Their Love Will Drain You

Vampires are so romantic - that is, until they murder you horribly

Before I say anything else, I'd like to thank Jolie Du Pre for once again including my little-read, mostly-bullshit blog on the Vampire Bite Blog Hop. Sorry that I'm too technologically retarded to properly display your badge/logo thingy!

Happy Valentines Day, folks! Much love to anyone that might even remotely call themselves a fan of my scrawlings. And if you hate what I do ... well, heck, I tried.

So, the topic for today is ... vampires.

Vampires ... oh, those goddamned vampires. Alternately terrifying and completely harmless in a buff, handsome, rich, gee-whiz-lookit-me-I'm-a-sexy-beast-with-a-tortured-soul kind of way. How did such a fearsome legend become associated with an image that's so weak and toothless, anyhow? Who's to blame for this outrage?

"It's that goddamned Stephenie what's-her-face," you say, your lip curling with a horror-snob's withering disdain. "She's lame and shit," you add. Well, Stephenie what's-her-face certainly didn't help the situation any, but she's not really to blame. In my humble opinion, the blame rests solely on the shoulders of Bram Stoker. Dracula? He was a Victorian sex machine, that fucking guy. He eye-fucked the exposed ankles of daring maidens, and when his fangs popped their neck-cherries, there were many implied orgasms. He was ultra-rich, suave, mysterious ... and although Stoker does not make mention of it, the Count's undead penis was probably all rigor-mortised up to perfection.

So whaddya think? Would vampires be melancholy, lonely, impoverished creatures, unable to function in any way in a society that, in their eyes, is made up of delicious walking milkshakes? Alternately, is it more likely that they would be decadent, lavishly wasteful, uncaring caricatures of high society? Malevolent beings that eat children's hearts on a bed of black caviar? Such a creature would make for an excellent banker or big-dick player on the stock exchange; although I suppose that a banker's hours would be out of the question. Its hard to maintain the image of a debonair playboy if your fucking face is melting because you are engulfed by sulfurous flames ... or so I would assume.

What's interesting about the vampire myth, to me, is its universal prevalence in many different cultures. Most European nations have their own version, as did a lot of Middle Eastern cultures - add to this growing list China, Japan, Russia, various African nations ... all of them have legendary tales of dead things, running around at night, drinking blood and getting up to all sorts of murderous shenanigans. The fuck is that all about? It's easy to conceive, I suppose, that the story originated with one particular pre-history group of people, who then spread it as they forged bravely ahead onto new pastures, fleeing all kinds of natural horrors on the way. And who knows? Maybe these hypothetical, pre-history, stone-age ancestors of ours really were, at some point, being plagued by some menace that was, in some manner, vampire-esque: maybe  it was a marauding tribe of blood-drinking cannibals that they constantly had to fight off, or perhaps they were occasionally harried by some horrid kind of mutant human/primate offshoot - one that had pointy teeth and was fond of biting jugular veins. The lack of publicized archaeological evidence means nothing - maybe no one has ever found the fossilized remains of such a thing because they simply haven't stumbled on it yet.

Or ... have they? There are many, many people in high positions that would, for various reasons, want a find like that to disappear. (Cue orchestra strike as the camera zooms in on my eyes, which widen theatrically). Or, consider this - their dead sometimes had a bad habit of clawing their way out of their shallow graves, with a thirst for blood and a bad attitude. Fuck knows why - radiation? Sun flares! Yeah, I'll go with that one.

I dunno, man. I like talking shit. That's what horror writing is, really; talking shit, and trying to make it sound believable. I think that, if you can imagine something, then it probably exists somewhere, in one form or another. As far as I know, there's goddamned vampires living in my basement. Who's to say they aren't?

And who's to say that they can't love?

A Tribute To My Valentine

I hate this night, more than all the rest of the long, lonely nights of the year. It comes every year, and I dread it. I'm in torment ... I thirst. I'm cold, so cold; my body is one with the clammy, frigid floor of the basement that I hide in. It's dark down here, but I can see the spiders and rats that I hunt just fine. I don't need light to see. I don't need it to live, not like you do. Do you miss me still? Do you wonder about what became of me anymore?

I hate this night, more than every wretched night of my existence. I follow you sometimes, on the occasions when you go out after sunset with your husband and children; I watch as you walk and laugh with them, with him, and even though I want to scream my despair to the stars I don't. I smile instead. Because I love you, and I always will. Every night, when my eyes spring open and I realize, once again, that my dreams of you were nothing but lies that loneliness told me - every night I'm glad that the bastard took me, and not you. I was trailing behind you at the fair when it snatched me. You never even suspected what really happened ... and I'm so fucking glad that you didn't, because it could have easily been you that got carried off that night, so many years ago. You should never know this horror, what it's like to be dead and cold and so thirsty, so alone. No, my love, not you. Not ever.

That's why I'm going to leave the basement at sunrise. I want to see the sun again. I have to do this - because, if I don't, I won't be able to fight the raging temptation anymore. I can't spend another Valentine's Day without you. Seeing you last year really hurt, more than it ever has. I punched holes in the floor down here, I seethed and wept and shrieked. I ripped handfuls of brick from the wall and ground them to dust. This awful life without you hurts so much ... but I'd rather die than bring you down here with me.When I feel the burning of the sun, it will be your kiss, warming me for one last time. I'll burn as I've always burned for you, and the ashes left behind will be my last tribute to you - my heart, my love, my lost Valentine.

My Brush With Medieval-Style Pestilence

OR; Yet Another Reason Why Moving Is Terrible

A few months ago, the GF and myself decided that it was time for our fledgling little family to move out of an apartment and into a house. More room and such. So I spent all kinds of money on new shit and threw away old shit and then spent more money on I don't even know what the fuck, y'know? Money, money, and more money. Thinking myself crafty, I decided to move all the smaller stuff and boxes in my van, then let a moving company deal with all the large and heavy crap.


Not that they were slow, incompetent or discourteous, no; they were actually pretty awesome and did their job well. The problem lay in the fact that, at some point in the recent past, some dirty motherfuckers hired that same truck and their shit was covered with fucking bed bugs. Here's what I mean (it's a stock photo that I got off of Google, not my own skillful close-up photography, aha):

They apparently hitched a ride on our beds (and possibly couches) into the house. My girlfriend discovered the problem at about one AM on our second night here; she was reading in bed while I was brushing my teeth and doing the going-to-bed ritual, and just happened to notice something crawling around on the ground sheet beside her. It was a big, blood-filled, fucking cocksucking mother-buggering bed bug. She ran downstairs to share the horrifying news with me, and showed me the horrid thing's smeared, bloody carcass. We changed the bedding and reluctantly went to sleep. In the morning, I threw back the covers and immediately saw another bed bug crawling around on the underside of the comforter. Fuck! Sheer, skin-crawling repulsion! Thus began a four-day, sun-up-to-midnight battle against the awful, filthy little vampires, a battle which, to date, has cost me around five hundred fazoolies. Can you believe that shit?

This is a horror blog, and this experience is one of unadulterated horror. I am seriously wigged out by parasitic insects. I had to deal with a flea infestation once when I was a teenager (they came home with me on my clothes from a friend's house - his family had a zillion cats and they were all covered with sand fleas). That shit was just fucking god-awful, yes indeed, but bed bugs are a hundredfold worse. They have a stigma attached to them - anyone with a goddamn cat has had a flea problem at some point, but if you have bed bugs in your house, you are viewed as being a dirty, disgusting human being.

Ah, yes, the cost - the kid had to stay with the grandparents for a few nights, and I had to buy a goddamned steam-cleaner, a new shop-vac and a shitload of poison. We had to wash and/or severely dry all of our clothes and blankets, every fucking stitch of them. I'm talking twenty or more loads of laundry, for Christ's sake. Our electricity bill is going to break us. We're going to die, homeless and plagued with vitamin deficiency diseases, all because I was too lazy to move my couches myself. Fuck me sideways, man, what a kick in the ass.

Parasites. What a bunch of little bitches. Arrgh! Fuck off and make your way into the combative side of the food chain, you little pussies! Fight other insects to the death and eat them like real men; don't crawl out in the dead of night and suck my blood while I'm sleeping and defenseless. Cowards. I wish that I could shrink myself down to their size and beat their ugly little faces in with brass knuckles. I'd fucking sodomize them.

It's been two days since I've seen one, and I'm praying that our regimen of steaming, shop-vacuuming, laundering and poisoning has eradicated the little monsters clear off the face of the galaxy. I hope it fucking hurt, too. I hope it fucking hurt a lot.

The one good thing about this shit? It has inspired the makings of a very creepy, nasty short story.

Speaking of which, here's a bunch of super-shorts that I haven't shared with you on my blog yet. Enjoy!

P.S. Don't ever get a moving truck. DO ... NOT.

At the Fringes

Do you know that moment when consciousness blurs into the realm of sleep, and the physical world becomes a fantastical landscape of dreams? Well, if you train yourself to look carefully at your surroundings at this moment (and this takes a long, long time to do, mind you) you will observe that there are shadowy figures at the fringes.

Further adding to the unsettling nature of this observation, it can be easily discerned that these figures are reaching for you.

Now, I'm not openly inferring anything, here, I'm just saying - a LOT of people go missing, every year, every month and week and day; more people than you will personally know in your lifetime. Where do they all go?

A Hot Meal

The little girl was ragged and dirty, clad in an ancient and thread-bare little red dress. She wasn't even wearing any shoes. Jamie figured that this one was definitely not going to be missed anytime soon. With very little coercion, he coaxed the girl into leaving the playground and coming with him for "something good to eat."

They crossed the street hand-in-hand. Jamie looked furtively around and didn't see anyone; perfect. "We'll just go to my car over here and I'll drive us over to someplace fun," he explained to the grinning little sprite. As he helped the girl into the passenger seat, he continued, "Bet you haven't had a hot meal in a while, huh? Where's your parents, kiddo? Don't they care?" The girl grinned even wider and said something, but Jamie had already closed the door on her answer; at this point, time was of the essence. He rapidly strolled around and got into the car himself.

"What were you saying about your parents, hun?" he asked. "Are they not around anym- OH JESUS CHRIST!"

The awful thing beside him cackled and seized hold of his face. Thick talons ripped through his cheeks and sank into Jamie's tongue like hot knives into butter. In a voice that was choked by earth and rotting leaves, it gurgled, "I said, 'my parents are dead and dust, little man'. Now ... what's this about a hot meal..."

Shall We Begin?

Okay, you fucking scumbag, let's get that hood off of you - there we go. Naw, the gag can stay. I don't wanna hear anything that you have to say. Nothing that you could possibly say to me would make any difference, anyway, shithead; the money's changed hands, and it's a done deal. I have no pity for you. That's why people seek out my services - because I have no empathy in my heart. None.

I bet you wanna pretend that you don't know why you're here, am I right? Well, let me recap the situation for you. Two nights ago, you lured a drunk young girl away from a frat party and convinced her to go for a ride in your fancy car, remember that? Yeah, you remember, c'mon, kid ... this ain't the type of thing that someone just forgets about. You beat the shit out of her and raped her. Then you burnt her all over with a cigar, then you tried stabbing her to death; but whatever you were using wasn't doing the job, and she was probably screaming a lot too, wasn't she? So you dragged her out of the car and ran her over a few times, back and forth, over and over. Remember? She died in the hospital, but not before she gave us a little something - your name and license plate number, ahaha.

Well, guess what? This poor girl's father isn't some goofy shmuck like you and your frat buddies, he's ... well, he's a somebody, if you get what I mean. He's a man of means. He knows people. He knows me, and now I know you, you little piece of shit. So ... eye for an eye, that's what the old man wants. As you can see, I've got here a tire iron, a cigar and lighter, a very large dildo, and the keys to a steam roller that's parked out back. Shall we begin?

Like Midnight and Mist

Liz, please listen to me; I didn't have a mental breakdown, okay? Believe me ... well, not yet, anyway, aha. I'm probably getting close. Fuck the pills, I won't take the pills that they gave me; I don't need those things. What I need is to stay alert, so that I can keep watch for them. I don't dare relax my vigil, hell no, I hardly dare to even sleep for more than ten minutes at a time ... what's that? Watch for who? Ha! God, how I envy your ignorance, hun ...

They're your shadow, see? I mean, they disguise themselves as your shadow. They follow you wherever you go, all the time, constantly. I don't know where they came from, but these things have been with us for thousands of years, Liz, living off us like a sort of psychic parasite, feeding off of our bad deeds ... but that's not the worst part, hun. The worst part is that they get inside people, sometimes. They get inside you, and then they make you do bad things. I killed mine, when I finally saw it for what it was. I killed it with fire, that's how the house burned down, see? They're like leeches; like midnight and mist in the form of a lamprey. You have no idea how awful these things are. They smell of sour hate and decay, these things, they-

What?! NO! I'm not going back to the hospital, get it through your skull! I don't need help, I need someone to fucking listen! I didn't kill anyone, they did, goddamn it! Put the phone down - I said put it down! Why won't you fucking listen to me? Wait ... is it ... fuck, is it in you? Let me see your eyes! Oh ... oh Jesus, no. Not you, too ... get back! Don't make me use this, Lizzy, please. I said stop! I'll cut your fucking head off, you ghoul ... I SAID GET THE FUCK BACK-

Liz! Oh, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. Jesus Christ, baby, not you, too ...