Matt Darby

Very, very creepy Breckenridge story

2008-04-24T04:34:23Z

So I started this post this evening meaning to tell the story of how David met Isabella and Eva. I got.... this.... instead. David gets more and more evil every time I even think about him.

Enjoy!

After the War

It was the winter of 1865. I was seventeen years old. My regiment, Gray’s Regiment, the 28th Infantry of the Confederate States of America, had returned to Baton Rouge in May of that year. I had remained in the city for the summer, performing manual labor on account of my inability to read and my temporary incapacity for charm. Somehow my sense of humor was stolen from me during the war. What earnings I had managed to save up during the summer I now drank away in the winter. Drank away my money. Drank away my sorrow. Some would consider it amusing to see a seventeen year old boy reflecting upon his wasted youth. I could never see the humor in it. Then, in January of 1866, I realized that I had a mouth to feed and no food to put into it. After asking a number of friends for loans and being smartly refused by each, I resolved to take my daily rations by fraud or by force.

Unfortunately, all of the butcher’s shops had burly men guarding the counter, and all of the bakeries had guns hidden under the cashbox. I decided to abide by the laws of commerce and purchase my bread with gold. Which, naturally, necessitated the ownership of gold. And there was precious little gold to be had in the city.

So I went out into the countryside to look for my gold. I found a beautiful old house that was only partially burnt by the union troops. It had not been repaired, so I surmised that there was no man about to fix it. There was a lit candle visible through the window, however, which led me to believe that there was a woman around to light it. Where there is money for candles, there is money for food. It was only much later that I reflected upon the presence of glass in the panes. Glass which by all rights should have been broken by the Union troops, and probably was.

I knocked on the door. I heard nothing. Nothing, other than the soft shuffle of feet, the blowing out of a candle, and stillness. This is a game I had played quite frequently during the war. I had various techniques to deal with the situation, all of them charming. Sometimes I would say, “Oh please sir, won’t you please open the door? I’m so cold and starving, I could almost bite my own thumb off I’m so hungry.” Sometimes I would lie, and shout in alarm that good men were in danger, and that their very lives depended upon you helping them, won’t you please open this door? Which, in point of fact, wasn’t a lie at all. Sometimes I would sing songs. This last way was one of the most effective weapons in my arsenal. Although, truth be told, as the war staggered on to its threadbare ending, cries of desperation opened more doors than did songs of patriotism.

That night I decided to change my tactics entirely. As I mentioned earlier, the war had stolen my sense of humor, and I despised using charm to obtain my goal. Instead, I simply stood still, not moving a muscle. A breeze kicked up. I shivered, but clenched my jaw so my teeth would not chatter. I waited for ten minutes. The inhabitant of the house was apparently well acquainted with the quiet game. Finally, I heard a rustle of skirts approach the door. I moved to the side, anticipating a gun. I was not disappointed.

The door opened a crack and a rifle peeped out. Fortunately, guns are blind to seventeen year old boys hidden beside the doorframe. I grabbed the barrel and pointed it over my shoulder, even as I blocked the door with my foot. A little old woman wearing a warm winter dress looked up at me, grinning fiend of mischief that I was. Perhaps the war had not stolen all of my humor after all, only my good humor.

“Good evening, grandmother,” I said. “These are dangerous times indeed. One such as yourself must be exceedingly careful in order to avoid the less comely sorts of characters, of which there are many in these lands. Fortunately God has smiled upon you this evening and has sent you a protector. Open your home to me, good woman, for I have fought long and hard to protect the innocents of the South from the hellish incursion of the North.”

The old lady bunched her mouth into a pout of defiance. “No!” She said. “Bandit! Come after my food!” She shook the gun with each word, trying to pull it out of my hand.

“Lady!” I laughed. “Lady! One so handsome as yourself should behave more decorously. Now, I will come inside and instruct you on your proper course of action.”

I lifted the gun from her hands, half surprised and half disappointed that she did not pull the trigger as I did so. The bullet would have brought down a shower of splinters from the old porch roof and made me laugh. I moved through the house, holding the gun above my head and finally depositing it in a high kitchen cupboard beyond her reach. All the while the worthy old woman beat me with her arthritic fists, cursing me and deploring me while I leered down at her.

“What’s this?” I asked, approaching the kitchen table. “It looks like you’ve cooked me a bowl of gruel for my supper. Poor fair indeed for a war hero such as I am, but I suppose allowances will have to be made for the times. Now, old woman,” I said, turning serious, “I want you to listen to me this very instant and not say a word.”

The woman did as I requested.

“Do you see these Colt revolvers I wear at my hip?” Her eyes traveled downwards and widened. Apparently she had missed this rather important detail during her onslaught.

“These Colt revolvers have taken the lives of seventeen Union officers.” The actual number at the time was one wounded Confederate soldier upon whom I took pity and shot in the head before our unit retreated. My killing I did with my rifle, and what with the dust clouds and the confusion of battle it is impossible for me to know how frequently I broke the Fifth Commandment.

“Seventeen Union officers, and one scalawag who lived not five miles from this very house. You ask me how I know he was a scalawag? Because he refused to feed a poor starving Confederate veteran who put his life on the line so many, many times to ensure his freedom against the incursive imperialist threat. That is how I know he was a scalawag. Fortunately, my darling, I sense no such malevolent presence in this here room. In fact, I would say that I can sense patriotism positively reeking from it. Now, ain’t I right about that?”

The woman was shaking now, but not from the cold. She nodded.

“That’s what I was hoping for. Now, why don’t you give a poor, hungry Confederate soldier his rightful pay?”

The woman approached the steaming bowl of porridge on the table. Trembling hands picked it up and lifted it towards me. Then, when I reached for it, she pulled back faster than a rattlesnake and flung the bowl in my face.

“Bitch!” I yelled, rubbing gruel out of my eyes. I swore at her. Then I drew my gun and fired a warning shot. Looking back, I wonder that I retained the presence of mind to shoot above her skull, instead of into it. I doubt whether I would have done the same fifty years later. Youthful kindness has its place even in a soul as dead as mine.

My gun burned, hot, a talisman of power vibrating in my eager hand. The power flowed up my arm like a strong shot of whiskey, bringing clarity to my eyes and a smirking grin to my mouth.

“Well, darling, it looks like you’ve got more brains than I gave you credit for a half second ago. Far less than I thought you had thirty seconds previously, however. Now, you bitch, you whore of the devil, Satan’s crone, turn around and walk towards me.”

Whatever bravery the lady showed when she threw the meal had fled from her, leaving behind a shivering, bloodless husk of a woman. She did as I bade.

“Please have a seat, my darling. Oh, not in that chair, dear, it’s not polite for a woman to assume the head of the table when there’s a man around.”

She moved towards another chair.

“Really, my darling, my beautiful flower, do you really think I would let you sit at my right hand after the stunt you just pulled? Naughty naughty, dear heart, I’m afraid you have dreadfully misbehaved. The left hand, please, and I must ask you to display the proper humility when you assume your station.”

The lady, still trembling, dropped a fumbling curtsey. She walked towards the chair I had in mind and collapsed into it. She was having trouble breathing. I was standing perhaps eight feet from her, leaning against the counter. My left elbow stuck out from my body as my hand rested jauntily on my hip. My right elbow supported a goodly portion of my weight. My gun dangled carelessly from my right index finger. Vanity has ever been one of my great faults, but it was worse in my youth. I fancied that I looked collected, handsome, debonair. In truth, I knew I did.

“I am right handed,” I told her as I left my pose and stood above her chair. “Some would say my left is purely for decorational purposes only. Fact of the matter is, I can’t hit the broad side of a barn with my left hand. Can’t draw worth nothing, either, comes to that. I suppose what I’m saying is, when I give you this here gun, I’m as defenseless as a newborn babe that just got spanked by the midwife.”

I laid the gun in front of her and backed up to my post by the counter.

“Could probably shoot me so I’d be dead before I hit the ground. And don’t you worry about the mess none, either. Folks would say I’m pretty sweet, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I make right good eating, which is probably worth a little mess, wouldn’t you say? No? I notice you’re not picking up the gun, dearest.”

In fact, I doubted whether she would be able to. Her breath came in noisy whistles now. A glob of snot had made it halfway down the crevasse between her nose and her mouth, and her eyes were ready to overflow. I considered it a credit to her that her nose let go before her eyes did.

“Pick up the gun, you hag.” The woman shook her head, mucous flying from her face.

“Do it or I’ll show you how well my left hand actually shoots.” This stilled her head, but her breathing was more and more audible. I wondered whether any oxygen at all was able to fit through her constricted throat.

“You’ll” wheeze “You’ll” whistle “You’ll” choke “You’ll” she said.

“I’ll what, sugar? Kill you if you touch that gun? You got me all wrong, sweetheart. I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Summoning reserves of strength I doubt she knew she had, still wheezing, she turned her head towards me. Slowly, slowly, she took the gun into her hands.

“Well done, grandmother!” I applauded. “I didn’t think you had it in you! Now, you see the chair directly across from you? I want you to shoot it, would you please.”

The lady hesitated.

“Shoot it!” The boy screamed.

The lady pulled the trigger. The bullet went south, between the ribs of the chair’s back and into the wallpaper. I exploded.

“Are you blind, old bitch? Shoot the” I swore “chair!” She fired again.

“Shoot it!” Bang.

“Shoot it!” Bang.

“I can’t believe” bang “you’re still missing!” bang. “Finally! It’s about” swear “time, old” impolite name.

The blood rage had gone to her eyes, and I recognized it through the blood rage coursing through my own. She turned towards me with murderous intent, galvanized into battle with the shots I had forced her to fire.

“Not so fast, honey,” I told her, my voice instantly returning to its accustomed decorous volume and tenor. Drawing my left gun with a rapidity that would have amazed any duelist, I caught the barrel of her gun on the guide sight of mine and pushed the burning barrel into her cheek. I imagine she bore the tattoo I gave her that night for the rest of her life. Lord only knows how her vocal chords survived the scream they emitted.

Bang!

A gun fired, and not my own. In one movement I shoved the old lady to the ground, looked up to identify the intruder, raised my gun and fired, all as I sprang to the right in order to duck behind the counter.

The old woman was screaming now, adding indignity to shame and pain as she struggled to right herself from the capsized chair. I noted that my gun which she had been holding was now knocked to the far side of the kitchen.

I heard a body slump down around the general area of the intruder, but I wasn’t willing to take any chances. I opened a cupboard door and found an old rag. I yelled and threw it up, hoping to draw gunfire. None came. I still refused to move.

The lady eventually found her feet. Rather, she found her knees, for these are what she used to creep towards the man I had shot. When I heard grief mingled into her sobs, and cries of “John! My precious John!” I knew I had nothing more to fear.

I still peaked around the side of the counter rather than confidently rising over the top. Caution has ever been a quality that I value in myself and abhor in others. Tonight it proved unnecessary. The man was dead as dead ever was, slouched into his doorframe with a bullet hole struck through his forehead. I walked towards him with my gun drawn anyway, and reached to pry his rifle from his dead fingers.

“Don’t you touch him!” The woman said, slapping my hand. Her breathing had become quieter, although it still whistled. Her eyes glowed with an intensity that forbade any attempts at humor. Lord preserve me, I still thought it was funny. Little old lady slapping my hand. Grinning, I reached for his gun.

“I said don’t you touch him you monster!” Her impotent hands struck my arms, my face, my side. Just as I gained possession of the dead man’s gun, her fist struck my crotch. My smile left my face. She had not struck me hard enough to cause any pain, even in that sensitive area, but I no longer found any humor in the situation.

“Oh I see,” I said, “You think your dead are special. I assure you, they are not. The blood of my brothers has poured into this soil to preserve it from Yankee occupation. But you wouldn’t appreciate it, that’s right, not you. The Confederate army didn’t fall because its soldiers wouldn’t fight hard enough, no siree. We failed because we starved to death. Because greedy old farmers like you wouldn’t grow the crops we needed to feed our stinking bodies.”

The ancient turned towards me, her breath quieted by righteous valor. I swear she drew herself up to twice my height, although she remained kneeling by her fallen hero.

“My husband fought in Gray’s Regiment. He served his country well.”

Then, and only then, did I look at the man’s face. I never knew Old John Calhoun especially well, but we had exchanged pleasantries a number of times. Once I had tripped over an old root and spilled my soup. Old John promptly poured half of his portion into my empty bowl. I thanked him courteously, but never did feel particularly indebted to him. I was a young boy fighting a man’s war, and the men always looked out for me. Benefit of being a mascot.

I felt the red battle haze condense into something far blacker and less welcome. My vision squeezed into a single peep hole through which I could see the old lady’s face and very little else. Her sobs, or had they become my own? had a tinny sound to them. I felt as if I were moving underwater. My entire body burned.

“Know thyself!” Plato insisted. And I do. Quite well. And did, even at that time, although not quite so well. I knew that I would have a seizure within the next few minutes. I also knew that I was only holding one of my beloved guns.

I turned my head as a submarine captain turns a periscope, looking for signs of the kitchen and my revolver. I saw a shattered chair and walked, crawled? towards it. It seemed like a good fifteen minutes before my compressed eyesight finally moved across the shiny barrel of my Colt, but it was probably closer to fifteen seconds. Once I recovered my darling I made my way towards the door. I navigated more by feel and memory than by sight. Had the woman decided to end my life that night as I had her husband’s, I have no doubt I would never have seen the sun rise the next morning. I do not know whether it was mercy or grief that saved my life.

I awoke with the sun a few hours later, approximately a half mile from the house. There was blood next to my mouth, which didn’t surprise me. I often bit my tongue during my temporary insanities. I sat up. My flailing limbs had created, not a snow angel, but perhaps a snow demon.

Often after my sickness I have temporary lapses of memory. Indeed, I have no idea how much of my life I have forgotten, for I have no way of knowing which memories have fled and which I never possessed in the first instance. That morning I knew the monstrous deed I had committed the previous night. I knew that I had left a weeping old woman embracing her dead husband, dead by my hand. I knew that I had committed sacrilege against my own creed. I knew that, if I did not return, then the widow of my brother would starve to death.

With that knowledge, I resolved to leave for New Orleans. “Beautiful old queen, you have certainly outshone me tonight,” I muttered to myself. Turning towards the house which was now lost in the trees, I pronounced a benediction.

“May your days be filled quiet hope. Know that you are blessed, and that the good lord Jesus Christ will welcome you into his fold. Because you are good. You are an angel.”

I spat to the side. Then I unbuttoned my fly and made water. I finished my benediction as I performed my morning necessary.

“And may you be damned for damning me.”

Fake embrace story

2008-03-07T00:45:21Z

This is a story I wrote up about the embrace of my brand new child, played by http://book-ish-one.livejournal.com/, but it's not actually what happened. In fact, nothing even similar to this happened. But it was fun to get inside of Breckenridge's head =)

As torpor has taken its toll on my memory and, some would claim, of my sanity, I have endeavored to clear the mists through a recitation of significant moments of my life as I now view them. This endeavor is dual-porposed: the first being that, if I am able to spot holes in my memory or logical conflicts between my various recollections, the truth may find its way to me. The second is that, in the event that I once again fall asleep, I will recover this document and retain a somewhat less dimmed account of my origins than that which I may posses in the future.

Because I have recently enjoyed a reunion with my three girls, I think it is both right and proper that I should begin my recollections with a recounting of my history with each of them. Such a narrative will necessarily be long and drawn out. I will begin this larger work with a preface, a brief outline of my relations to them, with an intention of returning to this preface with a more full-bodied recitation.

I begin with Artemesia. This, because she was the first to enter my life, and also because my feelings towards her feel most true. To describe my meaning in a different cast of words, I never fell in love with her. This is not as harsh a statement as it may first appear, because the feeling (or lack thereof) is entirely reciprocated. We have always been fond of one another, and have always perceived each other as capable and trusted business partners. This relationship I find to be far superior than that which I have seen exhibited between many sires and childer, including that between my own sire and myself.

In the year 1887 I embarked upon a tour of the Continent with my wife, Harriet Breckenridge. At the time, we were still able to pass as husband and wife, although we both realized that the time for this true deception was coming to a close. Indeed, upon this tour I was occasionally mistaken for the trophy husband, a misconception that I found both fascinating and hillarious. Truly the Continent was well advanced beyond our own in order to even conceive of such a concept. Many moments from this vacation are imprinted upon my memory and are sacred to me; however, this being but an outline of the highlights of my life, I will not endeavor to describe any of them. Instead, I skip to the voyage home. We had recently disembarked from Rome upon a Steamer, a luxury cruiser highly advanced for its time. The year was now 1888, during the summertime, and we were each eager to return to our home state of Louisiana. I would like to point out in a quick caveat that traveling by cruise ship is one of the most dangerous endeavors a kindred can undertake. The natural occupation of a passenger on such a boat is to frolick in the sunshine and to participate in contrived yet amusing activities during the daylight hours. I claimed unnatural vanity, an abhorrance to tanned skin, and stayed indoors in order to protect my pale complexion.

The midnight hours were, as always, my opportunities for action, and to dispell the pervasive ennui that invades nearly every moment of cruise ship travel. My dearest Harriet would often stay inside during these hours because she did not wish to see my ply my trade among the passengers. It hurt her to see me seduce; however, such was my clearest access to sustenance.

Nearly every person, or at least every passenger, finds himself (or herself, as I must continually remind myself in this modern age) drunk as the night wears on. One night I tired of the incessant stink of alcohol, and sat myself outside of the dance hall in one of the chairs specifically reserved for either sun tanning or starlight gazing. To my right lounged a beautiful maiden perusing a book. She was reading by moonlight. Feeling tired, I did not wish to disturb her studies, but rather quietly lay and looked at the stars.

“They bore you too, do they not?” Had I not becomed accustomed to Italian accents on my vacation, I doubt that I would have been able to understand the words. I looked over to find the woman smiling at me.

“I believe that most people are entitled to become weary of the constant demands of social activity,” I replied. “Do I find a kindred spirit sitting to my right?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, with a smile playing across her lips. “But, on the other hand, perhaps it is not because of weariness that I have come out here, but for some other reason.”

“Ah.” I replied. “May I presume that this reason may be found in that book you hold in your hands?”

“Partially,” she admitted. “But it is also the setting. It is fine to read Rousseau by daylight, it is another thing to read Rousseau by moonlight.”

“Rousseau!” I almost laughed. I had ever heard the name Rousseau cross a woman’s lips before, except in imitations of their husbands. And yet, the only way to communicate with women is to meet them at their own level of vanity. “I have met many savages in my day, my dear, but none of them have been noble. And I doubt that any of them will be.”

“Ah,” she replied, “but you are forgetting that” and here she babbled off into a stream of perfect French. I turned towards her, truly looking at her for the first time.

“Begging your pardon, my dear, but I assumed you were Italian?”

“Of course I am Italian!” she stated indignantly. “It is only in America where you will find people,” here she struggled for the word, “pretentious enough to learn only one language. I assure you that on the Continent we are much more dignified.”

It is the curse of my gender that whenever we are humiliated in the smallest way, we always feel our blood boil. And it is worse when the insult comes from someone who is supposed to be weaker than ourselves, and it is the height of defacement when we are forbidden by social constraints from retaliating against the instigator of the assault. In short, nothing turns a grown man into a blustering fool more quickly than the smoothly placed insult of a superior woman.

And so I desired to take my revenge upon my companion that night. In a petty, mean sort of way.

“Well, in that case,” I replied, “I ask your forgiveness for my uncouth pretension, and ask to kiss your hand as a token of your favor.”

“Granted,” she replied, and extended her hand. I took it, turned it over, and kissed her palm. Then I looked into her surprised eyes, and pulled her hand towards me, though she resisted. My teeth found the pulsing vein in her wrist and I fed that night on blood untainted by the poison that men call alcohol.

The kiss is always an experience unto itself. Although it is repeated over and over, perhaps thousands of times a year, each feeding is unique and cannot be replicated. A kindred tastes a mortal’s soul, if there is such a thing, and gains an intimacy that cannot be matched by any form of crude physical contact. That night the knowledge that I gained from my newfound friend confirmed that which I already knew: that this female was worth watching.

The following night I sought her out in the same moonlit spot. I did not expect to find here there. Mortals usually respond to the kiss by actively seeking out their apparent paramour, so entranced by the kiss are they. A minority are frightened by the experience and flee their pursuers for the rest of their lives. The latter are the wise ones. My friend was neither of these. I found her exactly as I had the previous night, engrossed in a book, reading by moonlight.

“More Rousseau?” I asked, standing above her.

“No,” she replied, “I finished that last night. Now I have moved on to a new classic, St. Augustine’s Confessions.”

“In the original Greek?” I inquired, jokingly.

“It is written in Latin,” she replied, seriously.

I knew that, had we enjoyed this interchange on the previous evening, I would have been furious, and the girl might not have fared well. Tonight, however, I was smitten. She had already proven her dominance, and I was intoxicated. I had to learn more.

“I do not believe that we were properly introduced last night. My name is David Breckenridge, Jr.”

“Artemesia di Lauria,” she replied, refusing to take my outstretched hand. Apparently she did remember the previous night in some manner.

“After the painter?”

“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Mr. Breckenridge, I had taken you for a lost cause. If you are able to tell me her patronym, I will allow you to sit by my side again.”

“Gentileschi,” I replied, smiling. And thanked my lucky stars that Harriet had asked to see the art museums by candlelight.

Thus began my relationship with Artemesia di Lauria. The tone that was set upon our first encounter continued through the years. She was always the active force, I always the reactive. I find it both entertaining and informative that I neither recognized nor admitted this critical fact before today. We remained in contact after the voyage, and I followed her path through school, and she cut my picture out of the newspaper. Eventually her insatiable mind turned to the occult and matters of witchcraft and magic. Naturally, most of what she read was pure hogwash, and she recognized it as such. However, she proved uncannily apt at picking away the grains of truth from the chaff of mythology.

Looking back, I wonder at my own ineptitude and foolish allowance for unnecessary risk. I made a habit of calling upon her once every week or two, simply to wallow in the latest subjects she was studying or to ask her opinion on a certain political situation or philosophical viewpoint. I am now ashamed to admit it, but I would often enter her mind to judge her true reaction to my own monologues, or to determine her own feelings regarding a subject upon which she was expounding. Then, when I recognized that she had taken up the study of the occult, I gauged her mental state even more intently, intrigued by the paths she took to arrive at her conclusions regarding me.

Then it happened. I remember one particular visit in which Artemisia held in her mind the answer which we both knew to be correct, but which only one of us had the courage to vocalize. And at that meeting, I did not choose to so vocalize. I was enjoying myself extraordinarily, discussing Descartes and Plato while her mind was trapped soundly in this hemisphere. I do believe that it was on that night that I was actually able to catch Artemesia in the first and last mistake that I ever heard her make. I don’t even recall what it was.

The tension only mounted, her discomfort and my enjoyment rising simultaneously and in equal measure. For three months I visited her almost every day, feeding on her anxiety just as truly as I fed off of the blood of the poor locals I hurriedly entranced prior to our meetings. Inevitably, the dam burst.

I remember that I was eating an orange. I believe that I had brought her a basket of fruit that night, because she did not normally indulge in such frivolities. I was sitting in an uncomfortable wicker chair in the uncomfortable little room that her most uncomfortable school had provided for her. Lounging, rather than sitting—indeed, with her I retained few of the formalities that I exhibited towards other women. I even smoked in front of her, although I was not smoking that night.

“Why do you do that?” she asked, clearly having lost a debate with herself.

“Do what, my dear?” I mocked, noisily sucking on my orange.

“Eat that orange, of course!”

“I eat it because it is succulent and juicy and sweet.” I slurped on a section with unnecessary volume.

“But you don’t need it!” She exclaimed, growing visibly red.

“My dear child, I am not quite sure I understand your meaning,” I replied. “Why would I not need it?”

“Because you’re a vampire!” The redness left her face in favor of a snowy white hue, then that more livid of colors returned with gathered force.

“Certainly.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, and ran out of the room. I remained seated, laughing silently. In ten minutes or so she came back.

“Ms. di Lauria, I thought you might return. I would offer you a seat, but then, of course, you would remind me that we are conversing in your own room.” I didn’t even rise to greet her. What a bastard I am.

“Well,” she began, “I’m glad we got that messy business behind us.” She had clearly been crying, but she had wiped her face and her voice held reasonably steady. I could not help but admire.

“As am I.”

“Now the only question is, where do we go from here?”

“Indeed. Where.”

“You will now turn me into a vampire.”

“Not in a million years.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I retain it. Pardon should only be given when requested sincerely.”

“But, but,” she blustered. Artemesia does not often bluster, but when she does, she does it poorly. “Why would you show me what you are if you don’t intend to turn me?”

“Oh, for various reasons. But mostly for my own amusement. You have no idea how much I have enjoyed these last few months, Ms. Artemesia di Lauria.”

Artemesia’s face now assumed its third shade of the evening, turning a dark purple color.

“Get out!” She managed through her grimace. “Get out, and I swear to God, if I ever see you again I’ll...”

“Probably be begging me on your hands and knees for me to turn you into a vampire, I imagine. Don’t worry, I forgive you.” I got up and turned to go. At the doorframe, I turned and said, “Oh, and Artemesia, there is one more thing I would like you to do for me.”

Without giving her the chance to reply, I entranced her. Speaking directly into her mind, I requested that she Please close the door, be a dear. She did so. Lay down on the bed if you will, it will make the process so much easier. Naturally, she complied. I have the highest faith in your natural discretion. However, I find that an object lesson is often useful in encouraging silence, even from the most complying individuals. I therefore reveal to you but a small percentage of my actual power. I assure you that if you communicate what you have discovered to any person, using any means, then I will immediately know about it, and I will not be pleased. Now, enjoy, and sleep.

I pierced her neck with my fangs and drank in the quintessential vampire pose. I indulged more than was perhaps wise, but I was not sorry to learn that the girl spent the next week in her bed, recovering from a sudden devastating illness.

A month later I received a visitor at my home. For a second time, my attempts at intimidation had come to naught. I was far from surprise, however. Nor was I disappointed.

“I can’t stand it, this is eating me alive,” said Artemesia, pushing past me in a most disrespectful manner. She trotted into the kitchen and laid a satchel of books on the table, pulled the books out and thrust the bag aside.

“Hello to you to, my dear.” I sauntered into the kitchen, my left thumb stuck jauntily into the pocketwatch pocket on my pants and my right hand leisurely slapping the corners of walls as I walked past.

“Do you become a bloated corpse during the daytime?” she asked, both hands supporting her weight on the table, like a drunkard leaning over her drink.

“No, I remain the fine looking corpse you see before you.”

“I see,” she said, opening one of her books and violently marking through several lines of text. She looked up again. “Do you turn into a bat and fly around?”

“Certainly not. That sounds preposterously uncivilized.”

Another scratch of the pen.

“Do you sleep with your thumbs crossed and one eye open?”

“What an uncomfortable position,” I mused. She only looked at me. “No, I do not.”

“Do you have furry feet?”

“Well, that is a rather personal question, wouldn’t you say?” Another look. “No again.” The look continued. I sighed, and removed my right shoe and sock.

“David? Is everything okay?” A sleepy voice came from my bedroom.

“Yes, darling, we have a visitor,” I answered, clothing my denuded foot. “A Ms. Artemesia di Lauria has paid us an unexpected visit. I have already put on a pot of coffee for her.”

“You damn liar,” the voice grumped. “You just don’t want me to get out of bed and tend to our guests. Well, I’ll show you, sir, I’ll be a proper hostess in spite of your sins. Give me five minutes, Artemesia, and I’ll be able to greet you properly.”

“My wife, Harriet,” I said, moving to make the coffee.

“Yes, I know,” replied Artemesia.

“When in doubt, always introduce.”

A moment passed.

“Well,” she continued, “Shall we continue? Were you created when a black cat jumped over your grave?”

“I must confess that my own origins are somewhat of a mystery to me. I believe you are familiar with the incident in which I was gunned down by the Ku Klux Klan in front of the Du Jour Restaurant. I remember my body being slammed with untold numbers of bullets, and then I remember,” I shivered, my considerable reserve proving insufficient to mask my horror of that awakening, “I remember finding myself suddenly transformed. However, what you are more interested in is the typical story of the creation of one of our kind.”

“You mean there’s more?” Her active hand stilled, her astonishment unmasked upon her face.

“Certainly. In the New Orleans area alone, there are dozens of kindred.”

“Kindred,” she repeated, seizing her satchel and digging around for loose paper. “How many would you say, specifically?”

“Oh, I don’t reckon I can say specifically. It’s not my job, understand. I guess that there are perhaps, mm, forty five.”

“Forty five,” she repeated, scribing the number. “And the story you promised me? The story of a vampire’s creation?”

“My dear, I promised you no such thing. However, I will gladly inform you regardless. In order for one vampire to spawn another, he must first drain a mortal of blood. By drain him of blood, I mean he must...”

“I know what you mean,” she snapped, sharply. I grinned, reveling in her breach of composure.

“Yes. Thereupon he, the kindred, I mean, must open his own veins upon the mouth of the exsanguinated corpse. After a few seconds, the vitae will revitalize the newly deceased tissues, and the newly arisen vampire will seize the hand of his sire, trying with all his might to consume as much of that precious...”

“David Breckenridge, what are you telling her!” My wife came running out of the bedroom, only half dressed, re-buttoning her nightgown.

“Darling, do not rush upon us in such a manner,” I began. I was cut off with a slap to the face.

“Don’t you tell me how and how not to rush out of our bedroom when I hear you breaking every law that’s ever been laid down for you! You know *insert name of prince* barely tolerates you as it is, do you want him to kill you?”

I sighed dramatically and kissed her on the lips. I was rewarded by another slap.

“Don’t you try and sweet talk me, David Breckenridge, I’m not some hussy you picked up off the streets! Or your ghoul! I’m your wife, and you would do well to remember that.”

The anger rises. I push it down. “I’ve never treated you with anything but the highest respect.”

“Oh, I doubt that, David, I doubt that sincerely. Especially now, when you’ve knowingly brought this poor little girl into knowledge that no one should have to bear!”

“Madame,” began Artemesia, “I do not think that I qualify as...”

“Oh, shut up, you!” screamed the love of my life. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And for you!” She favored me with her attention. “You’ve got to cover this up. You’ve got to hire *name of a vampire with dominate* to mindwipe her. You’ve got to go down there this instant and tell him to...”

“I will do no such thing.” It was my turn to interrupt. “You forget your place, Harriet. I am your husband, and you would do well to remember that. This woman has proven herself exceptionally worthy, and I would consider it a crime to interfere with her brilliant brain in any shape or fashion.”

My wife stared, turned colors, blustered. “Harriet,” I told her, “You should go to bed.”

And, turning on her heels, she did go. Not for any supernatural intervention or for even a personal awe of David Breckenridge, Jr., but rather for a lifetime of living in a society which told her that a wife was to obey her husband.

“Now,” I turned to my guest, “where were we?”

“That was awful,” said Artemesia. She was standing, her face pale, her hand holding her quill.

“And I will thank you to keep your personal commentary on my married life to yourself. It’s bad enough having to listen to your ridiculous thoughts.”

She remained standing.

“Please, sit down,” I offered. And, slowly, she complied. “Now, where were we?”

“Uh,” grunted Artemesia, not a word but a sound of indecision. One I had never heard her utter before. She sifted through her books. “I believe... that you were describing the creation of a vampire.”

“Was I? Oh, yes. Upon awakening, a newly minted kindred feels an incredible thirst, one with which he will have to deal over the course of his entire life, but one which is never felt more strongly than at the moment of his initial embrace. This desire is one...”

Harriet stormed out of the bedroom again.

“You have to embrace her,” she said. “I know it’s against the law, but it’s the only way. You have to embrace her, David. You must. And so help me God, I’ll leave you if you don’t.”

Four eyes were riveted upon my own. And I looked down. Then I lifted them, straight into those of Artemesia.

“Is this what you desire?” I asked.

A small sound embarked from her lips, as if a word had begun in her throat but was attacked and mutilated on its way out. She lifted her hand to the source of the conflict. Finding herself unable to speak, Artemesia nodded her head.

“Very well. Please extend your arm.” She did so. I turned to my wife. “Harriet, would you please wait in the stables for a half hour or more. I do not want you to witness this abomination.”

“This is an abomination of my husband’s making, and I will stand beside him,” responded my wife. It occurred to me that I was the one who looked the most alive of everyone in the room.

“Eloquently spoken, dearest. I love you too. Deeply. And that is why I ask you to go to the stables. She will shortly become a wild animal who knows no one and respects no bounds. Quite frankly, my dear, you will die if you stay.”

“I remain with my husband.”

I nodded. “Very well. Then you must excuse me, for I must retrieve some bindings.”

I left the two women standing in the kitchen and left for the stables. I took longer than was perhaps necessary to find leather thongs. If I remember correctly, I destroyed a saddle in order to obtain the material I required. When I returned, they were sitting across from each other on the table. I do not know if they spoke one word to each other. I nodded to them, and then spoke to Artemesia.

“Please put your arms next to the back of the chair.” She did so. I tied them, hoping and praying that my knots would hold. I proceeded to bind her feet, and ran several layers across her lap, her torso, and finally her neck. I realized that I had covered almost every square inch of her body with leather, and wondered where I would remove her vitae.

“It’s not as painful as you might think, dear,” Harriet said nervously.

“I know,” whispered Artemesia.

“On the contrary,” I said, “It’s more painful than anything you’ve ever experienced before. Your body will burn and your soul will ache. You will feel as if your entire being is being torn from you, and perhaps it is. You will never spend another day as Artemisia di Lauria. And I’m not referring solely to the sun issue.”

“Sun issue?” inquired my victim, shakily.

“You mean you don’t know? You will never see the light of day again. And if you do, it will be for the last time.”

Silence.

“Ah,” squeaked Artemesia, “so that part is true, then.”

I began to untie her.

“What are you doing?” accused the girl.

“I am removing you from your bonds. You are not ready for this change.”

“You bastard,” she breathed. “I am more ready than you ever were.”

I looked at my wife. She nodded. I finished binding Artemesia.

Then I looked at her, again considering how best to approach the situation. “Any last words?” I asked, more to pass the time than to actually invite a response. My damn social finesse would not allow me to appear at a loss for how to proceed.

“Stop being so melodramatic,” she whispered.

“Fine ones indeed,” I nodded. Then I moved her hair aside and bit behind her ear. And drank deeply. And when the blood ceased to flow I lacerated my wrist and offered it to her. And she screamed and her soul screamed and Harriet screamed. And the bonds held. And that is the story of how I embraced my one and only childe.

Horsefaced

2008-01-16T02:18:42Z

I’ve been horsefaced lately. Wandering the streets, not looking for prey, not looking for anything. Just walking. Everything is so different from what it was. Empty. All is empty. I am empty. And I would achieve no satisfaction were I filled.

So different. The age is different, the area is different. The people are different. No comfort. No Tom.

I hadn’t realized how much of me was really her. How my emotions were only mirrors of hers, how my purpose was hers. I never appreciated it. I always thought that I was the important one, that I was the one in charge. I loved her, but I was the man. I wore the pants. Now I would kiss her feet and lay myself down to serve as her doormat if only she would come back into my life. If only. Why aren’t you here?

There is no vitality. The spark I thought was mine, my great energy, my never failing source of action, is quenched. And I am naught.

But I have Ava! I have my beautiful daughter, who laughs and plays and does not fear. For whom everything is an adventure, who breaks into a squeal of delight when I bare my fangs. And I will protect her with my life, because I live for her. She is all I have left.

But this sacrifice will be in vain. For Ava is not Ava anymore, any more than I am David deGuise. I recognize the hollow in her that I am. Her impetuosity is now spastic, her curiosity is desperate. Her emotions are over-acted, wildly displayed because that’s the only way she can feel them. Like Beethoven at his piano, Ava pounds her emotions into her own heart, once so receptive, so that she can hear them. And they sound distraught.

And yet her love for me is still sincere. An echo, surely, but the echo of a sound is still a sound. And the glorious thing is, she does not try to feel this emotion! She feels it without pounding it into her own heart! She can hear it! And I am elated.

But she is not Tom. She will not come home to me every night. She is my daughter, not my wife. And not even my daughter.

I hate hunting. Tonight I saw a couple holding hands, walking in the park. In the cold, their words echoing to me over the frozen ground. Walking, not because they enjoy the weather, but because they enjoy each other. And the desire is not one of their own making, but of God’s. It sprang up between them, unlooked for. And me, I have to persuade myself even to feed.

I walk behind them, slowly, fifty paces behind them. The creaking of the trees sometimes covers the sound of their whispers, but I dare not move closer. I would not do anything to interfere with this tryst. Then, an hour later, they enter their house. I move on.

The lounge is loud, dirty, smelly. People looking for love, consequently finding none. What they find instead is me.

Mask yourself. Flush yourself. Be merry. Be gay. Act how you used to feel. I stop on the street and scowl. Sneer. Take out all of my bitterness on the stones in front of me.

“Are you okay?” A small boy looks up at me, less than ten years old. His hand on my jacket, his concern in his eyes. I try to bring out the flush then, in an embarrassed apology for exposing him to the sorrow of life. No, to the sorrow of not-life. But I can’t. I hiccup, and stare at him. He stares back at me, concern etched into his face. Like Ava. Should I…?

“Ethan? Ethan, get over here!” A woman, probably his mother, takes his hand when he won’t come. “Sorry about that. Kids….” Then she backs away, whispering to her child not to talk to strangers.

And I stand there, desiccated.

Then I breathe, and with the breath I remember what it was like to live. What it was like to enjoy life. The violins playing the latest Strauss, as the skirts swirl and the boots skip. My hand holding gloved fingers, pressing them to my mouth. Something else intrudes.

I hear other music, the didactic, emphatic, insistent bass that accompanies the music of today. Because the children of today cannot understand anything without it being driven into their skulls. HERE is the beat, move HERE, and HERE, and HERE. No wonder Ava can’t feel. She has spent so long here that she has become one of them. She can’t feel the rhythm unless a drum screams it at her. But no. She understands so much!

I walk up to the bar and order a whiskey on the rocks. No one drinks straight whiskey anymore, but it has a pleasant odor, and I need a prop. For some reason they put a straw in the drink. As if whiskey needed stirring. I inhale the atmosphere, and exhale my misery.

I have yet to master the form of dancing that is common in this era. On the one hand, it is much more simple than those steps I learned when I was a boy. Indeed, there are no steps to learn at all; one simply moves his self, occasionally with the beat. But there is a certain looseness, a coordination of the body, a spontaneity that I find difficult. Benny has given me lessons in this form of coordination, in these “moves,” but I have not achieved the same ease with this form as I had attained with the dances of my own age. Perhaps such is the curse of my kind, that we can learn nothing new. It is a fault I have not previously experienced. I could adapt to jass music because Tom loved it. She is not here to guide me.

So I glide around the room. Gliding never goes out of style. A straight back and a smooth step can impress most women. I engage two of them in conversation.

“Evenin’, ladies. How are you beauties enjoying yourselves?”

We are all lined up against a wall, opposite the bar. People pass to and fro in front of us. The one closest to me gives me her full attention.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Damn.

“I asked if you were having fun.”

“Oh, yeah!” She smiles pleasantly and then looks away, as if to engage her partner, but the two of them don’t say anything. How can anyone enjoy an establishment that does not let its patrons have a conversation without screaming at one another? I try again, my hands cupping the words into her ear.

“I was noticing your ensemble just now. Your shoes provide an elegant contrast when viewed in conjunction the rest of your outfit.”

“What?”

“I said, I like your shoes.”

“Oh, thank you!” She smiles again, and her attention wanders. The fascinating thing is that she’s not drunk. I try one more time.

“Are you a regular customer at this tavern?”

“You talk funny! I can’t understand you!” She laughs.

I haven’t exhaled anything. The misery is still here, and it brought a friend. If my body still obeyed the rules of the living, bile would have risen in my throat.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say, and move on.

I hate to rely on tricks. It’s a matter of pride. I can catch my own food without resorting to the unnatural. It’s just the age. The age, and the veil. The veil clouding my brain ever since I awoke. The damned insecurity and inability to see things. The compound of the faux pas and the obeisance that must accompany them. The feeling of dark muck. I was wrong. I was wrong! I have felt something new! I have felt shame. The shame of a slave! It must not be felt by a master! This feeling must not be felt by a Louisianan! It must not be felt by ME!

And then all of my past assaults me. I see clearly that this shame is not a new manifestation, but a constant companion of my entire existence. Raised by a father who hates me. A mother who ignores me. Friend of those I should be whipping. Strange freak of nature who stops and stares when I am told to tear open the back of my real mother, the one who loved me. Unable to stop the brimstone of my father when he mutilates my family and kills my brother. And then what? I become the token soldier of a unit that doesn’t need me, just as I was the mascot of an entire society. The mascot, when I thought myself the king! And this is my entire people! Thrown down into the dirt to sniff the heel of the carpetbagger. Our wealth, our families, our women, our dreams all wrested from us and ground into nothing. Into worse than nothing, for we are still here! And how do we hold our heads up after that? How can we even pretend to possess the slightest thread of dignity? Do we lie? DO WE LIE?

yes.

Yes, we lie. Of course we lie. Because no one likes the truth. Hell, we might make a new truth.

I find myself laughing on the floor. A cathartic laugh, a hysterical laugh. If we don’t like the truth, we make up a new one!

People surround me. The music has stopped. I am being held down on the floor by a very big man, his knee on the small of my back, his hands holding my wrists. Some of the people around me have scratches on their face and arms. I spit up blood.

“Well,” I say, “I thought they kept your kind in zoos.”

The big man gets up, his face asking forgiveness. “I’m sorry about that, man, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You were going crazy there, man. You sure you’re all right?”

“Perfectly fine, sir, I thank you for your astute response to an emergency situation.” I start to rise.

“Don’t you let that man up, don’t you let him up! He’ll start tearing at people again! He’ll start fighting! Oh, if you let him up, you better let me out the door!” That’s what a woman with a scratch on her face says. The crowd seems to agree. The man lets me up anyway.

“Friends!” I shout, arms extended. “It appears that I have caused a great amount of confusion and anguish.” My next words were going to be, ‘and I apologize for it.’ But I’m through apologizing. “I believe I must explain the scene you all just witnessed. You see, I suffer from a very rare form of epilepsy. It causes me to lose the control of my muscular functions as well as my better judgment. A piece of my brain that I do not generally treat with decides to make its presence known, and to attack everything it perceives as a threat. I am under medication for this condition—apparently I will have to up the dosage.” A dynamic speech, delivered with a tone and gestures inviting agreement and empathy. But never sympathy. Some people chuckle. Supernatural tricks can come in handy sometimes.

“As for you,” I say, approaching the woman who had just tried to get out of the door, “I expect a lady can forgive a gentleman for his medical condition? I assure you I never meant any harm.” My eyes fix on hers. My smile is a command. But not interpreted as such.

“Oh, I can’t hold a grudge against someone as cute as you!” She says, smiling her ears off. “Ain’t he cute?” she asks her girlfriend. “Ain’t he cute?” she asks the man standing on her other side.

“No,” replies the man, frowning. “He looks like a corpse.”

My voice is low, threatening, unbelieving. “You would insult a sick man?” My left hand cradles the waist of my new best friend. My right hand rides up to the butt of my pistol.

The woman slaps him. “How dare you talk about him like that? Can’t you see he ain’t well! Boy you get out of here before I put my foot up your ass!”

The man shuts up, mumbling something about women. Some laugh at him, some holler, others look at me more suspiciously.

I smile. Being yelled at by a woman is a harsher punishment than any I could devise. Besides, I still haven’t replaced Smith and Wesson. I lean close and whisper in the woman’s ear,

“I suggest we leave quickly. I don’t like the looks of this crowd.”

“Okay, lover, let’s get out of here.” Her girlfriend makes a protesting noise. My girlfriend makes a get-away-from-me-noise. I’m smug.

I enjoy myself enormously with her. Really enjoy, in a way I haven’t since I woke up. She isn't looking for love, she's looking for a good time. I give her one. I give myself one. And when I release her emotions, she still smiles at me. That is dangerous.

But I am safe. Safe, because I was never there. The person she rolled with and sucked on was a creation, a character, someone I have pretended to be for the past hundred and fifty years. She hasn’t fallen in love with me at all. Hell, she hasn’t fallen in love at all, and if she has, then it’s certainly not with me. Her lover might kill her tomorrow and it wouldn't affect me. So long as Breckenridge is around, deGuise can hide.

But may the good Lord preserve me from little children who stop me in the street.

Billy Pittmun: Billy Plays

2007-12-18T06:07:42Z

“Right, but if you give him these pills every day, he should be fine. Now don’t you forget about it! And don’t let him tell you he doesn’t want those pills, either. Put it in a piece of ham and he’ll eat if right up. Okay, Mrs. Bravlowski. You have a good day, now.”

Billy Pittmun came out of the examination room and cheesed at his receptionist, who had been trying to pull him away from Mrs. Bravlowski for the past five minutes. “She’s a sweet old girl, isn’t she?”

“And very talkative,” said Lora. “Listen, there’s an owner in room six who can’t control her dog. Keeps barking, slobbering, scaring everyone to death who walks past. Would you mind talking some sense into him?”

“Dan’s patient?” Asked Billy. Lora nodded. Dan had been a vet at the New York City Animal Hospital for over a year, but still acted like it was his first day. Dan liked mice, lab mice in particular, and he liked them best when he didn’t have to pick them up too much. Anything larger and Dan would ask its owner to hold it down on the table. Anything smaller creeped him out, because such animals usually have six legs.

Billy had asked Dan once why he had become a veterinarian when he seemed so much better suited for lab work. Dan had thrown his clipboard on the floor and shouted, “You think you’re so much better than me? Well you’re not! I got a three point two at Penn State, Mister! I’m not even going to ask what you made, you jock! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a cat to neuter!” And he had stomped off in a huff. Then he came back, picked his clipboard off of the floor, and stomped off in a huff again.

“I’m not sure I should interfere with Dan’s work, Lora,” Billy said. “I don’t think he likes me too much.”

“I know. But please please please? I’m scared walking past that room, and I’ve worked here for three years now. And people are complaining.”

“Well, I don’t know…” said Billy.

“I’ll let you feel my titties after work tonight,” whispered Lora, smiling invitingly and waggling her eyebrows.

“Weren’t we on schedule for that anyway?” inquired Billy. Lora pouted and gave him a look. “I mean, yes ma’am, I will gladly deal with this rabid animal you’ve found on your hands. I’ll take care of it right away!” Lora giggled and waived him goodbye.

Inside the room was the largest German Shepherd that Billy had ever seen, being held back by a little wisp of a woman. “Oh no don’t come in!” She screamed, much too late. As Billy stood there with the wide open door, the dog broke free from his owner and tackled Billy. Billy went down, straight down, straight back, and hit his head on the tile floor. The dog’s hind feet scratched Billy’s eyelids as he bounded down the hallway. Lora was screaming. Billy was unconscious.

Then he was conscious, and totally aware. “HAROUF!” He barked. The sound of skittering toenails scrabbled to a halt. “HAHARUH!” Billy made his way to his feet as as the toenails clicked a few times, uncertainly. “haROOOOOOOOOOooooooooo…” and the dog was so excited that he actually fell flat on the floor twice before he succeeded in getting his massive bulk moving in Billy’s direction.

“There you are. Good girl! Oh yes, good girl. You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” laughed Billy as the dog covered his face with slime.

“George Washington, you bad boy you! Look at what you’re doing to the nice vet!” said the wisp, trying unsuccessfully to pull her dog away from Billy.

A white-faced Lora came onto the scene. “Did you just…?” she stammered. “Did you…? How…” And suddenly Billy became very serious.

“Oh….” he said. “It’s a girl dog. A very excitable girl dog. She was all excited because she heard all the boy dogs barking in the kennel. So she was trying to get down to them really quick. The way I was able to call her back is I sounded like a boy dog that was bigger than any of them. And it would take a very big boy to satisfy you, wouldn’t it girl?” asked Billy, rubber her neck. George Washington’s tongue was lolling out of the side of her face, dribbling spittle onto the floor.

“Oh,” squeaked Lora. “I suppose… that makes sense…”

“It’s an old farm technique we learned back home. They don’t teach it to you in medical school. I can also do a horse. Want to hear?” And he broke into his best horse whinny, which George Washington accompanied with several of her most joyful barks. All of the animals in the hospital were going crazy. Somehow, though, the whinny didn’t seem as powerful as Billy’s previous demonstration.

The wisp clapped her hands. “Oh, wow, that’s really super! George Washington loves that, don’t you boy?”

“Ah,” said Lora, “I’ll just get back to work then.” And she moved tentatively towards the reception area, as if waiting for something else to happen.

“Okay Lora,” said Billy. “And I do hope we’re still on for this evening, right? Remember, I have that after-hours surgery to perform, and I need you to assist.”

“Yeah,” said Lora. “Yeah sure, Billy. That’ll be great.” And she made it all the way to the reception area.

“Wow!” Said the waif again. “Mr. Vet, you’re really fantastic. I had no idea anyone could just call a dog like that! You should be on Barnum and Bailey’s! I should get an agent for you. I know a guy who,” but she stopped because Billy was laughing.

“Ha ha thank you, ma’am for your kind attention, but I’m afraid nothing could ever pull me away from being a vet. Especially putting them on display for everyone to laugh at, like they do at the circus. And the way they mistreat those animals…! Well, let’s just say I’m happy here. Should we look at George Washington?”

“Yes.” Said the wisp. Suddenly very professional. “I have been worrying about George Washington for several days now. He hasn’t been eating his kibbles. And I worry when when George Washington doesn’t eat his kibbles, because he loves them so much most of the time, and everyone knows that kibbles are simply the best brand that a girl can buy for her dog.”

“Uh huh, uh huh,” said Billy leading the dog inside and closing the door. He patted the table, four feet off of the ground, and she jumped onto it. Billy opened her mouth and peered inside. Then he petted her all over, giving George Washington a good massage. As he worked, he talked.

“Wow, this dog hasn’t been outside for a while, has she?”

“Why no! Fancy that! And how could you have figured that out, Mr. Inspector?” asked the waif, flirtatiously.

“Just the way the muscles feel. And the way the skin rides over them—too much fat in there.” And the fact that her coat was covered in mildew spores, which are usually rubbed off during a good romp outside. And the fact that her bones were losing calcium for lack of exercise. And a hundred other things that spoke of a longing for freedom.

“Well yes, that’s true. I used to take him out for a walk every day in Central Park, but I stopped a couple of months ago because he was barking too loudly at a baby and he made it cry. And I thought, why am I endangering people’s lives just so my little puppy dog can get some exercise? Is it really worth it? You understand my position of course. I mean, what if I’m arrested for walking a dangerous animal?”

“Ms… I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Audrey, Audrey Kepler. And your name is, sir…?”

“Billy, Billy Pittmun.” And he took her extended hand and shook it vigorously. Audrey gave a small gasp which Billy didn’t notice, then delicately made her way over to the sink to wash her hands.

“Audrey, why do you call your girl dog George Washington?”

“Oh, that’s because everyone is more scared of you when you think you have a boy dog. You know, just because boy’s are more aggressive. I don’t think anyone would be scared of her if I called her Sophie, or Sallie, or Audrey.” She cheesed at Billy. “Anyways, I figure she’s too stupid to have gender issues, so I tell her she’s a boy and call her George Washington. There’s no one who has a profile like George Washington, mister. That was a real man I tell you, you can tell from his jaw. But I wouldn’t want a real boy dog for a pet. Not for me, I’m too delicate. I wouldn’t be able to handle a real man, never have been. They’re all the same, you know? Just use you and lose you. All broken-hearted.” Then she remembered who her audience was. “But look at me, I’m babbling. And present company excluded, of course.”

“Well, maybe you’re problem is that you’ve never had a real man to test your hypothesis on. I’m willing to bet that all the men you’ve ever had have been self-centered, spoiled, arrogant pricks.”

“Yes, yes, uh-huh, that’s right, it’s like you know me so well Billy!”

Billy grinned. “Well, I think George’s only problem is that she needs a little exercise.” And she had leukemia a few minutes ago, but I already took care of that. “If you’re scared of George attacking little children, then put a muzzle on her. We have some for sale out front. She won’t like it too much, but it’s better than not getting outside at all. Soon she’ll be begging for her muzzle like she begs for her leash now.”

“Oh… well… you think? I don’t know, I hate to see a dog in a muzzle…” but then she looked at Billy. “But if that’s your prescription, doctor, I’m ready to take it. I’ll do anything you say, I’m a good patient. I mean, George is a good patient.”

Billy laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. Oh, there is one more thing I wanted to ask. When I stepped in here you didn’t have George Washington on her leash. Can you tell me why that is?”

“Oh that,” said Audrey, moving uncomfortably. “Well, it’s just that he seems so unhappy with his leash on, and he usually chippers right up when I take if off him, you know? It’s just that it didn’t work so well this time…”

“I can understand that. Do you ever take her leash off when you’re outside, in public?”

“Oh no, Billy! Never!” But she was blushing.

“That’s good. Because it’s very important that you never, ever do that. It’s nice to let a dog off a leash when she has some place to run, but that place isn’t in New York City. Not even in Central Park, late at night when you think there’s no one around.”

Audrey gasped. “Oh I don’t go into Central Park late at night!”

It was Billy’s turn to blush. “That’s… that’s good! Neither do I. Now, um, as I was saying, you, uh, you really don’t want to let George Washington off her leash whenever there’s anyone around. And I mean anyone, you hear? Your dog’s a biter, Audrey, you don’t want to let her off her leash. Or off her muzzle, since you’re going to get her a muzzle, right?”

“Of course, Billy, of course.”

“That’s good. Well,” he said as he stood up, “I’m going to give you my personal telephone number. You call me in a few days and tell me about George’s walks. Now I want you to walk her every day, you hear?”

“Oh yes, Billy, I hear. I’ll walk her every day, just like you say.”

“That’s my girl. And you be a good girl, too,” he said scratching George behind her ears. “And don’t forget to ask for that muzzle on your way out.”

“I will, Doctor Billy, I’ll get that muzzle!”

Dwight Light: Closing Shop

2007-12-18T05:58:45Z

I spent the day traveling home for winter break. This is what I did during the layovers. Enjoy! Matt

Smiling.

“Well. Jamaal. Pleasure to see you again tonight. Were you pleased with the sample?”

Jamaal was a young man, about twenty years old. Dwight was an old man, about two hundred.

Jamaal darted his eyes around the store before he answered. No one else here.

“Yeah, that was some god damn good shit, boss. I was wandering if you had any more on you. Like, maybe fifty grams?”

Dwight laughed, low, humorless.

“Jamaal, Jamaal, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to do business with you. But you see, I have a store policy here. I don’t hire anyone until they fill out an application. And you’re asking me for a job.”

Uncomfortable.

“What? No, man, I ain’t asking for no job. I’m asking you for a fifty. No charity.”

The same slow, rolling laugh, polluting the atmosphere.

“Ah but you are, Jaamal. Because I only do business with my employees. That’s why, if I sold you a fifty, I would have to have a job application. Have you filled out one of my applications?”

“No. I have not filled out an application. I do not want a job. I want.

To purchase.

Some drugs.

With money.”

Each sentence louder than the last. Dwight’s laugh continued, more invasive, permeating Jamaal’s bones.

“Yes, but I only let my dealers purchase my drugs with my own money! That’s why you must fill out a job application!”

Consistent laughter, but the pitch was rising. Jamaal’s right hand moved towards the small of his back.

“Listen man, I don’t know nothin’ about no job application. All I’m asking for is some crack. And if you don’t want to do business with me, then I might just go crazy in here. You here me? I might just go crazy in here!”

The laugh this time came loud, unmistakably the symptom of authentic enjoyment. Jamaal, with his hand on his gun, was infuriated.

“Are you fucking with me, you crazy mother fucker? Do you think I’m playing with you?”

This to the accompaniment of more laughter. Jamaal pulled his gun out of his pants.

“Bitch I’ll cap your ass! I’ll waste you, mother fucker!”

“Boom!” Dwight's hand slammed on the glass counter top. Underneath it was a sheet of notebook paper. “Your job application. On it you will write the names of ten persons to whom you intend to sell my cocaine. You will write their names down, and you will have them sign next to their names. Once I am assured that you are able to find a market for my product, then I will begin my investigation into your customers. If I decide that they are acceptable, then I will sell to you, and you will re-sell to them. Now, are my terms acceptable?”

Jamaal’s hand shook, his gun aiming first at Dwight’s left ear, then his appendix, then at his toothy smile. Something was wrong with his cheeks.

“Yeah. Yeah, boss. They’re acceptable.”

“Well, isn’t that special. I’m happy. See how happy I am?”

Jamaal noticed his gun. He stuffed it back into his pants as inconspicuously as possible. Then he grabbed the piece of paper as rebelliously as he knew how, turned his back, and stomped towards the door.

“You want some advice?”

Jamaal stopped. His head cocked ever so slightly.

“The next time you go to a job interview? Be sure and load your gun.”

The sound of Dwight’s laughter carried Jamaal out the door. The little bell over the door marked and mocked his departure. Recovering himself, Dwight looked at his friend.

“Thank you, Sally. I don’t know how we’re going to handle this one. He’ll be difficult to supervise—hard to control. He’ll be mellow as long as he’s intimidated, but once he gets angry enough he’ll forget that he’s afraid.”

“Yes…” replied the ghost, “I think the trick is to spook him enough to keep him looking over his shoulder, but not enough to scare him off. Are you sure Clarence is the right one for this job?”

“Clarence owes me. He wants my services more than the rest of them combined right now. He won’t screw it up. He can’t afford it.”

“Well,” he continued, turning his body towards his friend, “That’s another one I owe you. If you hadn’t told me beforehand that the kid was coming into my store with an empty gun, I would have been scared shitless. I appreciate it, Sally. You sure I can’t do anything for you?”

“Thanks,” she replied, “I know you would if you could. But I’m afraid you’ll just have to keep accepting my favors without being able to pay for them. But maybe that’s enough, you moocher.”

The look she gave him was the grandmotherly equivalent of sticking out her tongue.

“You fucking whore. Do you know I could force you into the underworld any time I choose? Do you know I could summon the most vile fiend imaginable and order him to tear apart your ghostly flesh? To hell with charity, bitch, you do this because I’ll kill you if you don’t. You know how many women I kidnapped in my day and ripped their souls out? Do you know the abominations I’ve created? Hell, I’m the one who probably killed your daughter.”

“Dwight Light!” Pearly translucence streamed out of her eyes. Her mouth curled into hatred, her ears pulled back into a snarl. “Don’t you ever talk about my daughter again, you insensitive, maladjusted freak.” Her hand covering her mouth, she turned in a swirl of skirts and soundlessly stomped through the wall.

Oh. Dwight did not move for fifteen seconds. Then he smiled, grimaced, and grabbed his cleaning rag from under the cash register. It was the only part of the counter that wasn’t glass. Dwight had scared off robbers before by playing that he had a gun under there. But he didn’t. He didn’t need one. The only weapons he needed were his own bare hands. His hands. His wretched hands that got in the way of his cleaning.

Dwight wrapped his left thumb around the Windex and lifted it. Now that he had it on top of the counter, he changed his grip so that his thumb worked the trigger. He wiped the cleaner off with the rag under his right hand, fingers lifted high to avoid scratching the glass, his palm and thumb doing the work that his fingers could not do.

Why couldn’t he find the line? Erised and Molly yelled at each other all the time. They called each other bitch, whore, cunt, tramp. Dwight wanted so much to be able to engage someone else with this banter. The joy that he saw, every “bitch” meaning I like you, every “whore” meaning you’re my friend.

“Sally, I’m sorry.”

Then he grabbed his jacket, pulled it on ever so carefully so as not to rip the sleeves. Four o’clock in the morning, closing time. He picked his hat off of his desk in his back room and set it on his head. The last thing he put on was his mask. His façade.

His smile.

Billy Pittmun

2007-12-13T22:04:32Z

Today I discovered how kick-ass my roommates really are. I knew it all along, of course, but they really proved themselves today. I've been bothering about whether I should hand over the Thrysus councilorship over to Bishop Simon. I like the guy personally, but I've noticed a lot of bad blood towards him, so I decided to feel some people out before I handed the position over to him permanently, you know? So I call up Blackwood, and he's the total asshole that he usually is. I actually don't mind the guy usually--his assholeness is usually coupled with some really insightful and interesting, and usually correct, points of view. But today all I got was the asshole side. He told me that if I handed over the councilorship to Bishop Simon that I would be a total walkover, pussy, and other not nice words, because the only reason I would have taken it in the first place was that it was a position that I wanted, and I should go after what I want and not let it go. As if! That's the most inane thing that I've heard out of anyone in a long time, especially from someone that I respect! (at least in certain respects.) The only reason that I took the job in the first place was because Patrick asked me to, and I never even got to find out what it was really like because we never held a formal meeting! And then when a more experienced and (I think) wise mage comes along and wants the position, I shouldn't give it to him? WTF?? How the hell does that work?

Anyways I got pretty steamed about that. That and the fact that he hung up on me after he said all that. Douchebag. So I decided to constructively let off a little stress, so I started hitting my bed and yelling and jumping up and down, and I guess I lost control. I became focused on destruction, and started running around my room. I didn't even realize that I had turned into a warthog and was totally trashing my room until poor little Maisie opens the door to my room. She looked terrible! I had no idea she was in so much pain. I'm kicking myself right now because she spent three days like that without me even noticing. I've got to pay more attention. So there I am, making small talk with a sick woman as a warthog, not even knowing that I am a warthog or that I've completely destroyed my room. Genius. Then I'm even more of an ass and change back, forgetting that when I do that I come back without my clothes. Genius again. But Maisie's so cool about it all. Man, I lucked out when I came here. Then, in my third stroke of genius, I suddenly think of my soulstone and go to make sure it's okay, not even remembering to make sure Maisie was okay, even after I had seen how awful she looked. But when she saw my soulstone, she got upset. Which of course didn't help the feeling bad aspect of it all. Stupid me. And the next part is the only part that I can look back on and say, "man, that was stupid. But it wasn't really my fault."

I heard Ash come in the door. Suddenly I realized that I had destroyed a room in his house, and that he was going to come up the stairs and be pissed as all hell. The spirits living around here are always frightened of him, and I understand why. Ash is the most just man in the world, which makes him terrifying. So I came up with what I still think is an ingenious solution. I turned all the ants in the house, as well as Itchy and Scratchy, into little dwarfs to clean the place up for me! How awesome is that? I mean, the work gets done, I don't have to do it, and the little dwarfs are so cute that Ash can't help but smile when he looks in and sees them going about their business, saying "work work work work work work work." I would laugh. But it made Maisie almost faint. And I was so focused on my spell that I didn't even notice until I heard Ash yelling in my head, "What's going on here?" Like I said, Ash can be scary.

So Ash didn't even see the dwarfs, and I almost killed Maisie. Okay not really, but it sure felt like that. But then everyone was so cool about the whole thing. Once Ash found out that Maisie was actually okay, it was like nothing else mattered to him. He loves her so much, it's beautiful. And Maisie wasn't mad about anything either. I mean, we ended the evening laughing and chatting and eating pizza. How great is that?

Yeesh. Looking back on this, it's like I'm a little kid who is feeling lucky that his parents didn't yell at him. Which is funny, because I'm older than both of them. But you know what? I'm okay with that. I've made these decisions over the course of my life, where I've been given the choice to believe certain things and hold certain things sacred, and I've refused to. Nothing is more important than having people smile, and to have people know that I will never, ever, ever hurt them. Somehow that's more important than being taken seriously. It's even more important than life and death. So people take advantage of me. I still think I got the better end of the bargain.

David Breckenridge concept

2007-09-26T20:02:57Z

This entry is the most complete information I have on David Breckenridge, Jr. This is strictly OOC, and actually contradicts a lot of what David himself actually thinks happened to him.

Breckenridge was born in 1848 to New Orleans gentry. David’s grandfather, Conner Breckenridge, was an Irishman who emigrated to Philadelphia. David Sr. went to New Orleans to make his fortune. He did. In addition to a massive tobacco plantation, David Sr. owned a few trading ships and was active in New Orleans politics. He also married into the New Orleans upper crust, to a pretty French woman named Adeline. David Jr. was an only child because Adeline refused to have another, for fear of ruining her figure.

David was raised by a black nanny named Baby. Baby had a son of her own named Tom. The two were raised together. When David Jr. turned six, David Sr. hired a tutor for his son, and sent Tom out into the fields.

David was a good student in math, but was unable to learn how to read. He has visual dyslexia. His tutor caned him when he was unable to complete a reading lesson, leading to a profound dislike to all things written. One day his father, drunk and angry at his son for his perceived stupidity, violently shook him and threw him against a wall. David was seven years old. He subsequently developed epilepsy.

David’s dyslexia:

David is a visual dyslexic, or a diseidetic. He can sound out words slowly, but does not have instant word recognition. No sight word vocabulary. He has no problem comprehending auditory information—in fact his verbal comprehension and memory is very good. (better than mine). He sometimes has to think about his lefts and rights. He can sound out a word, but by the time he gets to the end of a sentence he has often forgotten how the sentence started.

David also has dyslexic dysgraphia. He can copy words with normal fluency, but when he writes things creatively his spelling is atrocious and he often writes a different word from what he is thinking. His brain and his hands simply work at different speeds.

David’s epilepsy:

David had three kinds of seizures. Sometimes he would enter a dream-like state, and could only respond normally through intense concentration. People wouldn’t even notice when he had this type of seizure. In the second kind of seizure, he would only see things through a tunnel and would have to fight to retain consciousness. Outwardly, he would just stop what he was doing and stare straight ahead for 30 seconds or so at a time. The third kind of seizure is the notorious grand mal seizure. Sometimes these were preceded by intense migraine headaches lasting for days, sometimes they would pop up without warning. These occurred once or twice a year, just frequently enough to make his dad feel guilty. The seizures stopped by the time he reached his early 20’s.

David Sr. blamed himself (rightly) for his son’s illness and tried to make up for it. He took him to doctors everywhere in an attempt to cure his epilepsy. He also spoiled him rotten, or would have if his son had a less pleasant personality. David Jr. became the prince of the house. His dad gave him a new pair of Smith & Wesson revolvers when he turned ten. Earlier than that, he allowed David to sit with the men and smoke cigars after dinner while the women went into the drawing room to socialize. He would consult with him on business matters. He let him attend the frequent parties thrown at the manner even when David Jr. was unseemingly young—say, nine years old. His premature introduction to high society actually turned out really well for David. He became the mascot of the New Orleans elite. His impeccable manners, keen insights and beautiful looks gave him the nickname “The Little Gentleman.” He was personally invited to every party his parents were invited to, which is to say, all parties. And, most important of all, he let Tom (Baby’s son) into the house to be tutored alongside David.

Tom turned out to be a bright kid. This was a very bad thing. His white tutor caned him for taking advantage of the little master’s charity by out-shining him, and his family and fellow slaves berated him for putting on airs. Tom and David worked the problem out among themselves. They would meet at night to go over lessons. Most of the time they would meet in the slave’s quarters because David was allowed down there, but Tom wasn’t allowed in David’s room. Tom would read the lessons to David, and David would memorize them. The next day, David would make-believe that he was reading the lesson. David developed an extraordinary memory. And both boys were able to proceed with their education.

David’s attitude towards the slaves was always very confusing, and it changed over the years. A black woman raised him and a black boy was his best friend. He would frequently spend the night in the slave’s quarters because of his midnight study sessions with Tom and simply because he like it there. His dad knew about it and didn’t like it, but let it slide because he let most things David did slide. On the other hand, he was growing up as white gentry in the decade right before the Civil War and was privy to political conversations that most boys his age weren’t. And he wasn’t old enough to form his own opinions.

David Sr. was a good master, as far as masters go. He fed and clothed his slaves well and gave them sweets at Christmas. He didn’t split up families if he could help it. He was fair in his whippings. But he didn’t skimp on them, either.

One day David Sr. saw a slave slap his son across the face. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. David Jr. spent a lot of time among the slaves to the point of great familiarity. Slaves slapped each other when they were angry, and they slapped David Jr. too. But it was the first time David’s daddy saw it. He called the entire household out for a public whipping, and told David Jr. that he would be the one behind the lash. David was a tough kid, but he burst into tears at this. His nanny, Baby, explained that it was only natural that the white man should whip the black man when the black man misbehaved, because the white race was beloved by God and had dominion over all the beasts of the field, including blacks. The black man should be whipped when he struck a white man just like a dog should be kicked when he got into the chicken coop. (HUGE MASSIVE DISCLAIMER! Yes, this is very inflammatory, but it’s something that I just couldn’t ignore with his backstory. Don’t worry, he turns out okay.) By the time the household had gathered, David had dried his eyes and was ready to perform the duty that everyone around him seemed to think was the good and right thing to do. He walked up to the man in a dream-like state, epilepsy category one. He whipped the slave like a man for the first five lashes, then he simply couldn’t hold on to his own consciousness. Reality condensed into a narrow tunnel where he couldn’t understand what was going on. Outwardly, his whipping became a mechanical movement of his arm that didn’t bring the lash anywhere close to the slaves back, and finally stopped completely, with David staring straight ahead. Epilepsy stage two. David was thirteen years old. The year was 1861. Summertime.

The following year wasn’t very pleasant for David. David Sr. put his foot down and forbade him to socialize with the slaves. He kicked Tom out of the house. He also decided David Jr. should attend the university that fall. David Jr. aced the mathematics portion of the test, as well as the oral exam over history and the natural sciences. But completely failed the literature section. The revalation that his son was unable to read enraged David Sr. He had always been a little afraid that this was true. Ever since he threw Jr. against the wall, Sr. had never put his son to the test in that particular area. The confirmation of his lingering fear that he had desparately hoped wasn’t true erased all special privileges that David Sr. had given his son. No more tutor. No more after-dinner cigars. No more Tom.

The only privilege that David Sr. couldn’t take away was the parties and business deals. Jr. was a town favorite, and society begged his father to bring him back. A cloth merchant actually refused to sell him a shipment because he felt snubbed when he wasn’t allowed to say hello to the Little Gentleman. David Sr. gave in after about two weeks of gossip and pointed comments. His son came back a little more subdued than he had been in the past, but was still a general favorite.

When he wasn’t attending social functions, however, David Jr. was confined to the house. Although he had fired the tutor, David Sr. insisted that his son learn to read anyway. He set him on the back porch with a book and would quiz him on the book later that night, as well as putting another book in front of his face that he hadn’t seen before, so that Jr. couldn’t pull the memorization trick that he had pulled on his tutors for all those years. David spent a good portion of his time on the back porch firing his pistols at very small targets. He got infernally good at it.

Tom was a good two years older than David Jr., and almost as good looking. His muscles were strong from working in the field and his brain was bright from his education with David. Previous to the summer of 1861, he had free reign of the house. David’s mom, Adeline, was ten years younger than her husband, beautiful, impetuous, and very French. Nevertheless, it was a shock to everyone that the child she bore in February 1862 had dark skin. No men were allowed in the birthing room. Mammy came out immediately after the birth with a very serious look on her face. She ignored Sr.’s entreaties and ordered Jr. to come with her. No one argues with a midwife under those circumstances. She pulled Jr. into side room and whispered the situation to him. Jr. had a head on his shoulders. He dashed into the kitchen to grab a loaf of bread and some whiskey. Then he ran to the stables and selected the fastest horse. Finally, he rode to the slaves quarters and told Tom to run away. It wasn’t until later that he realized he should be mad at Tom for porking his mom.

Calamity struck when David Sr. found out what all the commotion was about. He killed the child and permanently disfigured Baby for trying to protect it. He whipped every single one of his slaves severely. And when he found out the part that David Jr. had to play in all the action, he whipped his own son. He divorced Adeline and threw her out of his carriage, naked, in downtown New Orleans, in forty-degree weather, just after giving birth. The Catholic church took her in. She spent the rest of her life in a home for unwed mothers type place, making money by darning socks.

David spent the next few months living with a goodly, godly, elderly couple that he knew. He never saw his parents again.

On April 25, 1862, New Orleans fell to Union forces in a bloodless capture. A few days later, David decided to enlist in the Confederacy. He traveled north to Monroe, LA and signed up for Company D, called Claiborne’s Invincibles, of Louisiana’s 28th Infantry. Although he was only 14, he talked his way into the service. He was allowed into the regular infantry, not just as a drummer boy.

War was mostly marching, blisters, and overexposure to the elements. There was some killing thrown in for good measure. David’s seizures became more frequent—over the course of three years he had eight grand mal seizures, one in the middle of battle. He fell into a deep sleep on the field afterwards and was taken prisoner by the North. Fortunately this happened early enough in the war that the north and sourth were still doing prisoner exchanges. Once he woke up and found that the army had left him on the side of the road. He caught up with them a few days lateer. After that his commander let another man stay behind when David had his seizures.

David was very popular with the men. He had a good singing voice and was always ready to entertain. He kept an up-beat attitude. He listened to the men as they told stories of their sweethearts. The loss of his virginity became a matter of general interest (not that way, you sicko—at least not as far as David knew), and when he lost it there was a night of wild partying. When the men were stationed in a private home, David often ate dinner with the Captain and the frequently-unwilling hosts. He was usually able to instill a sense of patriotism in the homeowners sufficient to let them view the army as deserving recipients of their hard labor, rather than as common thieves come to steal their chickens. David was also privy to more of the Commander’s private war plans than were some of the officers. David, however, was never promoted. He was just too young.

David’s company surrendered on June 2, 1865. David was seventeen years old. His father had died of consumption and his estate had been confiscated by the government.

David went into politics. He was a unique politian because he was a Redeemer who was in favor of kicking out the scalawag government, but he was also able to win the Black vote by promoting the equal education of the blacks. He was able to get himself elected to the school board when he turned 18. Because of his efforts, New Orleans was the only city in the entire south that never had separate education for whites and blacks. it was always integrated. (True story.)

Naturally, David had to have a non-political job in order to support his political career. He was a sales clerk in a general store, I might work it so he owned his own store by the time he was changed.

But the most important thing about this part of his life was his involvement in the KKK. (Yes, I did decide to go there). While David supported equal education for all, he did not believe that the blacks were sufficiently educated to be able to make responsible voting choices, as was proven by their continual Republican ticket vote. Also, he knew that Black sufferage was only a ploy by the Republican government to gain control in the south, since most northern states did not have Black sufferage. Hence, David was instrumental in organizing the KKK in New Orleans in 1866. Which solidied his political career, btw.

David saw the KKK as the most efficient route to kick out the scalawag government. It’s racial overtones were an unfortunate but acceptable price to pay. Quite simply, the south was invaded by an opprossive foreign government during Reconstruction, and once that government was overthrown, then the real process of healing could begin. (another disclaimer: David’s views, not mine)

David quickly lost control of the KKK. By 1868, he realized that it just served as an excuse for people to commit horrific crimes, whether or not they were associated with the organization. He ceased active membership, but was able to retain the political goodwill.

Reconstruction in New Orleans officially ended in 1875. By that time, Breckenridge was a city councilman with his sights set on mayor. He was only waiting to turn 30. He was one of the best-known men in the city, even the state. He was a businessman like his father, one of the few who was able to make a fortune during Reconstruction without turning Scalawag. 1875 is the year everything changed for him.

Breckenridge had always been high society. And the Civil War didn’t stop New Orleans from partying. David found himself debating more and more with one particular man during these parties. He was a Northerner, but didn’t appear to harbor any ill will towards the south. David found himself staying up all night to talk with this man. Strangely, once the man left his line of sight, David forgot all about him. This went on for over a month. Change scene.

Tom, David’s best friend, had become a civil rights leader similar to Frederick Douglas. He wrote and lectured. He travelled the country. David had been keeping up a written correspondence with him (sometime during the past ten years he had gotten married a girl named Harriet, and she read and wrote for him. Regardless, he was always able to keep a confidante who would help him in that way). David convinced Tom to come to New Orleans for a speech. Tom agreed, despite his better inclinations. David completely destroyed his reputation by introducing Tom to high society. The two were set upon by a lynch mob as they left a nice restaurant. Everyone was dressed in white sheets. David recognized the voice of the man who told him to stand aside.

David refused. He knew that his own life was not in any danger, but that Tom would die if he let the mob take him. He drew. He got off eight shots before he was hit, and the other four before he hit the ground. He killed four people and wounded three. The mob took Tom and strung him up in a tree. After they took his guns, they left David to bleed to death. It wouldn’t be politically popular to claim his death.

David woke up in Lake Pontetrain. His sire had been merciful and let him frenzy among the fishes. He never found out who his sire was or why he left. He thinks he knows why he was kissed, however. He can remember the man who fascinated him for the previous month, and recognizes that there was something unnatural about him. (Also, I think that a childer can instinctively recognize the sire, because a piece of the soul flows into the childer—represented by the willpower dot). Not knowing what else to do, he returned to his house and went to sleep. Within a week he had killed every person he knew who was in that mob. Breckenridge got his pistols back.

David never left New Orleans. I suppose that means I’ll have to work up some New Orleans ties. Eventually the Prince instructed David to fake his own death because people were beginning to notice that he hadn’t aged a day in 20 years. After 1895, David never showed his true face outside of his own house.

By 1910, Breckenridge owned a mansion in the Garden District. He had obtained some sort of position in the Vampire government, say Seneschal (ties, again!). He was unaligned, similar to his playing both sides of the field when he was alive. In that year he met a 10-year-old Ava DeGuise.

Like most vampires, David suffered from a bad case of the lonelies. He couldn’t interact with mortals without pretending to be someone else. He continually had to watch his back, both politically and literally. He couldn’t have children with his wife (who he never ghouled, as per her decision). So it was a welcome relief when David’s next meal looked at him, delighted, and said, “You’re a vampire!” That was Ava.

The next decade was spent playing uncle to Ava. She was the child he could never have, and he spoiled her rotten. He would help her with her math homework, but turned her over to Gramma Harriet for her English. He would cover for this by saying that he didn’t believe in learning history or science or politics from dead books, because the best knowledge was imparted through stimulating conversation.

In 1915 the KKK began again. David actively opposed it. He wrote “how it really was” books under the penname “Your Grandfather.” He wrote letters to the editor. He got in major trouble among the kindred because he made a series of speeches in the French Quarter and a mortal was able to see through the Obfuscate and recognized him.

David also began assassinating the leaders of the group. This actually made it more popular, because everyone assumed Blacks, Jews, or Catholics were behind the killings. And every time he killed a leader, another one jumped in to take his place.

David was killed for the second time in 1920. A vampire who had a stake in the KKK didn’t like Breckenridge killing off his leaders, especially when he had meneuvered so carefully to install them. They set a trap, caught him, and buried him in a cast-iron casket. David continually awoke from torper, only to find that he couldn’t escape. Last September the casket was dug up in a construction job. And David has some serious torper issues.