woman, a classic favorite of long-ago Broadway.. reprised for tonight only in this off-off-Broadway playhouse by an unknown production company. The lanky fellow, dressed rather nice this evening in a black suit and tie, stood reading segments in the playbill describing the play, as well as a brief synopsis given to each of the actors as well as the play's director. Musing over the photo of the actress playing The Spider Woman, a faint grin rose upon the man's lips in those moments before the line suddenly began to move forward.

Yes, showtime at the Belasco Theater! The doors were pushed opened by smartly uniformed ushers who collected tickets from each person who passed between them, then indicated they should follow the gold stanchions to the appropriate, reserved seating sections. The event was gala, even though it was nowhere near Broadway. Then again, New Yorkers were often fond of dressing to the nines when out on the town.

Edward Holliday -- that was the lanky fellow's name -- followed the gold swag ropes around through the doors that led straight up into the theater's upper balcony section up above the stage. Most folks up there brought with them a fancy pair of opera glasses, those tiny little binoculars on a stick, enabling them to see just as well as the folks down on the front-row, floor-level seating. Edward hadn't thought to bring a pair of opera glasses, however. He didn't really need such aids, for he could see extraordinarily well, and even at fairly good distances. But as he settled into his seat, he seemed briefly amused to find that he was seated right next to an attractive woman in a pretty, form-flattering, white cocktail dress.. who seemed to be doing her best to ignore the fact that he was staring at her.

It took about a half an hour for the theater to fill up, but once the crowd had settled to a dull roar of enthusiasm, the lights suddenly dimmed low and the opening music played over the theater's sound-system. Well.. what did you expect, really? It was the Belasco Theater, and the productions weren't ritzy enough to bring in the New York Philharmonic for musical accompaniment. Ahh, but who cared? It was still a night of glamor and excitement.

By the time the orator took the stage, setting up the gist of the story in the play while engaging the audience's participation with cheers and applause, Edward dropped his playbill to the floor, evidently making a convenient excuse to lean down and retrieve it again. And in so doing.. rather precariously brushed the side of his face against the pretty woman's crossed legs.

She gasped softly as she shifted her limbs aside, and also glanced down at the floor where the man was reaching. And in so doing, inadvertently flashed him a glimpse of her panties before she crossed her legs again, this time the opposite direction.

"I dropped my program," he whispered to her from down low, taking much too long to pluck the glossy booklet from the floor again.

"Well.. hurry up and get it!" came her tersely whispered reply as her brows arrowed downward in slight irritation.

When the orator finished speaking, he left the stage just as the red velvet curtain began to rise upon The Spider Woman's opening prologue --

"Come and find me, hear my song. Let me hold you here where you belong... Lips are waiting, pain will cease. Calm your anguish. I can bring you peace.."

Yet right where a chorus of prisoners should have expectantly followed their cue, the lights over the stage took on a hazy, almost ethereal hue. And over the audience there fell a breathless hush as the stage itself wavered briefly in and out of focus, causing a few in the crowd to inadvertently rub their eyes. It was instinct, you see, to doubt one's own vision.. rather than to believe in weird, inexplicable paranormal events. And there suddenly, just as plain as day in the center of the Belasco Theater's stage --

-- a tiny spider descended from a single silk thread before an unknown, young woman, who was straddling a toilet seat with her panties down around her ankles, as she nervously fumbled with tearing open a small box.


The spectacle down on the stage caused a faint murmur in the crowd, though nothing such as would cause any vehement protests. It merely confused the audience, as evidenced in the lovely woman's reaction -- the same one in a white cocktail dress who was seated next to Edward Holliday.

"I.. don't.. see this part in the program. Is this a new piece?" she whispered, almost rhetorically to herself as she flipped through her glossy playbill under the too-dim lighting.

But by then, Edward seemed to have lost interest in the woman sitting beside him. He'd never seen Kiss of the Spider Woman before, and likely would have never noticed that the scene below was not part of the original play. Too, he'd never been to the Belasco Theater, either.. and seemed the only one in the entire audience who wasn't confused, as well. The rift in the time-space fabric, which occurred on rare occasions in that particular theater, was no doubt, one of the most beloved aspects of the old building's alleged hauntings. It might have been caused by the infrequent restlessness of old ghosts. Or perhaps even by Edward, himself. Though the most likely cause was that Edward had inadvertently stirred up those old ghosts by his very presence. Finding his footing in both worlds, you see, was bound to cause paranormal clashes between the planes of existence now and then.

The stage lights buzzed very softly again, and there arose the sudden chorus of actors' voices -- as the Prisoners: "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

Then the actor playing the Warden: " Prisoner 16115, name is..." and again there was a wavering of sight and sound as two distinctly separate worlds collided. "Prisoner is currently being interrogated... We will break.. We have our ways."

And alas, the Spider Woman: "Sooner or later you're certain to meet. In the bathroom, the parlor, or even the street..."

No.. it was most definitely a bathroom.  For as the actors faded into the background again, there was once more, the most surreal scene ever to grace the stage -- the same young woman who had been moments ago, preoccupied with her restroom business, now laying on the floor in a pathetic fit of tears. And this time when Edward dropped his program to the floor, he didn't chase after it. Instead, he was rather transfixed by the apparent reality that this.. unknown actress managed to portray. Transfixed in such a way that he coveted what he didn't have. Namely.. her.

No longer the object of the man's roguish fascination, the woman in the white cocktail dress naturally found herself even more irritated now than when he was blatantly hitting on her.


Her Name Is Aurora.
The actor playing Molina spoke: "Aurora, help me...I need you...Come to me like you always have... Her name is Aurora and she is so beautiful. No man who has met her can even forget her. They're madly in love, forever in love. I see her so clearly, I know her so well... She steps to her glass now... the sight of her dark eyes..."

And there she was again, her eyes briefly glancing to the audience as she peered into her mirror over the bathroom sink. A collective hush fell upon the spectators as she opened her vanity drawer and drew out a blade. Truly an odd place to keep a knife. And as she raised it before herself, poised as the glint of steel flashed briefly over her breast --

-- The chorus of Prisoners rose yet again: "Look at her radiance; See how she glows! Look at her silken cheeks, pink as rose. Tell us, you secret madam, tell us, please do.. What is this happiness shining from you?"

The Spider Woman answered the Prisoners: "So, you want to know why I'm aglow. Oh! Last night I went to see the Gypsy, and oh the things she had to say! She told me I would meet a stranger; a lean, handsome hero... Who'd sweep in, and sweep me away!"


The young woman in the mirror seemed briefly hesitant with her dagger poised, only to turn it at the last moment, down upon her wrist where she sliced open her flesh --

The Spider Woman continued on: "'Someday you'll hear a cry', she told me. 'A sharp piercing sound and when you look around, the love of your life will be there! I cannot tell you how you'll meet him. Or when you'll meet your love... or where. But soon you'll hear that cry', she told me. 'And you'll look around...'"

And the Prisoners in unison all did agree: "You'll look around!"

Aurora spoke, alas: "At that sharp piercing..."

Prisoners: "Sharp piercing. Sharp piercing. Sharp piercing. Sharp piercing..."

And her second wrist, likewise, did she slice open like the first. Bleeding. Her blood splattered and dripped over the edge of the white porcelain sink, and down to the floor where she sank down a second time. And was that it? Was that all there was? To simply wait for death?


Next to Edward, the pretty woman in her white cocktail dress slowly reached over to pluck a white embroidered handkerchief from her small white clutch purse. As she held it's perfumed fabric to her nose, she drew in a breath and turned her gaze upon the fellow seated right beside her. Whether the staged attempt at suicide was real or fake, she did not know. But the woman had a fairly weak constitution, nevertheless, when it came to the sight of blood. She could look no more, imploring the man with her eyes: Tell me when it's over.

And once again, the voice of the actress playing the Spider Woman rose above the silence in the theater: "The moon grows dimmer at the tide's low ebb. And your breath comes faster. And you're aching to move. But you're caught in the web..."

Yes, a web.
That tiny little spider dangling from its single strand of silk, descended yet further until it landed right upon the shoulder of tonight's despairing soul. And amidst that dull glaze of finality that had settled into her dark eyes, it began to spin its tiny little web --

A Gypsy. (Zora?)
A lean and handsome hero. (Me?)


But the play was not over. No, not by far. It had only just begun. For once the interruptive scene with the girl in her bathroom -- the girl and her dagger, the girl and all that blood -- had ended with nothing more than her blank and starry stare, the play resumed full force with nary a gap until the Intermission came. The Bluebloods, Valentin, The Prisoners, Molina, Marta, and her Mother paraded across the stage, pitching their lines to the dimply lit audience, never once aware there'd been anything other than them upon that stage.

Intermission came and went, and once the play had reached its finale, the curtain fell and rose again, allowing the troupe of actors to take their bow before an applauding audience. Minus one, of course.. as Edward had risen from his seat and taken his leave rather abruptly, leaving the pretty woman in her white cocktail dress behind.  Forgotten.

--
Patrick S. © September 2011

While cleaning out files and folders on my hard drive, I came across a few
old excerpts from the character journal of Vedric, the Metal Worker of Thentis:



"Despite the treacherous
Hands stained murderous
Shades of sanguine red;
Blot upon your soul
Blacker than the black of Hades,
Thou art mine
And a fair raven among any."


"Of all the many moments we two shared,
not a one was ever considered as dull."


Patrick S. © September 2007

Red hearts
Red fruit
Red roses and wine  
And blood  
Deep red, the sweet claret of a paschal sacrifice
Surely there is no occasion more compelling between cosset and keeper
Than that of Saint Valentine.


Patrick S. ©2011

The Werewolves of London -- a.k.a the local gang of east end rowdy boys and troublemakers on Scotland Yard blotters. Many of which had rap sheets that were several kilometers long. One in particular had overstayed his visitor's visa and was on the deportation docket. It was the Yard's lucky night to have captured American-born Billy Dare along with four other gangsters on a dispatched service call for a neighborhood disturbance and disorderly conduct. Seems there'd been a lot of drinking and drug use just moments prior to Billy's mug being splashed all over the Interpol network.. when he'd climbed atop the roof of an adjacent four story building, aimed a firearm, and shot one of the city's hidden surveillance cameras right off its mounting bracket. It only took two calls and three whole minutes before police arrived on the scene in full SWAT regalia to apprehend the suspected terrorist.. along with all the rest of his buds, and haul them all off to the local station there on London's east end where they were formally fingerprinted, booked, and charged with felonies of varying degrees. Londoners were damn touchy about suspected terrorists, and obviously didn't find Billy's shooting out the surveillance camera to be a laughing matter. And following a grueling, two-hour interrogation, the American was dragged out of the little room with its two-way mirror and recording equipment, and forced to sit on a bench, where his handcuffs were affixed to the bench leg to keep him from attempting anymore stupid pranks or escaping. It seemed their two-year search for the illegal immigrant had finally come to an end.

Across the hall and a good twenty feet down from where Billy had been left to his lonesome was a woman slightly slumped in one of the station lobby's hard plastic chairs. For a moment she'd seemed asleep.. that is until she lifted her head and began either taunting or attempting to bribe Scotland Yard's finest with allusions to sexual boons. And for some odd reason, that struck the fellow as highly amusing, in that he started to laugh out loud. Partly because he was still three sheets to the wind, but mostly because women always had that trump card to throw out when in trouble with the law. In fact, he'd known several girls in his own hometown and around the greater city of Sierra Vista, who'd gotten out of $700.00 speeding tickets just by batting their eyelashes and showing a bit of cleavage while handing over their license and registration to the cop who'd pulled them over!

"Hey!" he called to the desk-duty cops who were busy typing and processing and making sure reports were filed with accuracy. "If you let her off with a warning.. will you have her make a jail cell booty call before she leaves?"

Oh yeah.. he knew that he didn't stand a chance in hell of getting off with a warning. Billy was going to the slammer.. and then straight back to the US-of-A on a one-way trip.

Naturally the cops ignored his outbursts. Humorless lumps that they were. Almost as bad as those stuffed-shirt, stoic fellows in funny clothes that guarded Buckingham Palace. In his current drunken mirth however, Billy hadn't even noticed he'd not been given a second glance. He only made himself laugh harder. So hard, in fact, that he toppled right off the edge of the bench and fell to the floor.. with his handcuffed arms now twisted painfully upward behind his back.

"HAHAHA OUCH!! Ow.. fuck.. HAHAHA! Goddammit!" Pain and laughter. Such an odd combo, no? "Hey, c'mon! I'm not kidding! HAHAHAHAA! C'mon.. Ohhhh fuck... Okay, I seriously gotta take a piss now."


Patrick S. ©2011

The girl squealed in alarm, reneged on her blatant attempt at fuck-me seduction, only to call HIM a coward. That was just richly amusing. Particularly because she hadn't a leg to stand on.

"Hypocrite.." he countered with a slight hiss the very moment her mouth popped open for a breath of air, just like a little fish out of water. The gun's oiled barrel was slipped right into her own mouth, next. And she WAS more or less.. a little fish.. completely ambushed by a shark's fiendish attentions. At the moment however, he was merely circling his prey, so to speak. The death dance meant to intimidate the doomed one just before the shark closed in for the kill.

The Kill.

Seemed in that split second the entire cosmos held it's collective breath, for the silence was rather deafening just before the unmistakable release of the firearm's safety clip.

-click-

Yes, a moment of nerve shattering silence. And who was the coward now? Hmm?

"Don't worry your pretty head, little girl," he whispered in that pivotal moment she may have feared he'd pull the trigger and actually do it. DO IT! DO IT! But a second afterward, he pulled the gun from inside the hollow of her mouth and kissed her. Hard. No.. he didn't kiss her. He licked her. Pressed his chilly mouth against her own before she had a chance to even react, and licked the inside of it.. leaving her with the taste of stale blood and stale cigarettes.

And then he was up again. Gone again. Stooping down to retrieve his felled rattlesnake rattle again. Again again again.

Edward backed slowly away, aiming the gun dead center right between her eyes, closing one of his own as he peered down the small steel notch.

"Bang-bang," he whispered with a grin. Ooohh BIG grin this time.. Shark no longer bothering to hide away those razor sharp incisors from Little Fish. While the threat was real, and while he was as touchy as an itchy finger curled 'round a hairpin trigger.. he obviously had no desire that particular moment to kill her off. Too.. once he got into whatever it was he'd intended to do all along with the other woman -- still laying dormant upon the ground -- he was liable to completely forget the blonde police woman was even there at all. Odd, yes. Then again, his was the pretty face of a criminal sociopath. Deceitful. Often transfixing. Mesmerizing, even.

Further and further away he backed, still aiming a loaded weapon at the girl. Until.. the familiar and hypnotic shake of the rattle drew him right back into the ether of strange religious fervor. And whether she could clearly see at this point or not, his eyes rolled upward into his head while the rest of his lanky form fell into the syncopated, complicated twists and turns of a frenzied dervish patterned upon the ground beneath his bared feet.


Patrick S. ©2010

Edward Holliday hadn't possessed a genuine emotion of his own, probably since the day he was born, and had entered the world with the robust cry of a terrified newborn. After that, he just didn't quite.. fit in with the status quo of what comprised the normal human psyche. He could feel pain and pleasure. He could throw tantrums to get his way. He knew both hunger and fullness of belly. But what eluded him.. were things like love and simple joy, and even sadness. They were like describing one of Mozart's symphonies to someone born deaf. The subtle nuance of blended notes, blended instruments, the crescendo and plummet of melodious scales meant to cull passion in a listener's breast.. these things had no meaning at all to one born deaf.

And in such a way Edward Holliday hit the brick wall of comprehension when it came to genuine emotions. Oh.. he could manufacture them easily enough, to elicit a response from whomever he'd caught up in his web of treachery and deceit. He could fuck with the emotions and heartstrings of others, and he was quite good at it, too. Almost no one ever suspected his mental pathos.. until way after the damage had been done.

"You'll just run away and leave me," he whispered, finally breaking that thick wall of silence and sounding as if he'd actually considered untying her, as per her constant plea. And once again his countenance fell, looking as if the rightful owner had come to finally claim his stray puppy.

To add insult to injury, when he did finally lift his eyes, they were solemn and dark and quite haunting in that subtle flicker of candlelight. Why? they seemed to ask, as his gaze pierced right down into the very soul of Sierra. If anything, Edward was an ambushing freight train. If it wasn't his explosive wrath, then it was a bombardment of the worst kind of guilt. For he knew precisely how to rip women's beating hearts right from their breasts. And literally, too.

After a space of silence, he inched toward her upon his haunches, and set the little paper takeout box with its red dragon motif and Chinese letters decorating the sides, down to the floor between Sierra's legs. As if.. he were going to allow her to take over and feed herself, now. One subtle movement beget another.. perhaps serving no other purpose than to keep Sierra guessing what he would do next. Untie her, perhaps?


Patrick S. ©2010

A church, centuries old in its rugged architecture and grey, gothic spires, stands atop a hillside overlooking a quaint little town below all nestled in the surrounding horseshoe foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. Behind the cathedral's spires, the first rays of morning light bloom in a myriad of pastel colors.. bringing the first of yawns to the wintry, frozen town below.

Just past the open sanctuary was a small door, so small that a priest must bend over to pass its threshold, that stood ajar. Beyond it, one of the clergy leaned over a small basin stand and washed his hands of the dirt that clung to them. He was getting on in years, soon to reach his retirement from officiating services.. as nights like the last only served to remind him. One of the fold had been lost to the darkness, following her shock and abject trajectory from an opened grave site following common ritual that marked the fifth anniversary of one deceased where the grave was dug up, the coffin pried open from rusted nails that had kept it shut, and the corpse examined by several of the town's council and at least one officiating priest.

Father Aleksei turned and dried his hands on a small clean towel before kissing the white satin mantel he would soon don as part of his ritual morning dressing. And afterward he bent over to emerge through the rectory door again and into the large sanctuary where already the sun's morning rays splintered into colorful fragments by the stained glass windows. The first psalter of incense was lit and swung three times, back and forth before the altar.. then rehung from it's nearby iron sconce. Like every morning at sunrise, he prepared for the first mass of the day.. for those most faithful Orthodox parishioners of the town below. Unlike the Catholics though, communion was not feasted upon with each mass.. but rather reserved for the Christian equivalent of the Pesach holiday. Neither did they believe in the transfiguration of wafer and wine into the body and blood of their Lord.. for such was an affront to all that was holy. It smacked of vampirism to those of the Orthodox Church.

Father Aleksei crossed himself and whispered the final rite of prayer before he turned to await his early morning flock.

In all his seventy-five years he had never once officiated over the exhumation of a corpse and found a fattened, blood sucking monstrosity laying in its place. Many times over the decades he had wondered whether such myths even held any truth in them. But there were always the whispers and the beliefs.. a friend of a friend who'd heard tale of unearthing a fetid vampire suspected of terrorizing the folk of any given town. But not here. Not in this peaceful little provinçial town all nestled in the heart of Carpathian Mountain foothills. Last night proved no exception either.. on the fifth anniversary of Gavriil Kinski's untimely death.

Just as he had expected, the corpse.. was just a corpse. The skeletal remains of bone and dust, withered away beneath shreds of disintegrated clothing. Nothing more. Nothing upon which any ghastly abominations need be performed. There was no smashing of the skull with a sledgehammer. No pounding of stakes through its center to pin it to the ground. And no incineration of its blood-filled vital parts, so that its ashes might be mixed into flour cakes and consumed by the living to ward off the vampire. He was simply reburied with quiet dignity.

"God be with you," he said quietly to the young lady who had entered and seated herself in a pew.


Patrick S. ©2009

Once Delilah had finally sunk down into the mire of her own fiendish depravity and accepted her human host's tit enough to at last, latch on and suck from it, Edward moved a bit behind her. Not so much to give her space, per se, but simply to reaffirm his possessive claim; to reaffirm his hold upon the girl. His girl. He never countered her last words of empathy for the dying. Even if it was not Edward's primary intention that the poor captive woman die that night.. she'd been doomed from the get-go. Because he'd neglected her basic needs for nearly three days now.. thirst being her primary factor.

"Are you Daddy's girl, bebe?" he'd whispered down into Delilah's ear, reminding her in her little frenzy who it was that had made provisions for her, and who it was that had taken care of her essential needs. Why.. he'd put a roof over her head and given her shelter, he'd put a bit of joy into her melancholic demeanor by giving her rats.. even though they'd yet to come foraging out of the walls in search of scraps and shit. He had ensured her belly was filled.

A daddy's girl. What man didn't need one of those? Perverted as it may have been, considering Delilah was half his age. How much more twisted it would have been, had she been his real blood relation? It didn't seem to matter that she wasn't, in fact. Edward had planted it into her head for more than half the night.. and if he had his 'ruthers', she'd eventually forget all about her real parents and simply accept his claim, hook, line, and sinker.

Edward tugged her hair back from the side of her face, and for a moment simply watched her in the sublime act of.. well.. hell.. Delilah was in the throes of breastfeeding. It didn't really make a difference that she was sucking blood and not milk, did it? The regressing act rather diminished her claim earlier that night that she was somehow grown up. Edward had single-handedly proved she was nothing of the sort. And even now the vampire smiled, his own lips still stained a bit with dried blood. A moment later he kissed the little girl's cheek. He meant to stop her eventually from sucking the life entirely out of his current victim.. but seemed to have forgotten in retrospect. Even daddies make mistakes. Hmm? Maybe it just wasn't a mistake, though. Maybe it was meant to be.

The vampire's hand slid downward, cold fingers curling over Delilah's hip, resting there for a moment or three before starfishing outward against her lower belly. There was a good chance in hell he'd have her out of her clothes again.. though at the moment, it was not to be. No.. because no sooner had he pulled her backside right up close and tight against himself, Edward kissed her cheek again and slowly extracted his own tangle of limbs from hers. He was at least going through the motions of attempting to provide the basics for his prisoner as he rose from the bed, leaving both her and Delilah there in their current predicament.



And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; -a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought -and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails -men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one,

Darkness ~ Byron



Patrick S. ©2010

'Tis human nature to reel backward from sudden pain and shock.
Needless to say,
when it happened that way,
the unknown John became severed from his dick
and in horror let out a high-pitched
scream that echoed inside that stone and concrete facility.

Blood spattered the walls inside the more crowded stall where Nikki crouched, pressed between Edward and the wall.
Bad girl, she.
Spoiling the fun too soon.
And in that sudden frenzy of confusion and caterwauling pain, the vampire grasped a fistful of red hair and hauled the blood soaked girl out into the night.
Swiftly through the Central Park
and to its final end,
where the asphalt crossroads stretched for miles again.

He led her swiftly through the neon maze, alas to a stairwell going down into the subway's subterranean labyrinth. Late at night there would be nothing savory found down there -- just more human cockroaches gathered in their huddled wicked machinations. Though every eye glancing up, held their gaze fixed upon the bloody-faced girl, handled as if she were a rag doll, her hair still grasped tight in the tall man's fist. He pushed her through a broken turnstile and to the platform to await the train. Not a word passed between them, much to the awe of those whose dumbfounded stares remained quite fixed.

Was she injured? Dying? Had the fellow beaten her so bloody foul? Oh, a mystery it was. And those with nothing better to do, soon gathered round, though none too close.

Let's all board the train and see where it goes, this perverse canvas upon which the maddened brush painted garish sanguine strokes.

Edward's dark gaze turned slowly left and right, gauging those brave souls who'd crept nearby, reminding him precisely of cockroaches in the dark. Feelers twitching. Danger abounds but the signals are so mixed. He hissed in silent plotting before the sudden blur of iron and steel blew past. And once the train screeched to a full stop, the doors opened with a bang. And on again he pushed the girl past the boarding platform, only to reach a hand overhead for the chrome rail. They would not be sitting down for this trip across the Burroughs of New York.. he left the seats vacant for the gathering human rats and roaches and their beady-eyed stares, following their Pied Piper to wherever he may lead them.


Patrick S. ©2010

Your soul is on fire. You hear voices and you dream dreams. You've perhaps been seduced by a Reprobate -- someone who seems too beautiful to be true, too daring to still be alive. You're hungry for something. You aren't sure what is it yet, but it drives you to seek answers in the strangest of places until you finally arrive at one of four earthly locations -- Paris, London, Sicily, or New York. The properties in each of these locations serves as a portal to another plane of existence via solving the riddle of a peculiar little Puzzle Box, of which there are only four known remaining in existence in the world. Only the hungriest, most devout souls will be shown the way. For when the box opens and yields its secrets, your eyes will be opened and there is no return.

Enter the Prison world of the Watchers, those legendary fallen angels who once lusted for the daughters of mankind, and who once polluted the Earth in the Antediluvian age with their vile offspring -- the Nephilim.

Learn the mysteries of life and experience no boundaries in both pain and pleasure. Whatever it is that you seek, you shall find it in spades along this journey of Souls on Fire.


*NOTE: There seems to be a bit of mass confusion all over the internet regarding the late Philip LeMarchand and his infamous little puzzle boxes -- one of which, the Lament Configuration was featured in Clive Barker's film 'Hellraiser.'   The character of Philip LeMarchand and those awesome little puzzle boxes he reputedly created, are all fictitious and come directly from the mind of Clive Barker.  Sorry to burst any bubbles.    But just goes to show the power of persuasion when a story is told so damn well.  Other authors who've enjoyed the same mass hysteria/confusion over fictitious characters and props would be H.G. Wells' martian invasion with 'War of the Worlds' and of course H. P. Lovecraft's 'The Hound' where his infamous black grimoire, the Necronomicon made its first debut.  All fiction.  


Patrick S. ©2010

"Good boy."

Was that nervous laughter tumbling from Lafayette's lips? Or was he simply drunk and without a clue what kind of trouble he may be in?

The vampire rose from his chair, once again gathering up the boy's shirt collar in his fist as he dragged his inebriated companion from the stripper joint. Right back out into the streets, into the night. Bypassing several little clusters of two or three who'd huddled together along the way, presumably because they felt safer in numbers than they did alone. Several stared at the pair and particularly at the smaller boy being led by the shirt collar, whispering after them, though Edward's singular gaze remained fixed along the sidewalk straight ahead.

Upon reaching the end of the block, he turned the corner and again, another corner.. leading his little paramour down an alley devoid of any light whatsoever, save that of the moon's pale glowing face. He stopped before a narrow brick grotto, a scant crawlspace between two buildings, between which lay a body. Dead or sleeping, it was hard to tell for sure. Though it wasn't all too uncommon to find those destitute souls who'd all too often given up somewhere along the moral vicissitudes of life and exchanged their souls for one more hit of burning meth.. only to wind up dangling precariously on a single thread between life and death.

The vampire entered that narrow grotto, tugging Lafayette after him as well. He didn't step over the body laying in a fetal pull on the ground, but rather stepped on it as he passed to the opposite end. The body, let out an insufferable groan. Ahhh.. still alive. And there you have it. Life just didn't get any uglier than that, did it?


No sooner had Lafayette stumbled over the scarcely breathing meth addict and fallen into Edward, the vampire caught him with a sure grip, unwilling to let this one get away. But following the boy's absurd question, Edward twisted his arms behind his back and forced him face-down right against the pathetic lump on the ground all covered in bleeding scabs and sores -- seconds after Lafayette had mockingly asked whether Edward lived in that particular alley.

"He lives here," the vampire said with a hiss. "And unless you wanna be his fuckin' roommate, you better start showin' some respect, boy."

Lafayette had gone from tittie bar straight to Nazi concentration camp hell. Edward yanked him right back up by the arms again, still twisting them tight behind his back.. and after a few steps more, shoved the kid right up against the brick wall at the far end of the alley. It was a dead end. Hanging overhead, there was a lead pipe stretched across the grotto, each end of which vanished into little holes in the two buildings. It was one of those old timey gas lines. They didn't make them that way anymore.

Edward leaned into the boy's backside, as he tugged Lafayette's arms overhead, binding his hands together around the lead pipe with a bit of jute cord he'd fished from his pocket. It was like the vampire knew this place quite well. Much better than he had let on back at the strip joint. It was like he'd had it all planned out from beginning to end, with the location and the bit of woven cord he'd brought along. Once he had him strung up and stretched taut, Edward curled his cold hands around Lafayette's waist, still pressing his weight against the boy's backside. And within moments he'd undone the top button on Lafayette's trousers and unzipped his fly, too.

"You scared yet? Hmm?" Edward whispered into the kid's ear from behind while simultaneously curling his chilly hands 'round Lafayette's cock, giving it a bit of a squeeze before letting go. And a moment later he tugged the kid's britches down.. just halfway. For now. Not quite to his knees, but somewhere halfway between them and his ass.

"Maybe we'll let Renford over there suck your dick," he taunted in further whispers. "I bet he hasn't sucked any good dick in a long time."

No one in their right mind would have let the tragic meth addict anywhere near them. The fucker was covered head to toe in bleeding scabs. One of those fugly side effects produced from severe hallucinations in which the meth user feels a chronic sensation of insects crawling all over his flesh, and an even more chronic compulsion to scratch and pick at them, and to cut himself repeatedly to no avail.

"You still gonna do anything for money?" It was Edward, hands around the kid's waist again, and squeezing his cock with his pale, cold hands. Lafayette had said, afterall, that he was into anything barring death and disfigurement. The devil's a tricky fucker, you know. He'll make you eat your words.


When Lafayette tried in vain to twist his head around enough to plead with Edward, the vampire's cold kiss met the boy's cheek. Though he never did give the boy the relenting response he desperately sought. No.. instead, he pulled his arms from around Lafayette and turned about with a rather sadistic grin.

"Renford."

The derelict all covered in scabs and sores lifted his head with a pathetic whimper.

"I brought you something, slut puppy."

"Master?" The wounded wretch lifted upon hands and knees, earnestly trying to crawl across the hardened stone and broken glass toward Edward.

"Ohh," he cooed. "Je t'aime, mon chér. Venez à moi." Edward withdrew a little sandwich baggie from his pocket and dangled it in the moonlight. Little crystals that refracted the pale light beams. Sick fucker, he was. Poor Renford needed a damn ambulance and a year of rehab. Not more crystal meth. His name wasn't even Renford. It was Bobby or Buddy or Billy. Edward couldn't remember which, and likely didn't give a fuck one way or another.

Renford was in tears. He'd been out there for several months. So fucking despicable looking that he couldn't even turn a trick for one last hit. He was once quite good looking, too. But you know what they say about methamphetamine.. just once was all it took to fuck you up forever. Just like Renford. It took him several minutes to crawl upon hands and knees and finally reach the one whom he'd referred to as master. And once he did, he laid his head down on Edward's foot.

"Did you miss me, lover?" Edward crouched down, running his fingers though the fellow's filthy hair. And no doubt that Renford desperately wanted a mainlined fix. Seeing the baggie filled with crystal was sheer torment to a hopeless addict, was it not? Thing was, Edward had brought him something.. but it wasn't methamphetamine. No, that was for someone else. A new lover. Not Renford, despite the fact he'd lowered and abased himself to the point that he licked the dust from the vampire's shoe.

"Please, Master."

If he'd not been so utterly desperate, so hopelessly addicted, so low down and fucking worthless.. he would have cried out a dire warning to the boy currently dangling by his hands from a lead gas pipe.

Run! Run for your life! I was once like you. Just like you!  

But Renford couldn't even do that right. He was in hell, and he had the devil for his master.


The repeated, long term effects of crystal meth on the human body were ghastly and quite horrific. Long term.. was anywhere from a couple of months to a couple of years, and the devastating results so withered and aged a person's countenance a good 30 or more years. Most who'd willingly do meth, were under the erroneous assumption they'd only try it once. But meth didn't work that way.

As for Renford, he'd not even been the typical guinea pig willing to try it just once. He'd been forced. Much like poor Lafayette was about to be. The drug's sizzling effects weren't even meant for the one into whom it was injected.. but for the vampire's own yen for drug-induced thrills. Face it, he had no circulatory system of his own, no blood flow to inject a drug into, no crazy pounding heartbeat when the euphoric rush came. The only way for him to experience the illicit effects of such a powerful narcotic, was to suck it from the tainted blood of a body already slammed hard under its effects. The trouble with human bodies though.. they quickly wore out with the ravages of such a drug. They wore out like used up rags, while Edward Holliday went on his merry way to the next victim, and the next after that one.

So much suffering. And the vampire had not one ounce of empathy. No, he was instead, driven by Renford's pain. Renford, who groveled like a worm on the ground, licking the feet of the one who had the power to give him just one more fix.

"I'm gonna make it all better tonight, my lover. I promise," he whispered, still twining his pale white fingers in the derelict's filthy hair. "You gonna go all the way for me this time?"

Renford simply wept. Whether for joy or for plain relief, he could not tell. But the tears came hot and heavy. And finally...

.. "Yes, Master."


Edward glanced back at Lafayette dangling by his wrists, and slowly licked his lips. The boy's pants had come down further in his fear and humiliation, and the very sight of him almost drew a shiver down the vampire's cold, cold spine. It was his youthful flesh, somewhat still pristine.. though no doubt the boy had taken it up the ass by numerous johns. That alone made him the perfect kind of vehicle for Edward's own twisted lusts. While staring at the boy, he'd slipped his fingers from Renford's hair and held them close to the dying fellow's lips. And Renford sucked them.. desperately starved for the tiniest crumbs of affection, no matter how displaced Edward Holliday's affections truly were.

"All the way, Renford," he whispered, still staring intently at Lafayette.

"All the way, Master," Renford whispered back with a slight groan, still sucking his master's fingers.


Someday, Lafayette was going to go all the way, too. Edward grinned at the boy.


Patrick S. ©2010

Not only had he fallen upon the little Latin doxy within a mere nano-second after she'd allowed a single chink in her guard to crumble, Edward had also woven his arms around her with the constricting force of a boa. Rail thin and still wearing the outward scar of poverty upon his cold, necrotic flesh -- yet he possessed the strength of ten men, and was as violently unpredictable as the demoniac possessed by Legion.

The vampire's cold breath, shy of a feathery tickle somewhere along the back of his captive's neck, was the only silent interlude where fractions of a second were warped into a seemingly endless stretch across the time-space continuum before it all snapped back in a vacuum rush. And in that twilight space between the snub nose of a steel revolver pointed at his own head, and the second drawn six-shooter taking a cross-haired aim at Lucas.. Edward sank his fangs down into the girl's buttery warm flesh.

A wellspring fount, thick and coppery, foul with a bitterness not quite bitter. His mouth was instantly filled to overflowing, faster than the vampire could even swallow. There was an instantaneous connection, a faint blip upon the radar of prescient and divine auguries, both pure and profane. For death does not discriminate when selecting a lover..

Wouldst thou reason with devils like a drunken whore?

Fearless is numbered among Edward Holliday's many attributes. Fearless. Possessive. Brutal and exacting. There are no such things as heroes in his dog-eat-dog world. And the Bokor most definitely not a one to be spanked on the hands without provoking the worst of retaliating retributions.

I am dead, many times over.

The thing with Death is that it spreads its filthy plague with a voracious appetite. It's wide yawning maw ever starved and insatiable, Death will not be stopped when it comes. Death never takes a holiday beyond the blink of an ever watchful eye. And the girl -- no matter how brief his embrace of her -- is marked with Death's first kiss. It isn't a game anymore. This is for keeps. And the vampire has insinuated his way right into Amaya's head.

I know the secrets of the grave.

The girl could bleed out like a river's torrential gush, or she could weep but little drops of her blood in minute increments. For not only did he have the power to take her with him into the Abyss, he was also quite capable of holding back, rejecting that little fish caught upon his trawling line, deemed too small to keep. Yet whether fate would throw them eternally together in Death, or whether by some rote intervention they should suffer Life.. apart.. Edward Holliday left her with one last thought to rape its insidious way into her cerebral crinkles..

And I am your master.


Patrick S. ©2010