“What a darling couple’ah kids.”
“Aren’t they though?” Gwenkilly so very smiley eyed as they turn into the next, into the face of whatever.
“That’s one’ah the things I love bout me boy, Bohru....he got but one button; One Big Green Button.” Lourde, smiling at the next two who oddly do not return the sentiment, packed within pancake powder and smudgy black eye shadow that strike him as cold and pointless. Dear Gwenkilly, not quite there yet;
“Aye, an’he do! Lourde dear, this is Winchester and Sara.” these two they make no effort in the greeting and so Lourde, casting out the staid and flat-line, this the cause of his monotone;
“Hello.”
Rightly with a quick-ness, Lourde peg the four of the last two couples as one disappointing mistake. Better they be crystal’d or opiated, making more infinite the sense, than that what they exhibit presently as the ‘they’ of cracked leather oracles void and sucked upon, they that tally their blood let into the meaningless columns. All: the little boy dreams. All: the little girl dreams. The autumn ways: not sad enough. And the April showers, not sad enough. All the tween such as cast aside as stupid seed. Yet here they are, poked and unwoven, the leaking weavers of a prideful minion from the many paths of no tomorrow that fancy their insular station too so very esoteric to be known of it in the scuffing of their own couple or so, dropped, onto the great study’s pathway. These are they that do so, they with the sad and vacant eyes. Vampires. Oh really.
“Lourde dear,” Gwenkilly ever the sweeter in spite, “This is Renfeld and Wendy. We met at a club in Sacramento on the way in.” her spells what be too white to be sighted in this way truly.
“What is their claim?” Lourde regarding their vacuous disdain smudge by smudge asking of Gwenkilly before their very; disdain for disdain.
“Well, let’s see it I have it right...Winchester and Renfeld are priests of their own ordination, and Sara and Wendy are their vessled sisters in Goth.” Gwenkilly shrugging. Poor Gwenkilly. Dearest Gwenkilly.
“Goth?.......
Blood And Blood Products “...How so, Gwenkilly?” Lourde, spring loaded, a flat-footed sentinel being wary of the wanton scatter of the ill formed idolatry of the craven and the fallen now too near his love before he know it her, his life after life other for if wherever they so impinge upon her perfection already chipped by pact with God, then in the form of a question: How much less are they allowed? In the now, the here the form of the answer be thus: He will cut and feed them to themselves, without so much as a heart beat quickened.
From within the odd silence; the false prophets of false dooms;
“We find your faith lacking. And hold your view and opinion in contempt.” Winchester stuck on stupid, sporting a condescending glide ratio of 1:1.
“Winchester...” Lourde, attending matters elsewhere, skirting their as such contempt, “...Hold that thought if you would please.” turning to Wendy, she with the sadder, more vacant eyes, “Wendy dear, you’re leaking.”
Lourde with a falcon’s intent gaze unto the stream as well the shape of the fissure from which her blood is let; For he know it as well misused. He has pen’d it. And know its rightness rather. As for she, his dreamt one as before, as forever as always, she is key upon his interest and why, though a tiny bit the sadder for having seen the where these some things do go; such that they are both made wondrous and blinky as they do with a slight bob, the curious weaves of the great and black wing’ed Condors. The one: nestling obsidian products. That the other only be stay by the power of cookies, still black and slate gray billowed of buffet and torrent by the sheets on command. With a wink of her green eye to the light olive black beauty that is Lucia, and the receiving line that is for all intent received, rightly, Gwenkilly with a kiss onto Lourde’s cheek and a bow begs off and away to the animated color theorists and the matching grant lesbians that people the great study’s artifacts in the well longstanding stone cut environs, and Bohru, now round and about snoots full of Old Jack, a right bonny hill billy, by any good reason.
“Wendy isn’t leaking! I bleed her. We bleed her. They bleed for our dark lord.” well well Renfeld, the pubescent crackle vox stunningly stammered stuttering upon the ‘s’ and the ‘w’ of his tongue, as well the phonic of ‘th’;
“I’m sorry. You must think me a terrible host.” then under his breath, “If in- deed you think at all,” that he look to his dreamt one, his found one who smiles having heard it as amusing to her ear, “You were saying, Winchester?”
“Your asides are trivial...” at this the black dona eye the infidel askance, slowly top to bottom and then slowly back, “...And ill-conceived. And only lay bare your ignorance of the omnipresent dark; Nor have you swayed my decree as regard your lack of faith, indeed, I find you even less so for your duplicity in the face of the dark lord.” Winchester, clearly the house manager of: these: sadder malady.
In another time, Lourde would have dealt such ilk with the very dispatch that was born upon Sodom. Presently however, he endeavors to turn them with Joaquina-esque words. Reasoned: and metered and simple. If but to no: avail.
“Well, I can’t say that I’m sorry you feel that way. After all, can it not be said or reckoned: That the sum total of all the wherever of faiths be even then lacking if and when measured by God’s Rule?”
But for the light olive beauty nodding slowly her eyes averted lower in thought; they cast their sightlines as darts, before calling upon Winchester and Winchester’s opinion, which is as forthcoming as the notion of dead flowers. Manifesting itself first in the flaring of his nostril.
“You have insulted the lord of darkness with your trivial banality. Furthermore...”
“Ah, Winchester dear. Would you please hold up for a moment, just, just ah moment? Thank you sweetness...” soon it is known. The lord of darkness and Winchester both share the ruffled slights that are most known as insult. Lourde turn to she who hang upon his words with her vast and innocent beauty, “Am I wrong? Or did this guy just use the word ‘trivial’ twice! In like the last…45 seconds!?” she suppress her handsome laughter by the mug of her pleasant engaging sign.
“You dare mock the power of darkness?”
“Negative. Not in the least. I exalt it as properly so. There abouts half, of the otherwise whole. The matter is this my whatever friend: In America, as you would do better to should well know, aside from drive-in theaters and star gazing of course; the darkness to which you allude is irrelevant. In America, most if not all such gothy concerns occur at the High Noons of the bleached bone sunlight all across the land. In addition to being perpetuated not by the vlady little vampire, but by the gun slinging Kirby Vac and Fuller Brush man made mad by their proximities to the skin-less horrors of Avon and Mary Kay. None the sadder, the river rising. None the sadder the shifting sand. Nor will I mention Wounded Knee without noting duly, the very last ‘Custer’s Last Stand’” Lourde await the give or the take.
As for she, from where she were first called by her angel, “He is found.” as she sight passed the great study’s ceiling, of all places, and into the cosmos beyond offering first the tiny thanks of her preparations where from behind the blink her green eyes flash.
“All will cower before the lord of darkness at the time of his season.” poor Renfeld, born to sing a sidekicks refrain. In no way Lourde’s commission, still he know that Renfeld must be turned by some how or some other lest he, indeed they all, suffer a toady’s fate.
“Season?” flatly Lourde ask.
“A seasons time known only to the dark lord and to Winchester.” pleased Sara adds.
“You may be they that conduct me as such.” with no feign apparent in what otherwise pass for sincerity, “For you see; I am but a pilgrim, a journeyman that seek the truths within both others and the every day matters of suns and moons. Please then, convey unto me the knuckled curios of the layman’s inquire...” Winchester risen yeasty with no less than the perceived tenure of counterfeit-professorial disdain, “...Is the thing, or one to which you refer; the lord of darkness, or the dark lord? And, if so very whatever, then why in a world of well millennial lords, why this one to which you are beholden?”
“There is but one lord.” he the sooner than later now: What can be said about Winchester? But that all do look one to the other, but for she, Lourde’s found one, a tall black drink who well regards him in return.
“You have known that to be untrue, somewhere in your time.”
“And you are the insolent jackass that can not name me three!” Winchester now enfolded within none but a conman’s conceit.
“It is true. I am simple, upon occasion, and dumber than I should be, as well as sometimes, somehow less, than they that sit, stand, or fall fallen before me; But: for you Winchester, I will notify not three. But some couple four or five with the first being here among us, before our very eyes. One!” that he shout out with a hitch hiker’s thumb thumbing behind him over his shoulder, “...He’s right over there at my grandfather’s bar. Drinking my whiskey, eating peanuts from the people’s just holdings: LORD BOHRU!” Bohru raise in hand a drunk upon glass in reply with a nod and a smiley Gwenkilly for good measure, “Two: Lord Jesus, who is as well a well rabbi and a peacemaker so as to say: three in one as it were. Three: Lord Krishna. Four: Lord Buddha. And five, let’s see, five five five; not Zoraster, although he’s big, huge; Not Nostradamus, he’s big too, huge too...Oh yes: Five: The Lord Of Lord’s. Who is, as we both know, neither dark nor dark lord? Yes or no?” he turn to her that she flush to him honey suckle sweet come hither.
“There is no way around blood. No silly phrase to deceive it.” Winchester. His eyes: narrow, of dire intent.
“Winchester, ol’ son...” Lourde sign to him in return, in kind, “...On that, we do agree.”
Turning to Wendy and the clotted stream of her blood let, spitting upon his thumb wiping from the fissure in her arm blood both smeared and sucked upon that produce now one full drop of Wendy’s blood. He asks, as a stop cop would do so, for the phantasm what produce this effect.
“Hand it me, Renfeld. This tool of your choosing.” referring to the hole in Wendy’s arm.
From his leather jacket pocket the tiny stainless steel tool, blood smudged now and covered with lint and tobacco rollings, he did then surrender it.
“And Sara, somehow I suspect that you posses one such sealed, yes? If you would please.” indeed, from the bobble that is her purse she produce one such hermetically sealed.
“Children of darkness!” between his fingers Lourde hold the sealed stabby little lab tool, “This is a world of transfusion. The stabby little tubes of dialysis. A world of hermetically sealed whole blood donations and storages. A world of compounds that thin it; Compounds that thicken the red, white and blue of it, as well the things that right the things that infect it. It is a world of blood and blood products what our hearts do swim within. Blood pressure. Blood work. Blood gas. A blood house of platelet’s and oxygenated hemoglobin.
“When I were called upon to make my own way by a stone hearted father; for a regard that never came, but were made instead harder still by the prospect of my ‘if any such’ success; Baptized a Catholic, raised by Mormons, and nurtured by Jews that suggest to me first Torah. Then to me a forever means of coin as being then thereabouts: blood, vanity, and prostitution. And so, in a dream it came to me. To found an endeavor based upon the particulates of all three. They, I should say, they and Polaroid at 6 ½. And though this be no stockholder meeting between us, I am able to report to you that: The charter is well. And ‘the blood account’: sol vent in spades. Or hearts, my dearys; you choose.
“All of the rest are the people’s just holdings. As for me, in a sense, I truly do not matter.” A breathy little gasp by half it came from her, Lucia, as it were when she splash these his pathos in warm and cool waters.
“The power of blood is not in the drinking sooner shit out or pissed away. But in it’s reverent cares as in ashes to ashes, dust to dust. If then: Maybe yes, maybe no? Choose then ‘maybe yes’. The odds are so much the better.
“In addition to a world of these and more: This: is a world of dead baby ducks. And by the very same token the Buddha disciple bless the bottom of his foot for any preemptive dispatch of insect life, you, me, we, no one has a right to not know it.”
Then with the slow calm of a Sunday after church gone to market aside: Lourde did then say into Winchester’s shifty eye.
“When all the human blood, when all the blood of men is spilt as per your tinsy god. He will cry. Piss. And moan. Crap fuck little shit that he is. For all of his smudged and bloody little toys will then be broken. Oh well. Afterwhich, my dearest Winchester, he will come for you and for yours. When then the day will darken: out of season. For there will be no more human blood anywhere. Neither true. Nor: puesdo-such.
“As a simple pilgrim, a journeyman, my query is this: Does this prospect make you happy or not happy?
“Children of darkness, please...” with the longer nail of his pinky finger, Lourde point to the logo upon the stabby little lab tool’s packaging then across the great study’s expanse to the diamond leaden glaze into which has been worked a red rose of stain glass that be one and the same with the other.
“It need it, that you really should see it in the days light. As the colors stream through prettily so to be sure.”
At this he does not await the give or the take. But step to her and stand. Nearly eye: to eye. Soon softly, with his forehead that he touch to hers as their eyes are averted lower at peace, he offer her his up turned palms that she then put her fingertips into lightly when then he hold onto her in this way as he ask of her in a whisper;
“Why didn’t you come to save me?”
“Lourde, if here if now that is your name, then; Beloved too, you have saved yourself.” In a whisper first she did reply as dreamt.
Excerpt: Blood House, Within the Realm of Monday ~ John Russell Smithhttp://dadadot.org/Blood%20House.htmResultant? There are not vampires...only people who think they are ~
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