10143 Gold -
|Posted: Thu May 06, 2010 12:45 pm Post subject: PORT ROYAL -(9B) Vampire Stalks
|Night ripples waves of pacifying silence upon the city's agitated slumber. The barbarisms of everyday existence are drowned in the shameless night sweats of monotony.. Darkened windows witness my approach to the 'Black Cherry' tavern. Blasting bright conviviality, are the neighbors of my warehouse. the sons of Simon the pewterer, Thomas and Symon, clink mugs with with Nathaniel Cook. They wave to me, come sit. I think not. Tonight I shall mark faces with blood, stick blood to eyeballs, it will congeal on eyelashes, color tears and mix with the nauseating body-fluids of cowardice.
I pad on. All humanity is fit for my winepress, a universal vintage, and i pick only the pitiful creatures, or the soul crushers, those who have abandoned reason and truth, those who already walk the paths toward hell. I come for the strength of the blood, your bodies are my lands. Your blood spreads through the compost of my muscles, swells the trees of my lungs, penetrates my smallest veins, like a warm spring beneath my skin.
In the motley hideousness of the next tavern I see an incredible aqueduct of blood, a red and frothy fountain. I gape at at this red fountain of youth. Stromboli rises from a booth in the rear. The man he leaves is a stranger to me. He gropes the barmaid who squirms on his lap. I've grown impatient. My eyes heavy lidded, I study the slummer, my prey. Well dressed, lacy neck piece blossoms from his unbuttoned waistcoat, face, rum flushed, and plump he is. He seems prosperous. Yes, he's the one.
Stromboli teeters to my table,and tho uninvited, he pulls out a chair.
" Drrink forr a drrawing," he drools and drops his sketch pad over. It's the face of the bargirl, vacumed of pleasure, her smile gone stale as seabisquits, and the stranger - diagrams of avarice and duplicity inscribed in the wrinkles of his face, haunted by all the demons of impurity.
" Two Kill-Devils, rum, if you please, he orders, unbidden, and prepares to draw me. Hardly distracted, I continued scanning the bags of blood and recognized Fernando, the glass blower, who had recently delivered equipment I designed. He was a member of the Port Royal band, a trumpet player. All the pressure from blowing had distended one of his cheeks. He casts a wane smile my way.
lookbaditlookedrightbutitwasbizarrewhenheloungedhisleggsuponthetable- this table had no room to eat at. It was burdened with a confusion (much like the preceding passage) of correspondence, bills, threats of indenture, and unopened mail, and stacks of books and books on the floor which I would peruse tho they were not about my main areas of interest.
Stromboli tips his head back to let the last of his rum drip down his throat , then slides the cup toward me, head bobbing. "How 'bout 'nother, Cap'in." I reach over for the sketch pad. I glance at the drawing then slam the table. "Wot's this foolery." I say, louder than I intended. Heads turn. "Thet's nay me," I shout, and laps are cleared of "ladies". I do not recognize myself. Patrons signal for their tally. Stromboli has captured the me I'm trying so hard to conceal, the vampire, a man-cat- vampire. It's not the hour for commotion. Perhaps 'tis me the're not wantin' to see more of. Many prepare to go. I tear the paper in half,and again 'till tiny pieces I toss confetti-like. Fernando, concern furrows his brow, I can see the tiny red lines in his eyeballs. He nods a farewell and leaves the tavern. The plump stranger prepares to go. Now I see his high riding boots. He may be a sugar planter. Two bedirked rowdies rise to follow him out but resume their seats, with mutual agreement , upon seen' me quick fang flash.
I will feed in the stable.
Here is the blood and now is the time to drink it .He tightens the saddle's cinch and flips the stirrups down. Just as he stands in a stirrup, about to throw his leg over, I charge and lift him so he falls over the other side of the horse and I pounce on him as he grounds. He is flat on his face. Just a bit of struggle, under the horse, as I took him from behind, same as I did Tim, penetrating deeply. He feels a maternal pleasure as i suckle like a babe. Do not despise your little shivers. Do not scorn my caress My fangs saw at his neck as I sucked away at his soul, corroded by too many yesterdays. His memories, like pages torn from a book, fly about. Here's one, he's galloping through sugar cane fields. The tall stalks are a blur. He rides to his house, his mansion.-another page- His wife is posing for a portrait. She is nice, pretty, not beautiful. The painting flatters her. The artist is young and handsome - another- His riding quirt slashes at a slaves back- O, here he is with a hatchet chopping the arm of a slave who got his finger caught in the sugar mill. - He is with a female slave. Her eyes and teeth shine in the darkness - The artist and his wife are embracing. The painting is slashed. The artist lies a puddle of blood. That last image whets my appetite and I gorge. I have chosen well. I don't leave him dead, just bled, as any doctor would proscribe, he's better for it
It's a genial bourgeois satisfaction Coagula feels. He no longer stalks like a tiger; a bouncy, jaunty, cocky stride, now and then he skips. He whistles, tho he would never do that aboard ship.