More of the Never-ending Story
MUNCH
I stand outside like a schlemiel for two days, in between gathering information on the conspiracy whenever Ms. Morgan Esquire powders that beautiful nose. The third day, I see that young black guy, Charles Something, and a woman that looks like Kay. But some nights, for me, all women look like Kay. Despite the fact that my knowing we could be close to ashes-to-ashes has me and The Princess carrying on like a couple toothy teenagers.
Besides, we’re looking for muscle, right? Kay’s tough, but is she muscle? Well, I wouldn’t want to face her in a dark alley...well, if she was mad at me. I’m not even sure if the mystery woman is Kay, anyway. Just on the off chance, I leave it off my report.
But, for myself, I have to know whether she’s real or my obsession, so that night I take a pile of rocks and gravel and stuff and leave them where she, or it, might trip over them...if I’ve learned nothing else, it’s how to entertain myself on stakeout. I hide in the shadows and wait (kind of the quintessential vampire experience, right?) Sure enough, a little while later, my superhearing picks up a very familiar voice cursing a blue streak as she stubs her toe in the dark. I am impressed with her all over again. She uses permutations I’ve barely attempted, and I’m from the generation that brought profanity to the dinner table. I take a moment to appreciate an artist at work.
And the part of me that blew Pratt’s head off says the hell with the rest of the world, being a vampire, all of it, if she’s safe that’s what matters. But Lindsey and Lilah aren’t going to be easy to fuck with, like Timmy...I doubt their inner children keep them up nights...it’s like my exes always told me, I made my own hell.
Deb, that was fun. I can so see Dru being fastidious.
Erika, I like your Munch, and I like the way you write him.
I love his superhearing.
Another rock drabble for Victor. This one is dangerously close to what used to be home, but fuggit, you know?
Sympathy for...
"He's one of ours, isn't he?"
They stood shoulder to shoulder, backstage behind the black curtain. They seemed invisible to the hordes of people eddying around them: Light riggers, sound engineers, an FX team, basic underpaid underappreciated roadies, all involved in the fanfare and sheer hard work of setting up and staging a show at Madison Square Garden.
"He looks dead." Dru was whispering, singing, dancing with eagerness. "All corded and leathery. Two quid says he's one of ours."
"He could be." Spike watched Keith, tuning a classic Strat. "There've been rumours. But wouldn't you think Rolling Stone would know?"
Hee! It's what I've always suspected about Keith Richards.
It's what I've always suspected about Keith Richards.
I always figured Anita Pallenberg bit both Brian and Keith, but decided she could only keep one....
Ha! That's really funny,
Deena, Deb, thanks again...don't worry, stuff's gonna happen soon.
Hah! I've already called Keith Richards one of hte undead! Or, well, at least a scary grandpa.
One more, because I can't resist...
Because I'm evil, and I can't resist.
Cat Scratch Fever
"Spike?"
"Half a mo, love."
He came out of the woods, grumbling. Dru tilted her head sideways and watched him jerk a three-inch broadhead out of what, in life, woud have been a perfectly good lung.
"Oooooooh," she crooned. "Someone's going to get spanked for that."
"Bloody wild man. D'you believe this little lot?" Spike tossed the arrow to Dru. "Right. Berk gets to be the deer for this. He runs this way, impale the stupid git."
Spike turned back to the woods, feral, dangerous. "Oi! Nugent! Think you're a mighty hunter? Got your bleedin' Great White Buffalo RIGHT HERE!"
(I know, I know. I suck. But I can't help myself. I hate Ted Nugent...)
