I don't have a gun to your head....
So, I'm not Gordon Pratt...or if I am, don't forget which Greek place closes early on Friday...(That thing with the ancient Greek and Frank? So. Sexy.)I know that...my inner Puritan is appalled and mumbling some Puritanical version of "Three months. Three months that you're going to be begging for as you lie dying...and you just had to go for vampire cunnilingus...is that what you went to college for?"
To which I'd say "No. I went to college to get laid by smart people. Oh, and read great books, and have a future. One out of three ain't bad."
SB is gonna be on The Sopranos, and I swear I couldn't remember his name...I was like "Gordon Pratt's gonna be Tony's cousin."
And my mom was like "What?"
And so I try again.."You know, whatsits, Munch killed him. Good actor, sort of disgusting."
She got it right away.
MUNCH
So that’s how I happen to be schlepping a hellhound through the City of Angels. “Let’s go catch a red herring,” I tell it.
You know that urban legend about people in L.A. living in their cars? Complete bullshit, at least that night. Tons of people are swarming the sidewalks, all wanting a chance to pet or fondle Cujo. One is a young blonde gorgeous enough to make me pause in my labors. “Excuse me?”
the young thing says. “Are you somebody?”
“I like to think so, yes. Of course, this whole planet could be a mote of dust in the Creator’s eye, if you believe in a Creator, that is. Which I really don’t.”
She waves aside my dilemma like last year’s nail polish. “No, I mean, are you on television? Cause you look familiar.”
“No, darling. Using that inclusive rubric, I can assure you I’m nobody at all. You might not actually be having this conversation at all, in fact.”
“You don’t have to get so bent about it. How’d you make that dog? Is he animatronic?”
“Just a figment of the shared illusion we call reality, sweetie.”
”Oh, I thought maybe fiber optics.” Suddenly I feel depressed and want to go back to Balmer where I get rejected for who I am instead of who I’m not.
I’m not Angelus, not some kind of vamp Joe Pesci character, not a movie star, not even Wesley Fucking Wyndam Price.Staking is too good for me. Really. And the sun fucking shines here three hundred days of the year...only a schlemiel like me starts his unlife like that. Right? Right. I’m not even a real vampire...just a schmuck with fangs.
Just then, a carful of braindeads, pulls up alongside me and Cujo. “Excuse me,” the driver says, all bogus formal, “we’re looking to get back on the 405. “
No, I think, asking for directions is not an old trick at all. Older than the Princess, probably. Except then, it probably started with “Prithee, good sir,” or something. What the hell kind of word is that anyway? I should nip this in the bud.
“I’m a vampire. Go rob somebody else.”
“Man, the old guy says he’s a vampire. We weren’t going to rob anybody.”
“Right. Well, make sure.” My face changes and they squeal like the road company for Deliverance. California doesn’t even make a decent yo...some of the cornerboys at home would look into my yellow eyes without flinching. I catch the smallest one and drain him, even as my angst demands a poetic lack of appetite. The demon doesn’t allow me to do that. I think it is still mad at me for not turning You Know Who. She’d have made a fantastic vampire...she’s already good at catching what she hunts for.
It occurred to me that there was one I missed:
It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll—An Epilog
New York City, 1978—The line for tickets was stretching around the block, and disdain etched across Spike’s face as he and Drusilla walked the line for stragglers. “I write the songs that make the whole world sing?” he spat through clenched teeth. “More like make the whole world gag. What kind of bloody ponce listens to that sort of garbage?”
Hidden upwind and just out of sight in an alleyway, Angel desperately clenched his ticket.
Really? Thanks. I just needed the Munchkin to bore the piss out of some California nymphette with his philosophy...I just couldn't send him all the way to LA and have that not happen. It would be a waste. And he hasn't bitched about anything for ages...although that is no surprise with all of The Sex I've given him. I've been a very generous, and mostly benign PTB in that regard.
And I so want to hire Victor to just write entertaining drabbles. But I can't.Unless you want to be paid in potato chips or something.
Unless you want to be paid in potato chips or something.
Well, I've certainly worked for less...
Aw...But I'd be a bad patron without The Cash, I think.
Aw...But I'd be a bad patron without The Cash, I think.
Certainly never stopped some of the folks I've freelanced for.
I'm doing that right now, and it's NFG.
They really do rule, though.
I'm doing that right now, and it's NFG.
Oh, it has its moments, I'll admit. Some of my best writing was freelance, and it's certainly taken me to some places I'd never have gone otherwise, but on the whole, I'm happy to be away from it for awhile.
They really do rule, though.
Blush.
Thank ya.
