So Healthy I’m Dead…

Humans! You just never cease, do you?! The bewilderness of my ancient existence continues to flourish, strange new trees of screeching insanity bursting through the ground, sprouting into life all about me until I can barely see the moon of logic! This week, this week, it is your incessantly ghastly health trends that are driving me to MURDER AND MADNESS…

It all began, you see, with this: https://www.elle.com/beauty/health-fitness/a28600/amanda-chantal-bacon-moon-juice-food-diary/

I stared, bemused, at the arsecrack of 4am, my 17th joint hanging idly from my fingers, as I lethargically scrolled down this perplexing list of complete bollocks that one of you refers to as ‘food’. And I thought…this woman is fucking mad! Her fear of death has driven her completely, and totally mad. More mad than I am, and that’s quite an impressive feat, so they say. But I mean it, she really is! She’s so utterly terrified of even catching a sniffle, that she spends her entire life snuffling around the world, finding reams of herbal bullshit to eat and drink and snort and bathe in and shove up her arse, that she has absolutely forgotten how to enjoy anything EVER! You can see it in the words, in the ‘this is such an easy meal’ (meal, MEAL?!!) and the ‘drunk in the car!’, with its casual exclamation mark as she throws back her head and laughs uproariously at the notion of being so WILD, so crazy and subversive as to drink a beverage in the car, like some big fat normal person with a fucking 7/11 slurpie made out of lurid neon chemicals, HaHA! HA HAAA! WE DRANK IT IN THE CAR! It’s fucking ANARCHY with me around, haHAAAAAAA!!!!!! …and then you realise, this woman hasn’t had any fun in about twenty years. Don’t smile, or you’ll wrinkle, don’t drink that water, it’ll shrivel your pineal gland and rot your soul, and don’t even THINK about BREATHING that polluted filth, unless you do it through a spongy membrane woven by blind Tibetan monks out of the fossilised faecal matter of the last dodo! And when you eat, it must never be food, you must never use your teeth – JUICE! JUICE ALWAYS! YOU’LL NEVER FIT IN ALL THE MAGICAL BULLSHIT IF YOU DON’T JUUUUUUUUICE EVERYTHING!

The vegans are just never done, are they?! Raw veganism, it seems, still isn’t an extreme enough trend for the frothing overweight mentalists who believe that the ONLY WAY they will ever cease to resemble a Krispy Kreme is if they leap aboard a wobbling ship made entirely of broccoli and flatulence, and sail away into the horizon to a rousing cry of, ‘NOOO, I DON’T MISS FOOD AT ALL!’, occasionally punctuated by piteous weeping, or the sound of the fattest one stuffing his face with mustard-smeared napkins from the nearest rubbish dump. No, no, not mad enough, never mad enough, we still have to subsist on farty broccoli, but now we can’t even chew it! MORE MISERY, THIS DIET NEEDS MORE MISERY, OR NOBODY WILL EVER MAKE IT INTO A GAMESHOW, AND HOW ELSE CAN A THING POSSIBLY  EXIST, IF NOT TO BE A GAMESHOW?!! SHOULDN’T ALL HEALTH ADVICE BE BASED ON THE STRENGTH OF ITS HASHTAG?!!!

Fucking juicing…

I told you I’m psychic, didn’t I? Well, I can’t just turn it on and off like a light-switch, inconveniently for everyone, but I don’t even need my third fucking eye (and by god I loathe that saying, it’s very discriminatory! JUST because I happen to be psychic does NOT mean there is something hideously deformed about my face, on any astral plane! I have two eyes, which are in perfectly natural locations, just like everybody else! You shan’t make a FREAKSHOW OUT OF ME!), I don’t even need to be psychic to see the future of juicing vegans! Evolution is a harsh mistress, and if you don’t need something, she’s going to damn well take it away! The vegans of future generations will be born with no teeth at all, no mouth, just a blubbery gaping maw like a moistly prolapsed rectum, pulsating with angry red veins and slippery, greasy juices, to be plopped down into a puddle of green broccoli slime and slurped grimly up. In fact, their arse will probably look exactly the same, and nobody will ever know which end is which due to their habit of eating their own liquefied shit, after all, it all looks the same, and organic shit is simply bound to have spiritual properties.

DO YOU WANT THIS FOR YOUR CHILDREN?!!

Anyway, I thought all of this, and then I took another drag on my joint and the tides of the internet lapped over the whorls of my brain, until I was washed away to some other distant shore…whereupon, I found this:

https://www.bewater.com/

These are reusable water bottles – all very noble, very eco-friendly, I approve of that, since after all, I shall still be here, in an immortal sulk, when your crappy species has murdered the planet and nothing exists except for hungry vampires and bags of Wotsits. ACT AGAINST CLIMATE CHANGE NOW, and all that! However, these water bottles, are stuffed with fucking crystals, which supposedly charge the water with all sorts of magical fucking properties, and you’d better get the right one, goddamnit, you’d better buy several and make sure you don’t botch the recipe, because this website constantly reminds you how POWERFUL these crystals are. Dear god, thought I, what if I’ve been doing it wrong all these centuries?! I’m sure there are some stone items around the house, and now they all have POWERFUL PROPERTIES! What if everything that’s ever gone wrong in my life is because I disrespected a lump of labradorite, or looked at an amethyst in a state of sexual excitement?! A mad, wild road lieth that way…how do we know, for instance, if we are to swallow this concept, that other things don’t have Powerful Properties too? I mean, what about BMWs, for instance, they seem to roundly turn their drivers into arseholes (I should know, I’ve owned them, and it appears I never quite recovered) – is there a property, innate to BMW cars, and wakened into being the moment they leave the showroom? And what about Volvos, are they unavoidably soporific in nature? Should I seek, for the most bounteous snooze, the cradling embrace of a lumbering Volvo covered in dog slobber?

And the worst thing is, the worst fucking thing about these fucking water bottles, is that I actually WANT ONE! Because they’re BEAUTIFUL! I had been eyeing them with scorn and derision, until Kate peered over my shoulder, and began exclaiming over the beauty of it all, and I was CORRUPTED! I looked again, and shitfuckingbollocks she was right, they were pretty, and I wanted one, and then my brain and soul were mangled into a BLOODY WARFARE of materialistic lust, and the desire to not look like an incurable fucking hippie wanker, until in a fury I slammed down the lid of my laptop and stormed out to buy some heroin, and got lost for hours in the fucking armpit of Sparkhill, until I was sitting in the dark in my Audi, twiddling my thumbs and waiting for my never punctual dealer and wondering if it was the innate properties of an Audi, or just my increasing need for drugs that was making me fidgety and tetchy and impatient, and that maybe if I had some crystal-steeped triple filtered broccoli-shit to drink, I might feel better about my dealer’s concept of ‘about five minutes’ stretching out into seeming aeons…

But then, then, the FINAL INSULT to my failing, flailing sanity, has been…the Fit-Bit…

You can guess, can’t you?

Samuel.

As ever, his infinite delight with the wonder of science has prompted him to buy into this demented trend, and he has spent the past three days with multiple watches around his arm, some of which have also been worn by temporarily kidnapped humans, as they don’t seem to work with great accuracy on us, much to his extreme frustration. And of course, with Samuel, it’s always the human element that intrigued him the most – he would never make a detached scientist, nor will he ever, I suspect, truly attain that hideous, cold, reptilian stare of some of the truly ancient ones…no. Samuel always liked the human element, in his science. Books were interesting, but he wanted to fit in, he wanted to know the right modern opinions, about everything, from Queen Vicky’s wedding dress to high-definition porn – what do the humans think of it? That was the question that mattered, that still matters.

As a result, we have been enduring the unspeakable company of a health fanatic named  Mike, who spent an entire fucking night with us, proudly discussing the capabilities of his Fit-Bit, followed by a demented exercise session, wherein he and Samuel ran around the local countryside, covered in watches, with Rob and I floating above, drinking whiskey and trying to spit on their heads. I confess that the latter was at least a little bit fun, but it didn’t forgive what was still to come! Dear Christ these people are self obsessed! I mean, Jesus, I’m about as egocentric as they come, with my hair, and my eyeliner and my multiple wardrobes, and my photo collages that inevitably feature me to a rather greater degree than is polite, but even so, I am not so completely self obsessed, as to feel the need to wake up every morning then immediately and extensively study a personalised graph about how well I just slept! These people, they know fucking everything about themselves, they want to talk about it all, and it’s duller than rounding up all the dogshit that seems to breed in front of our garage these days! How many steps they’ve done, what their blood pressure is, how many miles they might have walked if they hadn’t just been standing on the stairs going up and down and up and down andupanddownandupanddown like a fucking hamster on crack, they even know their blood oxygen statistics, and the only use I can see for that is to decide whether they taste better after a little light suffocation, which is a hypothesis I have yet to confirm, but volunteers are always welcome, just bring along a Fit-Bit and I will joyfully eat you for the betterment of vampiric science.

On the second day, Rob ran off with one of the watches, on a quest to see how many calories a wank might burn. He returned somewhat later, to report, in tones of mild awe,

“They can tell the difference! It knew I was just wanking, not walking, so it wouldn’t work, or…well, to be honest it might’ve just sensed my absolute apathy, because there I was, with Clara ready and willing in the bedroom, and instead I’m hiding in the bog having a miserable old wank just to impress a plastic watch. I wasn’t up for it, if I’m honest. I let us down there, in the Pure Wanking category, but when it comes to jogging on the spot slapping your cock about the place, well, that does burn quite a few calories! Maybe I should make an exercise dvd – you’d buy it, wouldn’t you?”

I scowled at him, and he grinned, continuing,

“I burned a lot more calories with Clara – actually think it improved my performance, because I was so focussed on jiggling around as much as possible, it was a really vigorous session, and after that, when I saw my heart-rate chart, well, I’d done so much work I was just wasting away, really – didn’t want to end up all weedy like you, so we went into town and murdered a couple of chavs, just really, really murdered them, I smashed them face first into all those hubcaps on the Bullring, and then— Shit, don’t tell Samuel that bit, you know how he gets when we try to wangle ‘but he was wearing Adidas’ into his self-righteous ‘we only kill the evildoers’ rulebook…best not mentioned, he’s still being weird about that bloke I killed for wearing a man bun and hippie trousers. I burned a lot of calories beating the shit out of them, though – these watches are pretty brilliant! D’you want to wear it tomorrow night, see if you can beat my shagging and killing score?”

I hurled my book at his head in furious disgust, and stormed upstairs to WRITE THIS LETTER!!

You have GONE TOO FAR this time! Health is a futile crusade! Human beings, you are all going to DIE, and there really isn’t anything you can do about it, so please stop making up nonsense that makes you feel marginally more in control of your own rotten mortality! You are a small, squishy, helpless pink worm, surrounded by electronic equipment with the capability to zap you into a drooling cabbage, and a kitchen full of knives sharp enough to chop off your fleshy little toes, and a bathroom you could drown in at any moment, and outside there are cars zooming around smashing into each other and blowing up, and there are nuclear warheads stationed all over the planet ready to flatten entire continents, and all of us crawl around shitting and screaming and flailing about in our own filth as the rock we inhabit whizzes through endless suffocating nothingness filled with exploding chemicals and boiling lava and mysterious black holes that are probably portals to hell, and nobody has any control over anything, not even their own bladder in the end! You, unlike me, are ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY GOING TO DIE!!!

…and if I see you wearing a Fit-Bit (or Adidas) or drinking a green smoothie, you may find yourself dying rather sooner, and more violently, than you may have hoped!

MY PIECE IS SAID!!!!

It is time for bed. Soon it will be Saturday night, and then I will have better things to do, like death and destruction and blood and drugs, and maybe a spot of dancing. With glowsticks. Because we currently have some very, very good drugs, and just because I bear the heavy responsibility of being demonic and fiendish, doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy gurning my face off while thrusting luminous twigs up and down like I’m possessed, when I’m in the grip of modern medicine.

Ah, drugs – they are the one scientific wonder that gives Samuel and I the perfect patch of common ground. I like the human element too – why read about a drug when you could just eat it, instead?

Onwards, to Adventure…

Yours,

Eden the Profoundly Unholy, the Slighted and Wronged and Despicable, etc etc.

 

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Browsing The Instagrams…

Dear Human Beings.

I am Eden, and I have rather a lot to say about you. What the fuck is this?:

http://www.inkedmag.com/g/glitter-booties-are-hot-for-summer-2018/2/?ipp=3

I mean, WHAT THE FUCK, ARE YOU ALL DOING?!

Am I very very stoned, or is this 21st century buttock worship rapidly reaching a state of deliriously rabid insanity? I mean, I appreciate a good arse, who out there doesn’t, but all of my life, whole centuries of it, I never really gave that much thought to the perfect arse. They came in all sorts of shapes and sizes – that was the beauty of them. They were as much a surprise as everything else you found in a girl’s knickers, often more so – I rarely got to physically size up the proportions of a new conquest’s arse until it was all over, and she was walking away from me, nude. I may have fucked her from behind, of course, but everybody’s arse looks good from that view; the real admiration of the posterior only came in parting. As such, it wasn’t a lustful sort of entity, to me, an arse – it didn’t scream, PHWOOOAAARRRR, I’m going to BUGGER THAT SENSELESS! Rather, it was merely a nice sort of pale dome, retreating into the haze of the afterglow; a full-cheeked smile that was often the last I would see of a girl.

But now…now, the humble Arse has become fetishised into the depths of moral ruination! NOBODY’S arse is good enough now, is it?! It was bad enough when they started doing this to tits, flaming Christ, I still remember the first wave of breast implants, and they’d knock your fucking teeth out if you got too enthusiastic, they were like lumpy skin-socks stuffed with rocks! Rob and I started writing a song about them, Dirge For The Natural Nipple, or something, I forget, but it was an agonised ode of longing for better days! Yet on it went, the Tit Ruination Revolution, and now people leap out of bed screaming if a tit dares to look like a tit, let alone feel like a tit – there’s no variety anymore! Time dribbles on by, and we all become more and more malformed and disgusted with ourselves. TEETH? Forget about it! No more tooth-coloured teeth allowed, everybody must now have mouthfuls of glittering neon bathroom tiles drilled into their jawbones! Fat? WHO CARES! We’re all so completely over worrying about being fat, now! It’s not nearly enough anymore that I could slither through a drainpipe unscathed and my stomach muscles could…oh, I don’t know, perform some ludicrously impressive feat like squashing a small, unripe strawberry in my bellybutton. Except that sounds excessively grim. But you know what I mean! Nobody has ever looked at me naked and found me desperately lacking…in general. Everybody has their off years, don’t they, when they become so profoundly deranged that things like eating and sleeping fall entirely by the wayside, but you KNOW WHAT I MEAN, I was doing alright! I was pretty damn near perfect, but NOT ANYMORE! I have to get bigger, I have to be gluttonous and huge and intimidating and SWOLE! If anybody is ever to find me desirable, I’m supposed to stuff myself with veterinary medications bought from a sweaty tracksuit bastard in the back room of a gym, while glugging down vats of liquefied chicken and supplements that make me fart, while spending hours a day picking up heavy things and pulling faces and grunting, and then drinking more chicken sperm and farting the ozone layer into dust, day after day until I weigh 600lbs and resemble nothing more than an impressionist sculpture created by a drunk man out of chewed, congealing bubblegum – lumps and blobs all over, and a tiny, baffled, bald little head flapping about in the middle.

This is the ideal I am supposed to attain! It isn’t just my PERFECT PHYSICAL FORM under attack here, it is my very intellect, my lifestyle, for EVERYTHING must be tossed aside  and trampled beneath the thundering hooves of this manic quest for bubonic lumpiness!

Lumpiness… They’re obsessed with it. The disastrous lip fillers of the 1990s, which were splattered all over the tabloids, labelled ‘trout pouts’ and roundly mocked, WELL, everybody fucking wants one now, don’t they? No lip can ever be big enough! They storm into the beauty salon and just demand, ‘Fuck me up! I mean really, really fuck up my face – I have to look like a freak, I have to have a unique lumpy selling point, and then I’ll be an Instagram star and people will buy me hundreds of handbags, and that’s absolutely definitely worth having the lower half of my face expanded into one inhuman bulbous lump!’ Deformed beyond repair, the entire world cheering and dancing about and imitating them, in some grotesque reversal of all that was holy about body modification. I don’t profess to be an expert, my immortal condition has rendered tattooing futile, though I have had tattoos done, just for the experience. And I do like piercings, I like doing them to myself – it’s not as though I can irreparably fuck it up, and after 195 years of seeing the same face in the mirror every day, it’s deeply satisfying to occasionally stab holes in it, or drunkenly hack off all its hair. But the whole point of body modification, for humans, mortals, seemed to be a claiming of ownership over one’s fleshy vehicle, a big shiny stamp of I CAME, I SAW, I CONQUERED – mortal souls would leave bodies they had turned into homes; you could look around at the doilies and the teacups and the carpet and say, Aha, he was This Sort of a man. People put genuine feeling into it; even when it didn’t look good, it had feeling. They made their homes interesting, and if the decorations only made them duller, you knew to stay well away.

But now, these days, we seem to be on a bizarre and ghastly crusade towards total, terrifying homogeny. It isn’t even about emphasising human beauty anymore, as it always had been – humanity has become loathsome, makeup isn’t an extreme enough disguise for one’s bloated, sagging, horrifying humanity anymore, no single part of an individual can be allowed to appear human. There isn’t a single untouched mortal on the planet who is considered good enough, now, is there? I mean, most of them look stranger than I do, and I’ve been dead since 1847!

People say it’s terribly racist to find it hard to tell another race of people apart, but what about Millennials? Is it alright to point out the fact that I can’t tell fucking any of them apart? I mean, I browse the Instagrams, from time to time. I am a creature of curiosity. I’ll look at the Instagrams if I fucking well choose to! Just because I’m a vampire, does not mean I must be eternally highbrow – I can and WILL look at the fucking Instagrams! But I can’t tell them apart! I suppose I’ve watched Rob go through this already, when pop-punk came along, and for about ten years he only ceased grinding his teeth and swearing when he found a teenage prat in a Blink 182 t-shirt to hurl into buildings (which made it all the more amusing when I found a Blink 182 CD in the car. When he finally confessed to its ownership he made some rambling drawn-out argument about all music being acceptable from a passive-critical perspective, that you could listen to anything at all without toxicity so long as you didn’t buy the t-shirt, and you chased it down with something better. Obviously, I couldn’t argue with a good drinking metaphor, and it gave Rob the perfect excuse to beat the shit out of children after bonding over All The Small Things. Life went on.), but bloody hell, why me?! Why must I have to waddle through the same sea of shame!

I thought I’d already witnessed the ruination of the goth scene, around the same time, when fucking emo came along and crapped skateboards and skunk-streaks all over the pavements like check-patterned pink dung, nasty little ratty-haired panda-eyed wankers invading the dancefloor, ruining my whole fucking year when they came up and complemented what I was wearing, which would immediately cause me to run screaming into the bathrooms to take it all off because WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE WRONG TONIGHT?!

It wasn’t over. It’s never over. Goth has been Instagrammed, and the results are fucking heinous. Never speak the name Killstar within my presence. Do not utter the term ‘nu-goth’. And don’t even think about wearing anything covered in white upside-down crosses, or creepy cats, or a fucking Baphomet head, or a handbag cunningly and uniquely disguised as a bloody fucking SPELLBOOK, or a pair of ‘quirky’ black John Lennon sunglasses, or your hair in bun-pigtails, or a round-based floppy black hipster-witch hat, or a Wednesday Addams-esque gloomy black school-dress with a neat white collar and buttons, or a black thing covered in a shitty white symbols that look vaguely occult, or ANY OF THE REST OF THAT UNGODLY BLOODY CRAP! Because I will EAT YOU! I swear to every single fucking god that I will BLOODY WELL DEVOUR YOUR FACE should you enter my house draped in that shit, that shitty fucking SHIT that is ruining my WORLD right now!

They all LOOK THE SAME! Goth, packaged up into a cotton-polyester xeroxed hipster soup-spew of homogeny! I detest it!

…however. What I was actually talking about, it now occurs to me, was buttocks. That video. Yes. Buttocks, deformed by liposculpture and rubbery implants, lied to by a million brands of Detox crap-your-guts-out Instagram Tea, depressed into oblivion by pointless hours of squats and lunges, and STILL your downstairs shithole isn’t good enough for the world’s sneering eyes! NOW you need to do all that, then go and drown yourself in a bucket of non-biodegradable, planet-raping glitter-shards until you’ll be fishing sharp little shreds of plastic out of your designer vagina for months, as will every sperm-whale and cod and porpoise in the ocean for the next MILLION YEARS, just to appease your followers on the INSTAGRAMS – of course everybody desperately desires to see a pair of enormous swollen bumcheeks that look as though they’ve been sitting in a leprechaun’s shitty nappy!

And do you know why it all baffles me so much? At the root of it, at the true heart of this issue, is…well – the rectum. It’s right there. Right in the middle. It’s what the whole arse is for, really, isn’t it? It’s a shithole. A lone brown eye. A red raw gaping abyss from which endless torrents of faecal matter plop and dribble – they all shit, the humans, even the Instagram clones who prefer to have their glistening vegan colons sloshed out in a weekly ritual of scatological sodomy; it’s undeniable. Everybody shits. And when I look at an arse, this fact is never far from my mind. No matter how many times Rob tries to convince me of the glory of the back passage, and no matter how many times Timmy tries to turn me gay, or I try to turn myself gay in pursuit of more proudly collected sins, the simple fact of the matter is that I would always rather be fucking a vagina! I mean, dear god, that’s what it’s THERE FOR, isn’t it?! It’s what it does, and it does it so beautifully – I have no cause to complain. I have no cause to spurn its warm, enveloping charms, and delve around in more spurious areas in pursuit of something that actually stinks, just because the modern man has seen far too much bad porn and is now convinced that his entire identity as A Blokey Bloke has been suicidally compromised unless he can get Debbie from Starbucks to let him stab her shit! I don’t need any of that! I never have! In my day, you fucking had to stab the occasional shit, if you were feeling inclined towards a good rowdy bonk of a Saturday night – all the Proper Women were too well guarded by chaste, scowling aunts, and the prostitutes didn’t want to spawn your unlovable bastard, so up the arse it went, fast and frequently. I’d be lying if I said I never enjoyed it, but I almost always wished it was somewhere else. There was just no mystery and victorious naughtiness about shoving it up somebody’s arse, back then…

And so, you see, when I see an arse, a normal arse, walking away from my bed after a glorious conquest, I just think, Well, that was Quite Nice. Goodbye, little arse. I don’t immediately, or necessarily think about shit – I mean, I’m not some kind of pervert, but strangely enough, the Spectre of The Lavatory most certainly does dangle over me whenever I see a decorated arse. Because why would you do it? Spraying glitter all over an organ designed to force out chunks of putrid shit for eighty years or more until it leaks like a rusty faucet – why would you draw attention to such a thing?! Do these people do the same to their toilets? Cutesy cat faces drawn in the depths of the shitter, so you might force your piss into their eyes and mouths, and the words I SHIT RIGHT HERE! emblazoned across the wall on a motivational poster?

Don’t dream it… Shit it….

AM I INSANE? AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES THE TRUTH?!

And of course, I can’t even say this anywhere! Not just because I am banned from commenting on anything except dogs via Kate’s Instagram account, but also because we live in a twisted era of manic extremes where one must either murder, or ejaculate – there is nothing imbetween, there can’t be, it’s impossible. Nobody simply says, ‘I mildly dislike the colour of your lipstick’ anymore – they have to ERUPT WITH HATRED over absolutely everything the person wearing the wrong shade of pink has ever said, thought, purchased, worn, dated, and dreamed about. Some people get so angry on the internet I genuinely wonder whether they just spontaneously combusted. And I say this as…well, me! I have been known to get somewhat irate upon the internet, I’ve caused keys to ping off the keyboard and bounce around the room, I’ve even occasionally torn a laptop into pieces and tossed it across the valley, although I rather regretted the latter… But anyway, anyway – simple dislike must always be amplified into bilious eruptions of violent insanity, and approval…well. Approval…

It’s almost as bad.

It may even be worse.

Language, you see, this too is en route to depressing homogeny, and it isn’t even good language! Why in Christ’s name is it that I can never scroll down any of the Instagrams without seeing reams of Millennial maniacs hollering ‘YASSSSSSS! SLAY! QUEEEEEEN! YOUR CONTOUR IS GIVING ME LIFE!’ – I’m fucking dying inside simply typing that nonsense out, hunty! I mean, am I finally becoming truly antiquated, or is this generation’s informal verbal diarrhoea even worse than the sixties?!

I despair. I have run out of ghasts to flabber, so that is that.

And yes, yes, I know I wasn’t supposed to be having an extended cultural critique tonight, I was supposed to be telling you all about the latter portion of my birthday, but, well! I am NOBODY’S BITCH, and it was my birthday – I shall tell you about it when my schedule permits! This is the interval. I’m allowed intervals.

Anyway, I have said my piece. Should you, humans, stumble across more gruesome trends, I would be intrigued to study them. I need to stay on top of human culture, and I particularly need to stay on top of despising it!

Yours, despairing, flabbered and shook, etc,

Eden the Unholy!

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A Voyage into the Weird… (Part One)

Hello, mortals…

It has been many days since my 195th birthday celebrations; we have finally sobered up, and I suppose I should tell you all about it.

It was going to be a pretty typical (or violently atypical, depending on your perspective) Vlad-organised affair, involving elaborate mass murders and startlingly creative deaths – we’ve had blood waterslides, men’s throats slit above pyramids of wine glasses as though we were serving fine champagne; plastic sheeting is laid down all over the house, everybody knows not to wear white (or anything you treasure, frankly), and any human entering the Orgy of Chaos is fair game. As are their remains, which will generally be used for some species of gruesome sporting event later in the evening. However, this year – as I mentioned – we had come upon a mindboggling smorgasbord of recreational substances, the potency of which we hadn’t experienced in…well, far too long. I wanted to be happy! More than happy, I wanted to be peeling-off-the-ceiling euphoric – I wanted to trip balls, lose myself in the whirling neon lights of this incomprehensible electronic future, and forget my ludicrous ongoing antiquity! I have already experienced deeply unfortunate hallucinogenic trips involving the entirety of 19th century London turning into a reeking citadel of the walking dead, and I will never forget that shit – as a result, the idea of tripping balls whilst a mansionful of deranged vampires smacked decapitated heads around my dining hall, using torn-off stiffening limbs as bats…to be honest, it didn’t really appeal.

So, not this year, we told Vlad. Wait until September…or October; Kate and Rob can revel in your dubious feast of delights. He seemed placated by this – plenty of time to plot, prepare, acquire… Of course we still invited him, amongst others, and given that Rob and Clara, plus our many guests, would be bitterly disappointed and decapitate half of Birmingham if there was no blood and mayhem, we allowed Vlad a limited amount of fun. Humans, we stated, were most certainly welcome, in a food capacity, and if they died, well, that was alright. But everyone was to clean up their own corpses, and ideally no carcass was to be torn to pieces and hurled about the place. Low key – clean floors; elegance and restraint, or for god’s sake use the garden! We informed our guests that we were all going clubbing first, preferably without the entire rabble of vampires, and therefore the afterparty would begin at around 3am. Every velvet drape in the house was closed, ensuring that the manor would be in complete blackness, and night may merge seamlessly into night, with no irksome sunlight burning anybody alive, or marking the tedium of time passing, because who among us would give a shit if it had been four days or forty years? The dining hall was turned into our own private rave, loud enough for dancing, quiet enough for conversation, with blacklights everywhere, whirling disco-lights and lasers, a smoke machine, a projector, one thoroughly mindfucked DJ who had been locked in the cellar all night, wearing a white t-shirt emblazoned with ‘DON’T EAT ME, I AM THE MUSIC MAKER!’, and all manner of bizarre rave toys from our memories of the sweaty, gurning good old days.

But all that, was to be part two. I wanted to venture out first! I desired to trip balls while driving down lurid neon highways through the sinister 21st century! I wanted to go out and OWN THAT NIGHT, pulverise my braincells amongst the young, edible fleshlings of this DASTARDLY FUTURE!

We spent several hours segueing into our best selves in Rob and Clara’s enormous, glittering bathroom, as is our custom, hurling eyeliner at each other through a fog of weed smoke and spilled whiskey. Rob suffocated us all with hairspray, his green mohican towering into the air, ridged in smaller purple spikes for my birthday. Purple is my colour, not his, but I told him it was shit anyway; there should have been 195 spikes or NONE AT ALL!

“Fuck you,” Rob replied, ruffling his hair and then aiming the hairspray directly at me, “Do you really want me shaving this off now, and chasing you round looking like a Nazi cunt all night?”

I summoned the mental image of a bald Rob, and shuddered. I conceded,

“No, I suppose not. You’re embarrassing enough without a goosestep and a Sieg Heil…”

He laughed. “We’ll see who’s embarrassing by about 4am. I trip with good grace – you trip like a paranoid screeching lunatic fresh out of the Bog of Dribbly Thoughts. Oooohhh noooo, Rob, there are DEMONS scratching round my BRAIN, trying to get IN! And you legitimately, like fucking legitimately thought carving ‘FUCK OFF’ into your forehead with a razorblade would defeat an army of invisible mind-infesting zombies! It was like in your twisted little world, ‘FUCK OFF’ was the most powerful rune you could possibly invoke! Dear god, Eden, you need to start a religion better than Poo Voodoo someday, I can’t die before I’ve watched you presiding over whole crowds of frothing, shit-smeared mentalists casting out demons with nothing more than excessively vulgar language!”

I pulled a face at him, turning back to the mirror before he could see me shiver. Much as I love getting hyped up with everybody else, I always end up wishing I could just eat the damn drugs right now and be on my way; the dread tingles of nervous anticipation were curling up in my stomach, whispering in fear, What if all this is a horrible idea? What if this time it destroys you forever…or at least for several decades? What if you murder everyone in that club, and their bodies crawl back up off the floor, bones crackling, heads dangling off, then they hold you down, peel off your skin and inject themselves through gaping, bloody portals in your veins, scratching…SCRATCHING all the way up to your brain! Crawling around in there forever and ever because YOU CANNOT DIE! Screaming inside your mind, dragging their claws down the inner walls of your skull until—

Shut up!” I hissed under my breath, snatching up the end of the latest joint and relighting it. Nobody paid me any attention – the music was loud, some aggressive thrashing bollocks of Rob’s. My reflection blew a cloud of smoke at me, and it seemed reassuringly together, smeared with eyeliner, its hair a gleaming black spiky chaos. I admired myself, wondering whether a few new piercings might distract me until we left, but the hairspray emissions choked me yet again, and I turned to see Kate resembling a black and pink Sonic the Hedgehog. She didn’t have 195 spikes on her head either, nobody cared about my birthday, but nonetheless she looked fantastic, and I couldn’t help smiling – if I had to spend a night losing my shit with zombies scrabbling through my veins, I would at least have an ally in this chaos…as in everything. She glanced my way out of a painted eye, grinning, and plucked the joint from between my fingers.

.

.

After an eternity of hairspray, we were ready to leave, to embark upon this crusade. Rob and Samuel were equipped with rucksacks full of blood, me carrying what really mattered – the chemicals. We paused to cloak ourselves in heavier layers than usual; the Cadillac was tonight’s vehicle, and the heating is shitty, but more than that, tripping…it makes us cold, or more truthfully, it makes us notice that we are cold. I suppose humans feel that sort of thing too – they feel everything more intensely when they trip. But for us, that fucking cold phase we go through is bloody ungodly – we have a tendency to become the absolute worst of cuddle-puddle gropers, because humans just feel so fucking warm and soft, squishy little irresistible radiators, and we never want to let them go… If you’ve ever met a strange, cold, gropey weirdo at a nightclub, with pale skin and eyes like glittering saucers, it was probably one of us. It might even have been me

Swathed in ludicrous furry drag queen pimp-coats, we strode out into the night, and I beamed at my obscene chariot – she stood proudly in front of the house, as vast and regal, as insane as any trip-vision, our sparkling purple ’59 Coupe de Ville, chrome grin glinting in the moonlight. Her insides had room for everyone and several more, as we slid across the worn black leather of her wide bench seats, the steering wheel on the wrong side, and me driving because it was my fucking birthday, and I love this car. I whisked my stupid little raver-twat rucksack off, and fumbled amidst baggies filled with experiences, just waiting to be swallowed whole. Most people would do all this nonsense in the house, but if we’re going in the Cadillac, then we are going in the Cadillac. Sitting out here, in this car full of memories, surrounded by darkness, it could have been any time in the past half a century, but for our ridiculous hair… Ash to ash, bones to trees; everything changes but me…

I passed out pills, one each, just like it used to be, like it should be – no need for double-dropping here. Rob opened a bag of Type A, and we washed them down with blood, grinning in anticipation, Rob and Clara pausing with pills on their tongues to take a fucking selfie – apparently the crusade to document my birthday, and thus my downfall, was well underway. Next came a bump of speed each, then I passed the drugs to Kate, and turned on the engine. That line of speed was already fizzling, tricking into me, and the gravelly explosive vrrrrrooooooom of my ancient car made me laugh out loud. I stuffed a much-agonised-over cassette tape into the machine, and off we went…

The bleak valleys and soggy wintery trees spun by in the stark blur of the headlights, and as we turned onto the highway towards the vast concrete arteries that would take us north, the speed took full effect, the flick and crackle of lighters almost simultaneous around me as clove smoke began to fill the car, poisons sucked down into hungry vampiric lungs. A black Polo stuffed with horrible little kevs caught us up, three of them dangling out of the window to gawp at our car, level with us, before Kate cranked down the blacked-out window and gave them the finger, then they laughed and roared forwards, apparently expecting a race. They were sadly misinformed, for once – any other car, but not this. Never the Cadillac. We’ve looked after her for decades…she could shift, once, by the standards of those times, but now, and laden down with the five of us? Fuck off, mate – the chrome on this beast is worth more than you make in a year…

With that pleasing thought, I swung my boat of a car onto the motorway, and let the needle climb. IAMX were playing, that song about surviving in…a nightclub? A dark alley? A broom closet with a dodgy lightswitch? Whatever they were teaching me to survive in, all was lost, for I had already forgotten. All I knew was that the song came from a vampire film and you know we hoover those up like little rocks of cocaine dropped in the carpet. Thoughts were zipping pointlessly through my brain like neon speech bubbles declaring ZOOP! ARGH! WAIT, SHIT, IS THE HANDBRAKE ON? Kate was saying,

“…but what if, I mean what if that was how it really went! No more hairspray for vampires – not ever again! The whole marketing of hairspray might change, and—”

“You suspect there are industry insiders?” said Samuel. “Who know of us? The hairspray industry, dictated to by the undead?!”

“Absolutely!” Rob declared, “Look at my hair – who doesn’t want to be me?”

“You would be surprised…” Samuel murmured. “Have they ever asked you for your opinions on hairspray? EVER? In nearly two centuries? Have they ever—”

“Plenty of fucking humans ask me about my hair! You NEVER KNOW – I might be owed a thousand billion in hairspray revenue by now, and I was just too drunk to notice!”

“What the fuck,” I demanded, in a panic of absolute insanity, “Are you all BABBLING ABOUT? Somebody EXPLAIN TO ME why vampires are responsible for modern hair or I will HIT YOU ALL!”

“It’s just logic!” said Clara.

“We ARE The Night!” said Kate.

“DEFYING GRAVITY!” roared Rob, all of them at once.

I shook my head, reaching over to pluck the bag of speed out of Kate’s lap, and steering with my knees while I stuck in a finger, and rubbed the resultant grit onto my gums. I dropped the bag back into her hand, whining,

“Give me a fucking cigarette and repeat that bollocks?”

Kate laughed, and stuck a half-smoked black clove between my lips. Rob was already away, explaining,

“When they hang off the ceiling, their hair isn’t right, it just sticks to them, sticks to them like—”

“WHO?!” I screamed in exasperation. “WHO THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN??”

“The vampires,” said Kate, snapping away at an uncooperative lighter, “The vampires in the film! Their very hair defies gravity!”

“As though they could not afford the appropriate production values,” Samuel added sniffily, “Of true to life vampiric dynamics! I taught you when you were barely days old the importance of scuttling up walls, like a truly learned demon! The amateur may—”

“Float,” I groaned, “But only the…I don’t know – the truly dastardly shall scuttle, and the grubby little fool shall float without artistry! No doubt followed by a lecture about the dashing properties of your medieval red velvet tights, or the—”

“AND WHO WEARETH THE VELVET NOW?” Samuel howled in triumph. “TELL ME I WAS NOT A SEER OF CENTURIES PAST!” He roared with insane laughter, opening the window and hanging his head out, his voice whipped back by the wind – “I SEE ALL! I AM STILL HERE, FOR AS EVER, IIIII WAS RIIIIGHT!”

Christ, said Rob’s voice, inside my head, You’ve let Samuel’s speed-demon loose again…

I met Rob’s gaze in the rear-view mirror, and shot back,

Think yourself lucky Frederick didn’t want to come…

All I received was a telepathic groan, and a sense of impending doom – Frederick hadn’t wanted to come clubbing tonight, but he was sure as shit not missing the party. All those goddamn vampire films with their elegant, detached elders, those people really needed to bear witness to Samuel and Frederick on a bender…

“But the HAIR!” said Kate, derailing my thoughts. Samuel withdrew his head from the window, and wound it back up. “If they can stop their hair floating, they must be able to make it float! That means I could make ALL MY HAIR STAND ON END just with a thought! I’d be like Tonks from Harry Potter! I could—”

“Threaten people like a pissed off cat,” I said, grinning. “What are you going to do, grow your armpit hair too and terrify people with a bristling display of vampiric armpits? You’re right – I’d shit myself…”

Kate dissolved into sniggering, Rob started pondering aloud whether furry bristling pubes might create a passable mockery of a ‘crap phallus’. On through the night we soared. Rammstein had begun teaching us to count in Deutsch, a necessary part of every modern-day goth night out – at least it wasn’t fucking X-RX with their ghastly industrial yoga class – I’ll one-two-move my feet directly up your fucking ARSE and you shall all BEWARE the RECTUM SHREDDING spikes upon my boots!! I was saying all this out loud without even noticing, but nobody seemed to give a shit, most of them were talking to their own reflections in the windows, or staring blankly up at the moon.

When the pills kicked in, they were far from subtle. The roads were empty, the Cadillac was feeling good, and we were just arriving into the maelstrom of Sheffield, its ghastly bloody one way streets splattered everywhere like rushing neon spaghetti, noisy staggering rabbles of drunken students pointing at my car and doing a bizarre dance of elation – did I really see that? Dude, DUDE, did you fucking SEE THAT?? I was beginning to wonder the same thing. Am I really here, on this planet? Was I ever? Is this all a computer game? If I run over that group of people, will they have huge machine guns I can pick up with a satisfying PING and start murdering everyone? As if on cue, a gorgeously ridiculous old school trance-house track thundered into life, Kate whooping and beginning to car-dance – behind me the back seat erupted into a fit of fist-pumping and wide, glittering grins. The lights were blurring past, streetlamps pulsing and shivering in time to the music, the whole world violently vibrating before my eyes. I felt as though I was flying, or freefalling, or exploding into one full body nuclear orgasm – goddamn these were some ludicrously fucking good pills. My jaw shuddered, my teeth crunched horribly together, and the entire world rattled like a broke junkie – I yanked the wheel to the side, stomped on the brake, dragged up the handbrake and collapsed sideways into Kate’s lap.

“Fuuuuck…” said Rob’s voice vaguely from behind me.

“Mmhmm…” Clara agreed, equally vaguely.

“Ahh…” said Samuel. “This is a strange place indeed… Strange…”

Kate’s fingers were shakily tracing patterns through my hair, and I felt my eyes roll back in my head until I was blind, my teeth grinding together but fuck it felt good. I wanted to do something, do something DO SOMETHING, I didn’t know what but somethingSOMETHING, like being on my old point-to-pointer as a mortal teenager – the unstoppable pulse of the music became a horse’s thundering stride, powering over the rough, muddy turf, wet branches whisking past my face, enormous fences looming out of the mist then vanishing as we launched into space, fingers caught in a tangled web of coarse mane, then a brisk slap of the whip and the cold air froze my face into a manic grin, the idiots left far behind me – unstoppable, all powerful, a FUCKING GOD!

I snapped out of my trance, sat up, observed the neon madness, and pulled the car away.

“Glad you’re not…dead…” Kate mumbled. I glanced over and she was staring out of the windscreen like a fascinated cat. I reached out and took her hand.

We left the car in the usual sinister indoor parking garage, stark fluorescent lights flickering over our still white faces. All around me, they looked like pale, gleaming waxworks, but for the glittering dilated madness of their eyes. Stepping out of the car was jolting; strange, surreal – the music stopped. Without the music encasing my thoughts, turning life into a slick, pulse-by-pulse music video, my cells broke apart and drifted into the night, scattered atoms returned to the barren wastelands of space… I felt naked and sparse yet truly present, here, here, in this startling century… So many memories, enough to drown in, but here we are. Alive…and so surreal…

Our footsteps echoed on the concrete, concrete concrete, all about us, a lurid fluorescent tomb made of death and magic – we’d started running with no verbal consensus, feet slamming into the pavement in a pounding thunder of sheer aliveness, cold night air rushing past our faces, numbing my lips, then we’d lifted off, hand in hand, speeding silently through the night. I broke away, spun cartwheels, the stars whirling tracers past my staring eyes until I slammed into a great big ghastly something with a fuck and a shit and an alarm went off, tearing through the silent darkness – it was a car, I’d hit a fucking car, and broken the bastard’s windscreen, and now it was yelling at me as I scrambled up from the floor, finding that Rob and Kate were raving away to the rhythmic din of the car alarm. I dragged them onwards, onwards to the club.

Would they even let us in, in this state? Was it a good idea, in this state?

Probably not…but as we drew closer, the muffled bass thumping became a magnet, drawing us in like the scent of blood on a clear, cold night. The old church rose above us, our feet treading a worn path through trampled grass, sparkling shards of broken glass, dandelion weeds and shadow…black and purple balloons bobbed hypnotically at the door. Inside it was chaos, sheer deafening beautiful chaos. Samuel was in the lead, smoothly mindfucking the bouncer, then the till girl – we paid nothing, not usually our style, we like to support our favourite places, and this, Underworld, it was our favourite of favourites, as far as the UK goes. But tonight…tonight we didn’t have the fucking faculties to fumble with our mundane coins, to speak to sober human faces, to pass for the mortals that we were not, and would never be again…

We drifted inside, shedding our ridiculous furry coats and thrusting them into the corner of the DJ booth, without even asking. The guy looked annoyed, then he saw Clara, and gave us a wide grin and a thumbs up; she ignored him, we all did – we had already been hypnotised by the music, the thumping bass that shook the ancient stone floor, thrumming through the bones of my chest; is this how it feels to be human? Do they feel the same, all around me, these fragile temporary beings? I suppose I’ll never know… There were notes bouncing through the night, sugar-crusted candy synth rainbows falling from the sky, scattering the floor in a pastel-shimmering rainbow like broken Mardi Gras beads. All about us pale hands jolted and twirled through beats of shocking white light, darkness, light; it became a swirling madness, fog wreathing us all, blinded, lost, until Kate’s face emerged through the smoke and kissed me. The music screeched to a halt, restarted…it was clearly a mindfucking, though whose, I didn’t know – the song that started up was so familiar it felt like sinking into a warm bath. We’d never chosen that song, it chose us, years ago, just as it must have chosen the humans who recorded it, those whispering female vocals overlaying a tripped-out sunset beat, hissing cymbals that ebbed and flowed like waves, and didn’t we all know? We all knew, here together, now, on the same chemical cocktail…as the rush comes…

We probably looked like a morons…we probably looked insane. It didn’t matter. All these people, these flesh-wagons made from temporary atoms of dying meat, they would be dead and gone within a sparse few decades. Everywhere we go, we’re always on holiday, on vacation – our behaviour doesn’t matter. We have no reputation to keep, not before the near-dead eyes of fading mortals in their tawdry, worn-out flesh. We danced and laughed and didn’t care, because they all would die, and we would not… Only we existed here, now and forever.

Embrace me…surround me…as the rush comes…

I melted into the softness of Kate’s lips, her sharp nails electrifying my skin, tracing ultraviolet tingles that mapped out the surface area of my physical atoms, and yet I moved beyond, moved within, reached out and felt the colours of her familiar soul – we became so purple, purple and pink like a sparkling nuclear supernova, just for a second, before she broke away, grinned, spun into the smoke, snatching green glowsticks from a gawping cybergoth, beginning to wreathe spooky shapes in the darkness.

We stayed at the club for…time.

What did it matter? What did time matter to any of us? Song crashed into song, faces blurred, shifted, morphed. The only moment the flow broke was when we edged into the stark lighting of the bathroom, the music growing soft, muffled in the swing of the broken door, no longer a power that overtook us all. We stood, blinking, staring blankly into each other’s bemused white faces. Then I would grab my bag, dump heaps of powder onto the grimy shelf, each of us sucking them up. Rob demanded more pills, ground them to dust between his fingers, and we hoovered those up too, soft pink piles of true fairydust, and yet so grimy here, here beside puddles of piss and sticky clumps of toilet paper, an insult to the soaring pearlescent heaven we inhabited. Angels with piss on their boots… Angels with shit-smeared wings – but angels nonetheless. Angels don’t lose their wings, do they, if they walk through a palace of sin? Can a halo tarnish – can it stain? Can an angel feel a demon’s pain? Do angels weep, do they dream of creatures like us in their sleep?

I was jerked from my reverie, pulled towards the door, but I refused, I stopped, saying, No, no NO, wait!! And then I just had to tell them, had to tell them all that they mattered, that they were here with me, and it had been centuries, I am 195 years old now for fuck’s sake, and it’s INSANE, isn’t it INSANE, but you’re all here, HERE with me, and I love you, I love you, and Kate was biting my neck, enfolding me in the scent of our bedroom, the scent of serenity, of safety, and then Rob was ruffling my hair, Samuel was saying something profound and archaic and I didn’t understand but it was perfect anyway, and soon we were on the floor, maybe even in the piss, just hugging each other, and Jesus fucking Christ these pills kick in even faster when you snort them – I stumbled to my feet, shaking off my beloved, staggering into the strobing darkness, and going mad.

.

.

I’m not entirely sure how or when we got from the club to the car. All I know is that I snapped back into life, sitting in the driver’s seat, and staring at my hands on the wheel. They looked like pale spiders, knobbly and weird, my fingers too long, the glittering black polish on my nails all chipped and chewed. And I didn’t know how to operate this thing, this wheel, this car. The quiet rang in my ears…the car park was sinister, as white and sterile as a Russian experiment, the chill of a morgue; the depths of a shark tank. I couldn’t drive. The Cadillac would not come alive, and meld as one with my bones. It was Samuel who finally said,

“Perhaps I should drive…”

“Mmm,” I conceded. “’k…”

I got out of the car, and opened the other door. I didn’t need to – we could probably all sit side by side in the front…but I wanted to be in the back, safe there in the womb. Clara moved into the front with Samuel. I slid into the comforting leathery gloom, next to Rob, his hair brushing lightly on the ceiling of the car. Kate slid up to sandwich me in, and this was everything, everything I’d ever wanted, to be in this archaic beautiful box with everyone in the world I’d ever loved, all at once, all of us alive, still here, here, and what were the odds?! I told them so. Samuel could drive – he knew how to do it, we were exiting the car park, sliding easily out into the night, slithering through the neon and madness, this sparkling aquarium somewhere between the streetlights and the stars, and I told him, I told him how amazing it was, that he could pilot this thing, without hitting the stars…

Briefly, Kate’s hands moved down, down, somewhere a bit rude, and there was an immediate lightning strike electrifying my entire body, my entire soul, and I was on top of her, but someone, Rob, Rob that fucking bastard, yanked me backwards by my hair, muttering,

“Don’t scar me for life, Garden Boy…”

And I zapped back. Wrong. Don’t do sex in the car. Embarrassing tomorrow, if you do sex in the car…

A strong white hand lay on the wheel, piloting our starship, just as it had piloted my chaotic atoms into infinity… His blood pulsed through my cells – I couldn’t have rejected it if I’d wanted to. I started telling him, telling him how much it mattered, every second, every heartbeat, every fucking moment of the past two centuries, and now I was here, HERE, 195 fucking years old, where we soared down a glittering river of lights, dodging the stars, jumping the moon, the year 2018 and all of us still here…

And Samuel just said,

“I know… I know…”

He glanced back at me with a smile, and nothing needed to be said; he was here, in me, in my soul, inside every one of my atoms…

Right here, right now, he knew what I meant. They all did.

.

.

We were almost home, sliding peacefully through the night, surfing the solar system, when Rob said,

“We haven’t even taken the acid yet…”

“Haven’t we?” I said, and I realised we hadn’t. It wasn’t even a terrifying concept anymore – it had been hours, but the chemical battery that fuelled me now would last forever; it thrummed through the marrows of my bones, demanding more, further, faster harder fucking Scooter!

“Aciiiiid!” Clara sang, twisting in her seat and grinning at us, red hair a wild chaos around her pale face as she reached a perfectly manicured hand towards the bag of drugs, nails like blood-red claws, claws that tore off dicks, wreaked gory vengeance…

I gulped, and began digging in my little bag of chaos.

The acid was on large sugar cubes, no elegant blotter art for us tonight, but sugar cubes were better; they absorbed so much, they wasted nothing…nothing but us. I handed them out, and Kate gave me a grin and a wink, placed it on her tongue, started sucking. I did the same. It tasted of nothing but sugar, and I felt like a horse. I thought of Noodle, wondered what he was doing, whether he surveyed the same stars… What did he think of them? Would he mind if I flew down to him, in three hours’ time, and asked him about the stars?

The sugar dissolved on my tongue, turned to sweet mush; I held it there, let it become liquid, and slip away. I was on the train now, the train to anywhere…and that was ok. The night flowed like a river; you couldn’t stop it.

Like whispers in the dark…

When we turned into the gloom of the countryside, I was thinking Bedroom, warm there, nice bed, soft things…Kate…Kate’s eyes…music, hugs, smoke weed, god I REALLY want to smoke some weed, maybe go flying, maybe not…warm bed…so warm, and FUCK I’M COLD… My teeth were chattering, grinding together. But then we turned into our drive, and CHAOS! There were vans with blacked out windows, small caravans, cars from all eras scattered over the gravel, spilling onto the grass, and I remembered…

Ohhhfuck… My party…

On some level I knew that I didn’t really like a lot of these people, but then, in an instant, the balloon of euphoria swelled once more inside my chest, floating me out of the car and into the house, and the hallway exploded into whoops and hugs and a madness of vampires, sparkling eyes and white faces and cold hands all over me, and I was swept along, through the library, the living room, and into the dark swirling neon of our little rave. It was already mayhem, dancing figures everywhere, the glowing human DJ as yet uneaten, presiding over his empire of death, as the projector flickered up a whirling gumbo of vampire movies, snuff films, sinister science clips from the 1950s, nuclear holocaust warnings, videos of puppies – who the fuck was operating this thing?!

The music was too much, too thumping, and as though by psychic connection Samuel glided off to intervene – it segued into peaceful bubbling Amsterdam-coffeeshop too-stoned-to-move trance, and then he was back, waving a big fat joint hopefully in my face. I grinned, and we collapsed as one onto a stack of beanbags. Kate had a joint too, we lit them both, dragged on them gratefully, let ourselves sink down, down, through the psychedelic spinning galaxy, and into the warmth below. I was already wrapped tightly in my coat, still shivering, until I realised there were blankets next to us, great big fluffy fucking blankets, and when I touched them, they were warmer than a human, warmer than a dog!

“Electric,” said Rob, grinning, his teeth and eyes glowing eerily under the blacklight. “We thought it’d be a good idea…”

I grabbed handful after handful of fluff, wrapped myself and Kate in a bath of fluff so soft and hot it caused a simultaneous outbreak of orgasmic moans. I melted like chocolate, dissolved into the floor, the cold ebbing from the depths of my long-dead bones, staring up at the stars that whirled on the ceiling. They became a corridor; I was sucked into it, flowing down a river of lights, a tunnel to the centre of the earth, to the centre of my soul and out the other side….

And then…the stars disappeared. The ceiling turned white, bright white, as white as a fucking burning poker, and there at the centre, it stood. The room shattered into screams, chaos, overturned chairs, nails scratching at the doors, scrabbling to escape – a SPIDER, there was a FUCKING SPIDER, a spider as big as the house, as big as GOD! It towered above us, flexing its furry legs, reaching out to grasp my skull, growing and growing until all was blackness and OH GOD OH GOD I’M ABOUT TO DIE!! THIS IS HOW IT ALL ENDS! but Samuel was laughing and laughing at my side, shouting out,

“Barty, old chap! How simply divine it is to see you!”

“WHAT?!” I demanded. “What the FUCKING HELLFIRE?!!! It’s that bloody spider, it’s really HIM?! What’s he doing here? And how did he even get inside, he’s too big to get through the fucking door! HE’S HUGE AND HE’S GOING TO EAT ME, HE’S—”

“He’s on the projector!” Rob yelled, springing to his feet, “Fucking SQUASH HIM!”

There was a desert storm all about me, wind rushing in every direction as vampires fought or fled, but when it stilled I realised Samuel was standing at the projector, gripping Rob by the throat.

The spider was gone – vanished, poof. The ceiling was now covered with a video of a little black Pug gobbling up an ice-cream. No spider…no spider anymore. But where is he? How BIG IS THAT EIGHT-LEGGED BASTARD REALLY?!!

In a casual flick, Rob was tossed into the opposite corner, knocking down vampires like pale skittles. Samuel evaporated into shadow, then materialised next to the DJ, leaning down to the mic to inform us all,

“That spider is a specially invited VIP guest of mine. Anybody found to lay a single phalange upon Lord Bartholomew or his kin will answer to me, and be parted swiftly from their heads – is this understood?”

There was a mumble of reluctant assent, though I heard a hissed voice muttering,

Zey are all demented…” – I looked up to see Vlad, more diminutive than ever between the tall blondes flanking him. He was in a ruffled shirt, as ever, and his fingers twitched at his side, nails long and perfectly pointed, bereft of gore. The latter clearly discomforted him. “They harbour giant spiders here as friends! Not just virgins, but spiders! I should—”

“800 years,” Clara murmured under her breath…still loud enough for him to hear. “Ready to gamble a three hundred year difference – here, tonight?”

Vlad snorted in exasperation, clicked his fingers, and smoothly exited the room with his concubines in tow. Above me, the Pug had finished its ice-cream, and it looked so happy. I beamed at it, and it beamed back, and then I wondered aloud,

“Where the fuck is Pudding? I want to talk to Pudding!”

Kate looked equally baffled. There was a rush of air, and Frederick appeared before me, raising a large glass of bloodwine and explaining,

“Arrived early, my dear boy, and your perro had made cacka on the floor, which was far from the inviting welcome I had anticipated. Darling Timmy made it all go away, of course, and then we shepherded the guilty parties into your bedroom. Do you desire them retrieved?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding firmly. “Bring me Pudding!”

Frederick evaporated into thin air, causing a few people to gasp – I suppose it isn’t every night that the average vampire meets a two-thousand-year-old who tricks even our eyes whenever he gets excited. The beanbag next to me moved, and I turned to find Timmy an inch from my face, exclaiming,

“Eden, I simply insist that you feed me drugs! All of them, any of them, before he gets underway! We received a ludicrously baffling text courtesy of Samuel two hours ago – Frederick got it into his head that you weren’t coming back for at least a week, and as such I have been simply run ragged acting as host, waiter, and scooper of defecation ever since. Whatever you have inside that ghastly purse, I call baggsie!”

I grinned, and gave him a hug. It had been far too long, and it’s always nice to see Timmy under good circumstances, when in the past they’ve been so fucking awful, for both of us. He was draped in buttery-soft Italian leather, and he smelled like the inside of a luxurious new car; I felt tingles of capitalist excitement explode inside my braincells, caressing the sleek seats, feeling it thrum into life, until he pushed me away and examined me at arm’s length, asking,

“What have you been taking tonight? I never got half this reception when I kissed you for the first time! Do you remember? I still remember – a beautiful beach, and all that coca wine you fed me, while teaching me to give oral sex to an orange, but still you wouldn’t kiss me. And that is why I killed myself.”

“No it wasn’t,” said Rob, laughing. “You ‘killed yourself’ because you were incurably demented!”

“How do you know? Perhaps I made it all up. I think I killed myself because Eden wouldn’t kiss me. Distraught; a young boy in love! Rejection can make a person go quite, quite mad, you know. Perhaps I still am mad. Perhaps I will kill myself again. I think that I should. Will you kiss me now?”

“Fuck off, Timmy,” I muttered, smiling, “Have a pill instead – I’m 195 today, and I’m not celebrating that landmark by being eviscerated all over the valley by Frederick.”

“Oh gosh – he wouldn’t mind a jot! I have told you about the things we get up to, haven’t I? You know, since you’re all terribly high and shan’t remember a word I say, I shall say everything! Tonight I was thinking that we might—”

“I’ll lend you whatever you want,” Rob intervened, “Just fucking wash it before you give it back, alright?”

“Mon cher, on my honour, it shall smell as rosy as a virgin’s rectum. If it doesn’t, then I promise to kill myself.”

With that, Timmy was crunching up a pill with a disgusted grimace, gulping down the bitterness with several swigs of bloodwine.

“Right,” he said, peering into my bag. “What else have you got?”

.

.

By the time the dogs were led in, Frederick clearly having been distracted somewhere on the voyage, Timmy had eaten an acid tab, and insisted on snorting speed off my stomach, declaring between lines,

“I am the first! The very first of your 195th year! And now, you shall think of me with every line, and weep for the time you did not kiss me!”

He dived back into my stomach, sucked up the other line, and then licked up the crumbs, until I fell off the beanbag completely, writhing with laughter.

“Ah,” said Timmy, “You regret it already. My tongue is a skilled thing, and so very wasted on Frederick. Always distracted…always thinking. Antiquity does not bring peace…”

I’d just scrambled back under my orgasmically warm blanket when I was flattened by the muscular, wriggling black body of Pudding, who had clearly not enjoyed the solitude of our bedroom one bit. Heisenberg was all over Kate, a manic ball of deranged fur and overenthusiastic tongue, as she firmly closed her lips and tried to restrain the ultimate Ruiner of Makeup.

Hello, I said to Pudding, fondling his silky ears, meeting the anxious gaze of his wide brown eyes. ???

He snorted, rolled a nervous eyeball around the blacklit room, and bombarded me with accusations and Disastrous Emotions, about Gone…all gone. Strange man. Strange smells. Too fast – he moved too fast. Don’t like man. Bedroom. No you. No Kate. Alone… ALOOOOONE, ALL ALONE ALONEALONEALONE! What this? What all this? You…strange. Eyes strange. ???

I smiled at him, tried to convey the warmth and peacefulness and happiness I felt, and a little wrinkle of frustrated confusion appeared on his black forehead, but he huffed his resignation, and curled up against my chest. He was peaceful for all of three seconds, before he raised his head, and cocked an ear at Kate and Heisenberg, with a forceful Eden’s all wrong! You’re all WRONG too ???? !!!!

Kate glanced at me and laughed, apparently now able to interpret at least a little of that. She gave Pudding a kiss, and he frowned, his questioned unanswered. Heisenberg, on the other hand, took a flying leap off Kate’s lap, and span yapping circles around the dance-floor, driven into a manic furry tizzy by the discolights. Pudding whined in despair, and lay down across both of us, burying his nose in the blankets. I massaged his ears, wondered if he would ever grow into the majestic hellhound I’d hoped for. I’ve asked him, of course, what happened to them both, to make them so strange, to land them in a cage at the RSPCA centre, but Heisenberg has forgotten, or doesn’t care, and Pudding cares too much to make any coherent sense. I think somebody died – somebody he cared about. Dead and gone…and the two of them with nothing to eat, nothing to drink…and the smell. The smell of their human; it went wrong. He never came back. And now Pudding’s nervous about everything. He trusted that man, but he went to sleep and never came back. Which probably explains why Pudding creeps along the side of the bed sometimes, to snuffle in my ear, to make me move – to prove my aliveness…or whatever ‘aliveness’ I’m capable of.

I gave him a poke in the flank, and when he looked up in annoyance, I transmitted,

I’m not going anywhere… I’ll be here forever… For all of your forever, anyway…

Pudding didn’t know what to make of that, demanding, Short forever?????

Everyone goes away, I told him, and watched his eyes widen in horror. I backtracked, adding, Except me. I don’t go anywhere. I don’t get old. I don’t smell funny. Here. Always. Everything’s ok.

He still looked suspicious, so I gave up on words, and just let it all slide into his brain: permanence. 195 years and counting; that’s what this is, tonight – it means I’ve been here forever – day to night to another tedious dawn, on and on and on. Year following year, seasons changing, music morphing, shoes becoming more ridiculous, centuries flushing away like a broken toilet. Everything changes but me…

And Pudding finally smiled. He sat up, gave me a big, fearsome, toothy grin, and licked my ear. Then he jumped lightly off the beanbags, and took off like a cannonball, bowling into Heisenberg and sending them both tumbling through a maze of legs.

I smiled, and rummaged in my coat pocket for my rolling tin.

.

.

It wasn’t long before those innocuous sugar cubes turned, and began to slither about inside my brain. The first sign was Rob abruptly jumping to his feet and darting out of the back door to vomit. This always happens, or at least, it always happens when the drugs are really strong. Even he knows what it means – Rob’ll never let a decent drug go, I’ve watched him regurgitate pills into his open hands, rinse them off under the tap, and eat them all over again…sometimes twice. I remember one night, we’d flown home from Slimelight in a state of deranged euphoria and staggered straight through to the studio, to work on an electronic track called Hardcore Bastards Never Waste a Yacker. It wasn’t the work of art we’d hoped for, largely due to Rob’s overenthusiastic determination to capture the sense of sheer loss he felt every time one of those beauties came slithering out of his mouth, drenched in purple vampiric bile. Most people dancing in a club don’t want to hear detailed lyrics about the taste and consistency of Rob’s vomit, I suppose…

When Rob returned, he was dragging a pale, blood-smeared human by its wrist, dumping himself down next to me, and giving me a thumbs up, reporting,

“It’s a violent yacker tonight. Hold onto your fucking arse, Garden Boy!”

With that, his turquoise eyes paled, glowing white under the blacklights, and he sank his fangs into the kid’s throat. I hastily grabbed a wrist, and bit into it before Rob could be a greedy bastard. Even if I Made A Corpse, I was the birthday boy…or Birthday Relic, I suppose, at this age – no one would make me fly an annoying carcass out to sea. Anyway, I was sure I’d seen Alex pass by a minute ago – he was bound to be here with his blood-stained white van, en route to the hospital incinerator that took care of all our party debris…

Kate was busily engaged with the human’s other wrist, and just as I suspected, it was rapidly dead. Rob tossed it onto the floor behind us, its eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. I didn’t know how it had come to be here, on tonight’s menu, or what its thoughts had once been – a mindfucked human blinks out like a lightbulb…but conveniently it can still follow orders, and walk. Genius, really – humans have Roombas running around the floor, gobbling up crumbs, and while vampires may frequently be technologically backwards, we still have beautiful drinks canisters that stride around parties offering and offering themselves until they just go splat. Once we work out how to make their dead bodies dive headlong into a fire, we’ll become as lazy as the rest of the 21st century…

The DJ had clearly decided we were all sufficiently wankered: Shooting Star ejaculated itself into the luminous darkness, and it seemed that everyone I had fed pills to went a bit mad…except for us, adrift on our beanbag island. Somehow, we had entirely passed the Shooting Star Zone, and that’s a pretty fucking far-out zone. We were too fucked up to dance: the acid was here, it was queer, and it definitely definitely didn’t require beer. The song was too fast, too manic, too annoying. I looked at Rob. Rob looked at me. Nobody spoke, because nobody could speak. Kate glanced towards the DJ, and sent out a telepathic signal so badly-delivered we all heard it – I don’t even know who she was aiming for, but without words she appropriately expressed our bemusement. A dark, distant shadow accosted the luminous t-shirt of the dealer…the DJ? I don’t know…words melted… He’s the dealer…the dealer of experience…peddling musical notes to everybody, little sugary wrapped-up experiences, blopping out of a synthesiser like a pill-press… I wonder which one is my favourite… I wonder if I could hide between them, and nobody would ever find me. I could file away my soul between two pretty notes, special ones, never to be seen again. No one would know where to look – I’d be hidden between any two notes, in any song, on any album, in any genre, in any historical period… I’d be safe forever, tucked away between those notes… I just need to find the right ones…

Something dark and thrumming, gloom-laden with nostalgic psychedelia swooshed around the edges of the room, smashed into the wall, arced in a vast foaming wave over our heads, and crashed down upon us. My pores drowned…it beat in each ear, back and forth, a female voice moaning nonsense…I mean nonsense, at first I thought it was pretty, or just beyond me, because for one, I was high, and for two…I had a point here. It was a point like a fork, a fork in a nork that looked like pork, two pronged like a serpent tongue…like…confusion. No…the lyrics were just nonsense…they were bad, they irked me on such a level of intensity I had a desperate desire to express it, I felt I must begin writing in blood upon the very walls, upon the ceiling, upon people’s faces, I must express in agonising eloquence an essay of eye-bleeding brilliance, about how god-rapingly pitiful these fucking lyrics were!

But then the song ended, in a sort of depressing, pointless, grungey fart-out, replaced with bouncy synths, something spacey, clubby – tolerable… I felt somebody looking at me, and turned some segment of my consciousness to find Kate’s face…being there. But her eyes grew and grew until there was nothing in my vision but glistening black pools of this impossible, inky liquid, huge emerald-green rings devouring my soul – alive, too alive, a superior consciousness was watching me, piercing through my eyeballs, sucking out my brain! Then those devouring onyx pools blinked, turned away.

Something warm and soft pushed me onto my back, half crushed me, but it felt nice. There was a thing, a wet pink thing roughly smothering my cheek, a cold wet blob poked into my eye-socket, and I finally realised it was Pudding.

PUDDING! I said, dissolving from terror into happiness. His eyes were watching me too, right up close, but they didn’t stare, or calculate…they simply observed, and they seemed to be smiling. His cold wet nose said Hello ??? and I replied with a floating amoeba of curious interest.

S’alright, said Pudding. All this. Not bad. Strange. Not bad. I sit on you. You strange…so I sit on you.

I nodded. He smiled, started panting, pleased with his logic.

I sit on you. Until it stops.

 

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The Masterplan

Hello, world. This is Eden… I come to tell you that a small part of my fiendish masterplan for the human race has been enacted, and you, perhaps, may be a part of it. My voice SHALL BE HEARD! Gruesome sins shall be committed in my name! Blood shall RUN SCARLET RIVERS THROUGH THE STREETS! My words have been spoken, for all to hear, and you may buy this Bible of Filth from Amazon, at The Putrescent Vein.

Bring out your dead!

My Scribe hath spoken, and the wheel of fiendishness begins to turn. What happens next, you may wonder, as you quake in fear and explosively shit yourself? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT! Well, my human Scribe knows what it lives for – it lives for me. I began with love, as you shall learn…but my patience grew thin. This present Scribe lives for me, and me only – my life spans 195 years as of two days ago: I have much to tell.

Will this Scribe survive the whole retelling of my life’s history? I have not yet decided. I may simply eat it. Perhaps I shall make that decision based on the simple, pragmatic egotism of numbers.

So…should you seek to save this Scribe, and to learn more of my life (for my next retelling may take a century, when you, paltry human, shall be dead, maggot-eaten and decidedly pungent. I may have forever, but you most assuredly do not!) – should you wish to know more, I suggest you bow down and encourage me. Not in words, what do you think my Scribe remains alive for?! I seek enslaved minds! I seek OBEDIENCE! The money means nothing; how many custom guitars and roaring glittering monsters of cars could one vampire possibly need? My Scribe, however, is human, and almost as tedious as the rest of you. Buy it some…oh god, what do I know? What do humans want? Edible, dribbly, foody nonsense, perhaps something in which to cloak its aging, decaying flesh – I thankfully forget what it is to be human… Back then I was too depressed to care for anything besides whiskey. But my Scribe has many strange pastimes. Buy it some stuff to scribble upon its face, and it shall be pleased. It may remain young, and tolerable to look upon, as I pass onto it my tales, and it fuels itself with the weed I grow, before beginning to frantically type out my dark existence, from blood and anguish, transformed into glowing letters upon a screen…from there, unto human understanding

I shall speak no more! There are dark deeds to be attended to, blood to be devoured, a Scribe to be whipped into action, and also, Pudding has taken an especially large shit in the garden, and a SHIT of that magnitude must never go to waste! In America there is one Donald Trump endeavouring to ban all lewdness and nudity from the world, and it is time that I unleash the faecal wrath and gruesome rituals of POO VOODOO upon his loathsome reign of pompous retardation!

It begins…

That ghastly toupee’d Carrot of Dysentery shall shiver and defecate ‘neath the looming shadows of my feculent witchcraft! There are powers greater, and more devilish, than that overstuffed orange pilchard can even CONTEMPLATE – I am the one who wields them…

However, this is little of your concern! Poo Voodoo takes many lifetimes to appreciate, to hone into a deadly blade – one man’s dogshit is another man’s WEAPON OF GENIUS!

I shall go about my sinister errands, beneath the cover of night… You, shall purchase this book, learn but a few of my bitter and gruesome secrets, and be enslaved within my DEMONIC WORLD ORDER! I have been limited, here, upon this ‘blog’, within the medium of fluff and comedy…but soon, soon you will know things. Black things… TERRIBLE THINGS that can never be unseen! And so…

Here, at the end of a motley collection of tales, begins the truth…

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Anarchy in the…Tesco Car Park

Dear Tesco…

It has been quite some time since last you irked me, but today, the dark prophecies of Friday 13th became BITTERLY TRUE! A sinister shadow hung over my place of abode. It all began, you see, with a puddle of piss…

My huge and spectacular hound, Fiendish Pudding, has been growing in confidence beneath my wise counsel, but his small, flatulent frenemy, Heisenberg, who is a nasty little shit, obeys nobody except Kate, and this is frequently problematic. I love Kate, but Heisenberg wants her all to himself – one of his many detestable traits! Last night, prior to the Ungodly Urinal Happening, Kate and I had been having a rather wonderful day – we have made an acquaintance who has been quite the revelation, with regards to the existence of the Dark Web…

It’s all complete gibberish to me, at my age (194. I shall cling to that youthful number for another two days, goddamn you all!) – apparently, you can buy drugs over the internet now! WHAT A WONDROUS WORLD WE INHABIT! This glorious, glittering future of belching fumes rotting the ozone layer, vast factories filled with tiny little chickens being pulverised and fed to cows on bovine Death Row, previously cheerful bumblebees committing suicide with nihilistic fury, gleaming shopping malls filled with people so lumberingly lardy they can no longer walk at all, and instead motorise their globulous forms from hamburger to cheeseburger to heart attack, while all around them are lurid pictures of stick-thin women photoshopped into rubbery-lipped mutants, their teeth as bright as a nuclear holocaust – all this, ALL THIS is the GRISLY REALITY of the future I have ENDURED INTO, but now…now I can tolerate it, because I have discovered there are drugs on the internet!

So – our useful friend had ordered us up a fabulous takeaway menu of uppers and downers, all of the finest purity, and our entire household was awed by the sight! We decided to save the very best for a celebration of my Slithering Out of the Womb Day, which occurs upon the 15th April. Perhaps with the correct chemical cocktail, I could be persuaded to have fun… And so, for a brief and simple entrée, we dug into the cocaine, but Rob became obnoxious, so Kate and I snatched up a wrapful, and made haste to our bedroom, wherein we fucked and fucked and FUCKED like demons, shagging away on the walls, on the ceiling, even on the roof of our house, pausing only to snort lines off each other’s naked bodies… It was glorious… It was SINISTER! …until Heisenberg made his presence known.

I suppose the blame should partly be placed on Pudding, since he was the one who opened the bedroom door, but I know that it was Heisenberg, that beastly little shit, who made him do it! Pudding simply stood in the doorway, looking AGHAST, as we hung upside down the from the ceiling in – ironically – doggy style (you really must experience the head-rush of upside-down coke-sex to appreciate it, but as a paltry human, alas, I doubt you ever will…) – Heisenberg came CHARGING IN, yapping dementedly, and when his attempts to clamber the curtains to reach us failed, he marched with balls of steel up to the nearest leg of my beautiful, beautiful mahogany four-poster bed, and then…and then he FUCKING PISSED ALL OVER IT!

HE PISSED ON MY ANTIQUE FUCKING BED! RIGHT UP IT! WHILE LOOKING ME IN THE EYE!!!!!

I descended from the ceiling like a vengeful naked god, ignoring the fact that Pudding was now staring at my erect cock with head-tilted bemusement (‘Is that a sausage? It looks like a sausage… Should I eat it? Would that be rude? Maybe I should wait until he offers me some… But do I want him to offer? What were they doing? Why were they making those noises? Why did he put that sausage into that place? Should I try to put sausages into Kate’s place? I think the sausage is…oh no, it’s a part of him! Do I have a sausage, too?!’ – dear god, I thought, at the back of my mind; I have broken my dog…), but Kate snatched up Heisenberg before I could fling him out of the room (or possibly the window), and she started laughing and laughing. So there he sat, that horrible moulting rotter of a dog, perched cheerfully between Kate’s naked tits, watching me with his wild, mismatched eyes, practically sniggering, and at my feet, an ENORMOUS PUDDLE OF URINE was soaking into my priceless antique rug! NOT ONLY THIS, but he had interrupted the crescendo of my ninth orgasm, and the clear, high euphoria of the coke was waning into paranoid tetchiness. I COULD NOT BE MORE FUCKING PEEVED!!!

We hastened to clothe ourselves, and then I did the only thing a level-headed, mature, 194-year-old undead demon can possibly do in the face of an emergency such as this – I screamed my head off until Samuel came to look after me, his usually blue eyes presently large and black with stimulant intoxication. Rob and Clara were on his heels, both of them rubbing their noses.

“PISS!” I cried, in despair, “THERE IS PISS!!”  I was beginning to storm back and forth across the room, Pudding shuffling off to hide, badly, behind an armchair. “WE HAVE AN UNSPEAKABLE PISS PREDICAMENT! A DASTARDLY URINE EMERGENCY! A GODDAMNED BLOODY—”

“Jesus, Eden!” Rob interrupted, his gaze fixed somewhere it shouldn’t be. “We all know you’re a weird one, but since when does coke make you decide to piss on the floor?”

I gaped at him in bemusement, thrusting the finger of judgement at Kate and the Canine Culprit, whilst informing Rob,

“It was Heisenberg! Why the fuck would you think I’d pissed all over my own bed and then called you to come and look at it?!”

“Well,” said Rob, still staring at my groin, “It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve ever done, but mostly, I’m asking you because the ocelot is on the roof, and…uhh, the ocelot, more accurately, is peering right out of the window…and he looks a bit excitable. Do I need to continue, or have you got the gist?”

I frowned, and looked down. Shit… Rob and I have never quite had cause to come up with verbal code not just for ‘your fly is undone’, but in this case, ‘you’ve completely forgotten to do up your jeans, and put on underwear, and the whole room can see your semi-erect penis’. I rapidly rectified the situation, with as much dignity as I could muster, though I felt I had rather lost the upper hand here, in the realm of wounded pride and moral outrage…

“Piss,” I reiterated, my ocelot now contained. “Samuel – help! Heisenberg has PISSED ALL OVER THE BED, and the RUG, and the HANGINGS, and I will not live in a bedroom that stinks of THAT DOG’S PISS for the REST OF ETERNITY!!”

“Ohhhh, but this wonderful!” Samuel replied, leaping across the room observe the abhorrence, with an enthusiasm that wholly did NOT befit the situation. “Tonight, my cup overfloweth with the joys of spring! I have cleaned the entire kitchen from top to bottom, from side to side and inside out! I have polished every single guitar we possess, replaced each and every string, and…well, after that I was feeling quite dreadfully at a loss for what to do next, but now – aha, a fresh challenge awaits me! A challenge of quite some magnitude!”

“He tried the speed, too,” Rob explained, grinning. “When he started polishing spoons like a nutter, we decided to stay sane – stick with coke…”

“I got a great foot-rub out of him though,” said Clara, pointing one small white foot at me. “He even painted my nails, or, well…six of them, that’s when you started hollering.” She showed me her other foot, adorned with one purple toenail, and a big splodge of streaked paint. “You could’ve told us it wasn’t a ‘Help, I’m dying’ kind of emergency…”

Rob pulled a face, holding up a broken chair leg. “Better safe than staked, but you really are the boy who cried wolf. Or piss, in this case…”

“Leave!” Samuel insisted, bursting back into animation, having regarded The Incident in corpse-like stillness for quite some time. He started hustling us out of the room, informing me that he “must tackle this grave errand alone – there is filth aplenty, but I shall defeat it; fear not – fear never!”

With that, the door was slammed in my face, and all I could hear through it was Samuel’s racing heartbeat, and his increasingly manic humming.

.

.

Samuel-on-Speed, I feel, is a creature we need to unleash more often. Our guitars looked fantastic. The kitchen was a miracle. And when I saw the Cadillac I almost cried with happiness. As for the Piss Situation, he defeated it to the best of his abilities – the bed, its velvet hangings, and the rug on which it stood, had all been de-pissed as thoroughly as any vibrating, gurning, amphetamine-psychotic vampire could possibly manage…and yet…

The stench lingered.

By the time we went to bed, Samuel had become a vague, shuffling zombie and had retired to his room armed with a lunchbox I lovingly prepared for him, containing a strong shot of heroin, a heftily-rolled joint stuffed with my Nuclear Indica, a bottle of Type O bloodwine, my green iPod (laden with sleepy, stoned music, as opposed to my purple iPod – favourites – and my bright pink iPod, for club drugs; I take pharmaceutical recreation very seriously!), and I also included a small wrap of ketamine, just in case sleep should forever elude him.  My bedroom, however, STILL STANK!

Kate sprayed the area with perfume until I nearly suffocated, I flapped incense all about the place until we were wreathed in Nag Champa fog, we chainsmoked cloves, and all to NO AVAIL! The stench could not be defeated!

And so, SO, this gruesome morning, I awoke from a pitiful, disturbed slumber, and was regurgitated back into the aroma of fetid urine.

“I AM NOT HAVING THIS!”  I howled, causing Kate to jolt awake so rapidly she fell out of bed. “I SHALL NOT DWELL IN A LAVATORY BOWL FOR THE NEXT TWO CENTURIES!”

“Yeah…” mumbled a voice from the floor, as Kate’s sleep-mussed black and pink hair appeared, and she crawled lethargically back onto the bed. “I think it’s getting worse How is that even possible?”

“Anything’s possible,” I muttered darkly. “It’s his piss. Who knows what that sinister menace is capable of…”

Heisenberg pricked up one ear at the foot of the bed, and yawned a big smug yawn. Pudding was quietly snoring. Kate curled up next to me, rubbing one eye and mumbling,

“Bicarbonate of soda… It’s meant to be good for bad smells… Do we have any?”

I snorted. “A cooking ingredient? In this house?”

“Hmm… On the plus side, Rob hasn’t made us eat an Anus Cake in quite a while…”

“Fuck,” I muttered, wanting nothing more than to curl myself around Kate and go back to sleep until nightfall, but the stench was everywhere! “I’m going to have to go to Tesco, aren’t I? Fucking Tesco…

“Could just try tossing speed all over the piss-puddle…”

“Not that speed – the state of Samuel last night, I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t eighty percent bicarb and glucose… I’ve never been pissed off about having good drugs before, this whole thing is ridiculous…

Kate laughed, and sat up, suggesting,

“How about we take some of that speed, and then go to Tesco? We’ll be in and out in twenty seconds flat – how bad can it be?”

.

.

How bad can it be…

Those words still HAUNT ME! We were so very, very wrong, and OH HOW WE SUFFERED!!! A grave misjudgement was made…

Tesco. Never, ever go to Tesco, in the daytime, ON EXTREMELY STRONG SPEED!

It all began with promise, and excitement, and adrenaline and euphoria! For ultimate effect, and because I am a creature of bad habits, many of which are rubbing off on Kate, we chose to inject the speed, which even Samuel had not done. As a result, we left the house utterly overjoyed to be going anywhere – even to Tesco! Kate cartwheeled out of the house, and then outside the garage we had a loud argument about who was going to drive;

“We should RACE!” I suggested, bouncing up and down with impatience as the garage door slid upwards with unbearable slowness. “I’ll RACE YOU, and we’ll—”

“The Lambo’s still in the shop!” Kate interrupted, her eyes vast black circles ringed in wild, neon green, as she gnawed at her lip. I produced a half eaten packet of gum, and tossed it at her. “You’ve got no Lambo, Rob’s still sleeping with his keys, and you’ll never ever keep up with me in anything else!”

“SHIT!” I erupted, flinging my arms out, and causing a flock of birds to explode out of a nearby tree. “FUCKING SHIT! I’m driving yours then – give me the keys!”

“No way! It’s mine, you never let me drive the Lambo, so you’re not driving mine!”

“I BOUGHT IT! I get to drive it, whenever I want!”

“Fuck off you do! You bought me that car so I’d have freedom, freedom from YOU! You said, if we were going to be immortal together, I should always have a way to—”

“I bloody KNOW what I said – I take it back, give me the keys!”

“NO!”

GIVE ME THE FUCKING—”

She was off, launching into the air and darting like a black and pink missile across the valley. I caught a glint of silver, and realised she was waving the keys in the air as she flew, giggling off towards the horizon. Swearing, I launched myself into pursuit, realising, on some level, that Samuel would fucking crucify us if he caught us daylight flying, but I really didn’t care! I was fizzling with manic glee, and shooting through the cold, gloomy air felt fucking FANTASTIC! Kate put up a good fight, but with nearly two hundred years on her, it wasn’t long before I got close enough to launch myself like an undead bullet, sending us both crashing into the hillside in a long smear of grass stains and swearing.

“I’m going to DRIVE!” I declared, emerging victorious, the keys held aloft.

“I’m still driving back,” Kate stated, as we whooshed back towards the house. “Because it’s my car, and if you don’t stay on my good side I’m going to really, really fuck with your head while you’re birthday tripping – you know I can…”

We landed outside the garage, and she gave me an evil grin. I shivered, and nodded. Kate’s bad side is an increasingly scary place to be…

I blipped her ostentatiously sparkling R8, admiring the paintwork with a smile, as I always do – I designed it, when I was very, very stoned, and it’s my masterpiece…

Soon we were zipping and VROOMING through the countryside, and I had to admit I slightly coveted this car – the new Lambo is, frankly, a bit too ridiculous, I can barely move for people gawking at it; it’s only fun on the motorway, and even then I’m perpetually up the arse of some BMW wanker who thinks he can take me on. Ohhh for the German efficiency of the autobahn… But Kate’s car, I was enjoying. Although, on this much speed, I’d probably enjoy making my way to Tesco on a space hopper…

We quickly arrived at the grimy ringroad of our tedious local town, and I slalomed gleefully between cars, roaring across three lanes at once to swing around the bend into the gruesome pit of Tesco. At that point, I had to slam on the brakes so hard Kate swore at me, and started comfortingly patting her car’s dashboard. I had barely entered the ramp down to the car park, and I was already up the arse of an endless queue of cars! Before I had time to decide that actually, I could grow fond of the smell of piss – that bicarb was not an emergency, a torrent of four-wheeled bastards squealed up behind me, and there I was, THERE I WAS – blocked in, trapped!!!

“Ohhhh shit!” I exclaimed, the full horror of the situation assaulting me. “I remember now – I REMEMBER! It was like this at Christmas, when Samuel sent me out for chestnuts and mulled wine – there’s only one way out of this sinister hole, and it’s blocked by a traffic light! This entire BUILDING is STUFFED from arse to tit with cars, and we will be here FOR ALL ETERNITY!”

Kate muttered a rude word, stuffed more gum into her mouth, and passed me what little remained. I picked off the pocket-fluff, crunched up a minty mouthful, and sat there, vibrating.

As we edged inch by agonising inch into the black abyss of Tesco Hell, I shut off the blowers before we could be gassed with exhaust-stink, suggesting,

“Go in without me – find the stuff, and then we’ll FLEE!”

“No way,” she stated, “I don’t trust you – if you get to the exit before I’m out, you’ll have a big paranoid spazz-out about being ‘trapped in your own personal microcosmic hell’, and then you’ll run off with my car and leave me to get the peasant-wagon home – no fucking way! When I go in, you’re coming in with me. And I’m holding the keys.”

“OhhhhSHIT!” I exploded, bouncing up and down in my seat. She knew me too well…

Kate had plugged in her iPod and was poking it, zapping past disjointed snatches of music, until Rammstein deafened me, and then it was even worse! Not because I hate Rammstein, but because I was on SO MUCH SPEED that listening to the aggressive, powerful din of a German war machine flattening everything in its path with pounding efficiency made me want to fucking RUN EVERYBODY OVER and then TUNNEL DIRECTLY TO FREEDOM! I didn’t even realise that I’d started revving the engine in time to the beat until Kate punched me in the arm, snarling,

“Don’t you even THINK about ramming that obscene fucking Range Rover with my car – we would not win!”

“But I’m DYING!” I wailed, dragging my hands through my hair and headbutting the steering wheel. “I’m going to DIE IN THIS CAR! You’ve taken me to TESCOS, my personal HELL ON EARTH, and now I’m going to DIE DOWN HERE and rot forever! I’m two days away from my 195th birthday, but I’ve been ENTOMBED in this SHITHOLE!!!!”

I opened my window, dangled out of it, and started cursing Tesco and everyone in it to ETERNAL DAMNATION, until, as if by magic, the lumbering arse of that ghastly white Range Rover turned left, and I screeched around the corner, flying towards the exit, towards freedom, towards REDEMPTION, until Kate yelled “SPACE!” and wrenched the handbrake. We skidded spectacularly sideways, narrowly missing a small child, and when we lurched to a halt, Kate said firmly,

“We’re here now. We are GETTING the bicarb. PARK!”

Muttering under my breath, I piloted us into the space, took a deep breath, and exited the car. As we strode towards the doors of the shop, the mother of the child I nearly flattened started flapping her sagging gums at me, babbling on about drunk drivers, at which point I believe I suffered complete apoplexy, launching myself at the child and planning to DROPKICK IT INTO ANOTHER DIMENSION, but Kate grabbed me around the throat and started hauling me off, deeper and deeper into the seventh circle of HELL ITSELF!

There were people everywhere, people, fucking PEOPLE with their obnoxious, tedious thoughts babbling away in my mind, ooooh, don’t forget the potatoes, Rosemary loves a good tater, and should I go for lamb or pork, lamb or pork, lamb can be so FATTY but we had pork on Tuesday, and what about the vegetables, broccoli makes Frank fart so much, but then carrots are—

“FUCK YOUR FLATULENT HUSBAND!” I was howling, as we sprinted through the aisles, Kate taking a flying leap right over a moving trolley, “I HOPE ROSEMARY FUCKING CHOKES!”

“SHE’S NEVER GOING TO SHAG YOU!” Kate was yelling, apparently lost in the depths of somebody else’s heinously dull mind. “AND SHE’S NOT A VIRGIN EITHER, YOU’RE JUST UGLY! SHE SLEPT WITH— BICARBONATE OF SODAAAAAA!”

She dragged me to such an abrupt halt that I stumbled into a rack of dried prunes and shrivelly walnuts, sending them cascading everywhere, but there it was, the goal of our Epic Quest, the solution to the Stench of Doom! We HAD IT!

Kate grabbed a tub, I grabbed a tub, then I made to flee, but she held me back, pointing out,

“Might as well stock up on whiskey for your birthday, now we’re here.”

I nodded, reluctantly, and we made haste to the booze aisle, the only worthwhile bloody section of this entire shitfest, and made off with as much as we could carry.

Finally, finally, we were free…

Except we weren’t. As soon as we pulled out of our space, Kate driving, as per agreement, we found ourselves up the arse of an old biddy in a Nissan Micra. It took FOREVER, FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER as we crawled laboriously towards the exit, through the exit, up the slope, and past an interminable wait at the traffic light. It turned green, and Kate pulled off in a screech of burning rubber, sending us roaring off round the ring-road, OUT OF HELL, and towards home.

When we got there, I absolutely could not give a shit about the bicarb, or the stench of piss. All I cared about was cooking up one TRULY ENORMOUS shot of heroin, and passing out on the carpet. Kate, it appeared, wasn’t far behind.

And that is how we spent the rest of the day.

The moral is, thou shalt not go to Tesco in the daytime…not unless you happen to be driving a monster truck that can scramble over the roofs of other cars… Perhaps a monster truck is the next practical purchase I must make…

I am exhausted. This has been a horrible way to spend the last fading hours of my 194th year of life!

Tescos – I DESPISE YOU! I DETEST YOU! SORT OUT YOUR GODFORSAKEN BLOODY CAR PARK!

Yours, with intense bitterness and fiery loathing,

Eden

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Night NEMESIS!

Hello, increasingly weird world… This is Eden, and since I have a Furious Letter to share with you, I suppose I may as well initially update you on our present Goings On:

First and FOUL-MOST, Samuel has begun conversing with that BEASTLY SPIDER via email, I shitteth you not! He left out his bank card, and the vulgar little eight-legged shit registered his own domain name (there’s nothing on the website, apparently working a digital camera is as yet beyond him, and though I have NO doubt he could pose grinning evilly in front of the webcam, he’s spared us that shuddersome sight for now!) However, his email address is something utterly pompous like lord-bartholomew@arachnidmanor.spid, and he and Samuel have been frequently discussing the history of our mansion, the history of the world outside the mansion, how it feels to walk with eight legs vs two, how it feels to fly vs dangling on a web – all the usual correspondence one could expect between a vampire and a spider! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO MY LIFE!! 194 years of immortality, and now I have typing spiders to contend with as well!

Samuel claims never to have met Lord Barty (as he now refers to him – ughh!) in person (well…in spider, I suppose o_O ), but I believe this to be an odious lie, as Samuel is frequently retiring to his room early for bed, and I hear the strains of the gramophone playing everything from jaunty jazz to Bach and Beethoven, pipe smoke drifting under the door, and a frequent, ‘Really? Now that is most fascinating!’ …but if I bang on the door and demand to know with whom he is conversing, he tells me to kindly bugger off as he is ‘Skypeing with Frederick’. PAH! It would take him a mere ten minutes to fly to either of Frederick’s European chateaus, and those two would far rather be out getting drunk in Rome or Paris than talking on Skype! That gruesome SPIDER is in there, TALKING, and I know it!

*shudder*

Asides from the vulgar matter of That Stinking Bastard Spider (I mean, ‘arachnidmanor.spid’, for fuck’s sake, THIS IS NOT A MANOR OF SPIDERS! This is the sacred sanctum of the sinister undead, with a fridge full of blood, a cupboard full of booze, a chest full of drugs, and spiders are pesky guests at best!)… Anyway, things are generally…up and down. The dogs are improving, or Fiend is, at least – he is becoming less of a Pudding every day, and I am very, very proud of both my Hellhound and of myself 🙂 I have managed to establish basic communications with him, and he is no longer afraid of his own voice. I even brought him into the studio, and got him to growl through a microphone, which after an initial cowering response, he became quite proud of. I played some guitar, and sang to him, and he started joining in, fairly tunefully. Next, I showed him a mirror – after first explaining the concept, and warning him not to be afraid of what he saw. When he finally realised that the vast, muscular powerhouse of a dog staring back at him was himself, he went completely insane with joy and pride and took off bounding and sprinting all the way around the house three times over, barking and howling, and then bowling into me with such speed I nearly fell over. He licked my face manically for the very first time, and his golden eyes were shining, and I gave him a hug, and he told me that the reason he’d always been so afraid was that Sod had been his ‘mirror’. Poor old Fiend. All his life, he had assumed himself to be that tiny, ragged, demented looking lavatory-brush, and naturally, the world seemed a terrifying place! But now, now, Fiend knows his place in the world – the dynamics are shifting! When Sod pisses him off, Fiend simply places one enormous paw on his head and squashes him. I am delighted!

Kate, naturally, is a little less pleased, and has absolutely banned me from showing Sod a mirror, ever, or of explaining to him what mirrors even do. All I have been allowed to accomplish with Sod is to stop him shitting or pissing anywhere in the house. I’ve started tutoring Kate in animal communication though, and Sod seems…surprisingly intelligent, and willing to learn – provided Kate is the one making the requests. She’s understandably clumsy at this stage, often frustrated with herself, but Sod adores her and really doesn’t care that she’s almost certainly transmitting utter gibberish – he relishes the attention either way. He’s becoming a lot less arseholian towards me, now that Fiend is asserting himself – Sod appears to have accepted me as Kate’s boyfriend, and no longer snaps at my ankles or tries to bite off my nipples (and other things >_< ) in bed. We’ve taken them for lots of enjoyable walks, and even gone out riding, Fiend galloping about beside us, Sod soaring along in furry, yapping delight, tucked safely inside Kate’s hoodie.

Overall, the Dog Situation is blissful, and I have no idea why we waited so long – our household is complete! 🙂

Other matters, however, are LESS fantastic. Despite the distraction of ‘Lord Barty’ the ungodly spider, Samuel has once again cracked down on his New Year’s Resolutions. Once again, it is a New Year, and a Samuel-enforced, new, putridly SOBER me. My beloved heroin has been stolen away once more, and now I find myself irked and vexed and bored and above all, UNABLE TO SLEEP! EVER! Do you know how much I love being asleep, wrapped up in the loving arms of heroin and Kate, with Fiend and Sod snoring at our feet, lost in a world of duvets and dreams and never giving a shit about anything?! Waking life has to be spectacular to rival sleep – which of course, my waking life usually is. I am a fiendish demon, beautiful and SINISTER beyond words! I have the most fuckable girlfriend I could ever wish for, who loves me, and I have my family, and my suicidally fast cars, and my music, and our new dogs…but all of that becomes strangely papery and grey and pointless if it isn’t all experienced through the honeyed bliss of heroin. I just find myself sitting on the roof, pinging out an uninspired melody of midnight blahness, and even the frosty-clear night sky, the sound of Kate singing in the bath, the whining of Fiend through the window…it doesn’t touch me.

Life without heroin is SHIT. And being awake ALL THE TIME and completely sober is ALL THE SHITTIER STILL! Thus, I have been driven to the gobbling of loathsome, pathetic sleeping pills, and here is my LETTER!:

 

“Dear Nytol,

I am an enthusiastic consumer of your product! To quote your leaflet, “Nytol…has been shown to help sufferers to fall asleep faster, have a longer and deeper sleep, and to wake up feeling rested in the morning” – you also suggest usage when sleep deprivation is caused by “bereavement”, and I can tell you that I am most deeply, unspeakably bereaved! O, I am the blood-weeping epitome of woe at this very second, for my longest and truest love, a syringeful of delicious golden smack, is being withheld from me! Sleep it brought, the purest and most beauteous of sleeps, and sleep, is what I lack! And so, I gobble your product by the handful!

Do the claims hold true? Well…I generally find that my vision goes sparkly and wonky and strange, then I become unable to string a sentence together, or to type without it coijwefnihgbjkbw louot lijke guthuiis, and so eventually I retire to bed, and pass out for a few hours, before waking up feeling like somebody concussed me with a saucepan. Then, I smoke a very strong joint, and after another three to five hours’ sleep, I am indeed somewhat rested! I call that a vague success, in this heinous modern world wherein pharmacists scowl and pout and show you the exit should you demand morphine or laudanum or anything else civilised! Congratulations on selling anything that can cause mild hallucinations and sleep – I pat thee firmly on the posterior!

Now, this is not a wholly congratulatory letter, for I actually have one rather serious bone of contention to PICK with you, and it regards the shape of your pills. They are marketed as “easy swallow tablets” when NOTHING could be further from the truth! Let it be known that, as you may already have inferred, I am somewhat an adept in the art of pill swallowing. I have been taking drugs since before the Admin Monkey who shall receive this letter was a twinkle in his father’s scrotum! I can ingest all manner of illicit substances with barely a grimace, even if that substance is a heap of powder wrapped up in a Rizla, and do you know how profoundly repugnant it is to swallow a ball of dry scrunkled paper? Well, your “easy swallow tablets” are EVEN WORSE!

I know for a fact that it is entirely unnecessary for you to use so much filler material to make your vast, long, stupid caplets, because the cheap versions of Nytol are all small and round and PROFOUNDLY EASY TO SWALLOW, yet when I consume your products, I have to snap them in half, and be prepared with half a litre of water in case I choke! On many occasions, I have choked so badly that I have actually regurgitated my entire stomach contents, due to which I now take your foulsome pills only while standing prepared over the porcelain throne!

You mark my words, somebody shall DIE choking on these fiendish creations, and the lawsuit shall be PHENOMENAL in size! Dear god, do you know how much easier it was to simply draw up a glorious syringeful of golden smack, pierce a fat blue vein, and drift off into immediate tranquillity?! That was far preferable to standing miserably over the lavatory as I gag and choke down your repulsive wares! O, the indignity! There is no elegance in it! There is an elegance in the circle, the round pill, the one that does not make you VOMIT and DIE! Even ecstasy dealers understand this concept, dear GOD!

Make them ROUND, and do it TOMORROW! I expect production to begin within 24 hours of receipt of this letter, and I shall expect at least 25% of the proceeds due to the fact that I am SAVING LIVES! I am practically a junkie Jesus, ejaculating genius left right and centre!

I daresay you should feel most privileged that you have received this letter, and a substantial portion of my precious time. I am excessively overstretched, as a gentleman of leisure, and I’ll have you know that I could have been having sex at this very moment, but instead, I have BLESSED YOU with my eloquence!

Good day to you, Admin Monkey, and the superiors who shall no doubt be desperate to get their fingers upon this work of genius! Do not forget my 25% cut – ROUND PILLS! Now don’t sod it all up and make them square or anything, my EYE is upon you!

Yours, dubiously,

Eden the Righteous!

P.S – I have to go to bed in a few hours. The lavatory awaits my choked-up Bedtime Whiskey, and I damned well won’t tolerate this for the rest of eternity!

 

Addendum:

Nytol are sinister fiends

Trying to make me puke,

But when they read of my violent history

Their choice of NEMESIS shall be more astute!

 

For I am a demon,

For centuries undead!

I feast upon your tiny babies

Then I RIP OFF THEIR TINY, TINY HEADS!

 

You would do well to heed these warning words,

You woeful mewling sods,

If I VOMIT UP WHISKEY ONE MORE TIME

You’ll soon be meeting GOD!

(Except you won’t, you won’t,

For he does not exist!

You’ll simply end up in my cellar,

Getting pissed on and pistol-whipped!)

 

Ahem. My point is made. Good night, Omega Pharma ltd of 32 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA – yes I can read the tiny blurred-out writing on your packets, vampires happen to have very good eyesight, amongst a great many other fiendish talents… Well, not that Ophthalmology is particularly fiendish, but, pah. You understand. I could write a great many further verses chronicling my gory history, but I shall let you get back to the business of picking your nose, urinating loudly in the pot-plant outside your boss’s office, and all the other small but satisfying pleasures of the Admin Monkey. Perhaps do me a favour and don’t pass on the poetry section to your superiors? I fear I may have gone a tad overboard. Maybe all this Nytol is making me brain-addled, but after the reeking Victorian sanatorium I spent time in circa 1845, NOTHING SHALL CONQUER ME!”

 

Well, I think that has them well and truly told, and shall be emailed as soon as my schedule permits, and I have tracked them down on the internet! Should they run and hide behind that postal address, I shall fly to their very gates and post it with my own fingers just to really give them the shits!

Hmm, I feel quite jolly now. Off for a fuck. Toodlepip!

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WTF Happened to My Blog!

Bloody hell! I log on here for the first time in a while, because Christmas was stressful, and it turns out there’s some terrifying, godforsaken spider in my house, which has grown big enough and sentient enough to WRITE BLOG POSTS on my behalf! This is Eden, by the way, in a state of ABJECT HORROR, just as any sane immortal would be, upon learning that some unthinkably vast arachnid is lurking about, studying me and reporting my comings and goings, as though I were a rat in a laboratory! WHAT’S MORE, this perverted spidery git covets my girlfriend, and proudly confesses to scuttling all over everybody’s TITS while they’re asleep!

Now, as I am an intelligent and above all LOGICAL vampire, naturally I would suspect this to be nothing more than some foul and gruesome scheme dreamed up to drive me insane, but Kate and Clara aren’t arseholes, Samuel’s been too busy carousing drunkenly in the snow with Frederick, and Rob, my prime suspect, would just have turned those rambling spidery blog posts into an endless fart joke, also serving as a self-aggrandising monologue about how big his DICK is!

So it’s true! It HAS to be fucking true! These laptop keys that I am presently touching have all been scampered about on by a big fat hairy insect! (Yes, yes, I know they’re not technically ‘insects’ but I hope to insult ‘Lord Bartholomew’ as much as he has besmirched every tit in this house! I am APPALLED AND FLABBERGHASTED!!)

Christ… I dread to think what else dwells in the shadowy corners and disused bedrooms, the tattered velvet drapes of this ancient manor…  I’ve never envied all the boring little humans with their boring little houses that were only built fifty years ago and have no character whatsoever, or worse still those vile gleaming apartments with their nasty cold fake-pine flooring, glittering silver taps and beige fucking everything, but at least if you live somewhere with no soul, you know full well it’s not going to contain sinister, antiquated beings who’ve developed near-human intellect and preternatural skill with a laptop! I mean, what else can he do, this sodding…bloody… whateverhisnameis, Lord Bartholomew the Spider?! Dare I seek him out, and attempt to fight him?! Exactly how big IS he? He claims to hide behind the oil paintings, but our oil paintings are HUGE! I may well be a vampire, and yes I do feed on human blood every night, I also frequently massacre my victims – I fear NO MAN, but…well…I am still quite allowed to be mildly arachnophobic when the creature in question could be the size of a hairy tarantula-stallion in possession of unnatural and FIENDISH INTELLECT!

I think it best to avoid this unholy spider… Samuel has other ideas, you know what he’s like – this spider is an unparalleled scientific wonder, and that means he has just become Samuel’s latest obsession. Samuel wants to befriend the monster, and then talk to it, at length! (I despair…yet I am far from surprised. Samuel may seem the sanest of us all, but the grisly truth is that he considers unspeakable demonic hauntings and severe poltergeist attacks to be ‘absolutely wonderful!’ – I shall never forget the sight of him standing on our sweeping marble stairway, a terrifying array of knives and forks circling him in a whooshing tornado, as a waterfall of hallucinatory, half-clotted blood sploshed over his boots. Samuel was grinning delightedly, shouting over the chaos ‘Is this not a WONDER!’, while I had to be carried out of the house by Rob, slashing and gouging at my own wrists in terrified delirium, attempting to bleed out the demons which were SHRIEKING WITHIN MY SKULL, scratching runes into my bones and screaming at me to murder my own lover, and oh god…oh god I’m not even talking about this anymore – if I believed in therapy I would still be lying on a couch ‘til this very day! Even when we almost fucking DIE, Samuel finds these heinous supernatural events the highlight of his year! It’s alright for him, 800 years old, fearless and completely sodding indestructible, but some of us have more delicate constitutions! And also a profound dislike of anything that SCUTTLES…)

Yuck.

Ick.

…and bleurghhh!

*sigh* Well, I suppose that now I’m here, probably being observed by that furry eight-legged shitball, I may as well update you on everything that has occurred since our spidery narrator last talked about me behind my back.

As you know, we now have two brand new pet dogs, and they make me feel a great deal safer, and more cheerful, in the knowledge that Bartholomew the Bastard Spider could be scuttling about. We intended on rescuing just one dog, a lovechild of Kate’s and my own equally, but as the bloody Spider explained, that didn’t quite work out. In fact, the dog situation is not quite working out at all. I am feeling decidedly off my game – usually, I can look into the eyes of an animal, especially dogs and horses, and commune silently with them. I can understand their thoughts, though not so clearly as a human’s – eye contact is annoyingly almost vital with animals, especially at first, and even then, the language is smudgy, blurry, I have to squint with my mind’s eye and it becomes exhausting, but finally, they understand me, and we reach an agreement. I understand what they want, and more vitally, what they need. And sometimes, what they need isn’t me. Yes, I can provide shelter, food, love, but animals are far more complex than that, believe it or not; they all have personalities and desires, just like anybody else. Sometimes it means rehoming them with somebody they like better. I can’t be offended. People treat pets like babies; they’ve got them, and now they’re stuck with them, ‘you can’t choose your family’ and all the rest of that crap, but the simple fact is, it isn’t true with a pet. You did choose them. But they probably didn’t choose you, and neither do they have to. If an animal doesn’t enjoy your company, nor you his, why make both of your lives miserable? We’ve passed on dogs and horses before – they found us too loud, too anarchic, or they simply didn’t like the smell of vampires; many animals find us intimidating, just by scent. All of them found their true families in the end, and lived happier lives for it, though admittedly we do have the power to bewitch a human into loving a dog forever, and I personally have the power to tell the dog in no uncertain terms not to eat their new owner’s chaise longue, nor to urinate all over the cat. Simple requests go far, with dogs.

So, usually, we acquire our animals, and I commune with them – I show them around the house, ask about their dietary preferences, their likes and dislikes (it’s sort of like a first date, I suppose), and then we see how we get along. Learning to understand them in depth takes longer…such blurry, blurry language…

Our new dogs consist of my own beautiful Fiend (also known as Pudding), and Kate’s vulgar little brat, who is named Heisenberg, but generally referred to as Sod. Kate and Sod’s relationship irks me – as a baby vampire, Kate has no experience communing with animals, I am the ONLY ONE who has worked hard enough over the centuries to manage it, and yet I would swear that Kate is in some way managing to bypass decades of hard work when it comes to Sod. That makes me grumpy. I hate it when people are better at things than me! Kate and Sod are getting on famously – she bought a ghastly oversized black and purple hoodie with a huge fleece-lined pocket at the front, like a kangaroo’s pouch, and is generally found wandering about the place with Sod’s strange little fur-bristling face and crooked ears peering delightedly out of it. She’s even taken Sod out flying, and much as I hoped the little bastard would fall out and learn his place in the pecking order, he took to it quite happily, yapping into the wind as we sped towards the city to hunt. He even has a taste for human blood, and Kate has taken to feeding messily from her victims so that Sod can lick up the excess.

Why does this annoy me? Well, partly because whenever I go to kiss my girlfriend, a small growling toilet-brush emerges from her midriff and scowls at me, but also because Sod is the perfect Vampire’s Dog, and yet he chose Kate over me! My dog, Fiend, is a far more spectacular creation, at least six times the size of Sod, some kind of Irish Wolfhound, Newfoundland and Mastiff mix, at a guess, as though somebody had sought to breed the biggest and most intimidating canine on Earth. He is jet-black, vast, muscular and shaggy, with bright golden eyes that nearly glow. He looks scary as shit, but sadly, appearances can be deceiving. He possesses the most powerfully deep and terrifying growl-bark, but the trouble is, it seems to scare him – he lets out an Earthshaking, imperious WOOF, and just as I think, ‘Aha! My dog truly is a FEARSOME CREATURE, a HELLHOUND at my side!’ he begins to whimper and hides behind my legs, scared to pants-crapping extremes by the volume of his own voice! What the FUCK is wrong with my dog?!

What’s more, he lets Sod bully him perpetually, to the extent that they have to be fed in separate rooms, or Sod will devour everything in sight, while Fiend steps nervously back and whines pathetically as his dinner is sucked down into the ever-expanding gut of Sod the Walking Toilet Brush. Bedtime is another adventure. Obviously, if Kate and I plan to fuck, both hounds are locked outside the room, and loud music is played to block out the distracting sounds of claws scraping on ancient wood and their howls of betrayal and misery. But when we sleep, the nightmare cannot be avoided! We eventually had to settle on purchasing two equally huge dog beds so that Sod wouldn’t push Fiend out and make him sleep on a sock or something, but even so, I like my dogs to curl up on the bed with me, warming my feet and guarding my castle 🙂  This too, has been vetoed by Sod. Sod will not allow Fiend onto our bed, unless Fiend hides behind me, taking up at least 1/3 of our vast four poster bed, which would feel snug and cosy and mildly sexy (Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m talking about the proximity to Kate’s tits, not about buggering my dog, you vulgar perverts!), except that should I make advances towards Kate, Sod will immediately bound up the bed, lick her ear until she giggles, then the horrible git turns back and fixes me with his uniquely bizarre scowl – one eye brown, one eye blue, one ear up and one ear down, face like a befouled lavatory brush – he is not to be tangled with, and Fiend provides me no protection against this canine menace!

I think I was quite correct in initially naming Fiend as ‘Pudding’. It suits him rather better. I was hoping, at the beginning, that he would be my Pudding, and everybody else’s Fiend, but instead, he appears to be an enormous purebred Pudding. Still, Kate loves them equally, and I love Pudding even if he is a useless 200lb lump afraid of his own voice, and if Kate is happy, even wandering around the house with a tiny bristling maniac stuffed into her hoodie, then I suppose I’m happy too…

We stayed in for New Year’s Eve, and simply got blisteringly wasted, but once the dogs have settled in, I think we are well overdue a winter holiday.

For now, I shall continue in my as-yet-futile attempts to break into Sod’s tiny mind, and encourage him not to be such a repulsive little arsehole to me, while also trying to convince Pudding that he is a fearsome, almighty Demon of a dog, and not…well…an overstuffed Pudding. As for that ungodly bloody Spider that’s been posting on this blog, let it be known that I have my EYEBALLS on you, Bartholomew! Think yourself lucky that Samuel wants to speak to you, because otherwise, your days would be SEVERELY NUMBERED! PS, don’t you DARE come near Kate’s tits in the night again!

Yours, vexed and irked,

Eden the UNHOLY!

 

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How To Name Your Hound

I return to you, Human Beings, now that I have rested all eight of my fine and furry legs – I am ready to continue the tale! To re-make your introduction, this is Lord Bartholomew, Head Arachnid of the Manor, and t’would appear, Head of this ‘blog’ as well, whilst the vampires are all so busy with the festive season, and their furry new family members. No dedication, bipeds, whether they are alive or undead, and as such, more cultured and dedicated arachnids such as I must take over, and tell their tales for them!

So, as I previously reported, we returned home from the Dog Sanctuary with not one, but two new mutts – the unspeakably vast, shaggy black hellhound Eden had initially set out in search of, and then, unfortunately, the small bundle of straggly hair and rabid dementia that could not be parted from it. As soon as these two canines had been fed and watered, they sat down in our grand living room, Samuel lighting a fire in the great hearth as I watched from the ceiling, and the arguments began.

“So?” said Clara, taking a seat on the Chesterfield, and sipping her blood-wine. “What are we going to call them? We didn’t even ask the kennels what they’d been calling them – they’re nameless…”

“They were always nameless,” Eden replied, sitting on the floor with his hellhound. “I heard the woman’s thoughts. They were both picked up as strays, so all they called them was Blackie and Shaggy, and we are having neither of those names in this house – even the dogs hate it!”

The hellhound lowered his head in agreement, and the scruffball ran three scuffling circles before diving into Kate’s crotch, sending her into paroxysms of giggles as she fought him off.

“So,” said Samuel. “They are wholly nameless… How unfortunate. I feel I should leave the room and let the axe of idiocy fall where it may, yet I am not sure I can tolerate calling another living being ‘Sausage’ or ‘Noodle’ for the next ten years…”

“Noodle loves his name!” Eden protested. “He was called Shandlebrook Silver Snowflake before I renamed him, and he DESPISED IT! I am an expert in naming animals!”

(He was referring to his Andulusian horse, who I have only ever seen in pictures. Noodle is a magnificent animal, despite his rather unfortunate name…)

“I will leave it to you,” Samuel conceded, pouring himself a glass of blood-wine, “But I do reserve the power of veto on anything truly heinous. There are only so many food items you can possibly dub your pets with!”

“That one’s Broccoli,” said Rob, pointing at the small scruffy dog, “And the big bastard’s just going to be called Turnip.”

“He will not be called Turnip!” Eden snapped, his green eyes narrowed. “Turnips are horrible, and this dog is a gargantuan, fantabulous Hellhound! I shall not name him after a lowly flatulent turnip!”

“Brussels Sprout is a no go then?” Rob said, grinning. “We could call him Sprouty!”

Sprouty?!” Eden spluttered indignantly, sitting up straighter and regarding his vast and regal hound. “His name is NOT Sprouty! Sprouts, as I have told you many times, are simply tiny green balls of feculence, they are human farts rolled up into ugly marbles – you know full well my opinion on sprouts!”

“At Christmas we eat sprouts?” Rob prompted, and Eden cleared his throat, continuing grandly,

“At Christmas we eat sprouts,

Which taste like eating out,

A mouldy cunt,

To be perfectly blunt,

I’d RATHER GO WITHOUT!”

He beamed, and performed a small bow.

“You really need a new Christmas limerick,” Clara told him, smiling. “You’ve been putting that one in Christmas cards for decades!”

“Centuries,” Rob corrected. “Ok then, Sprouty is not happening. Any ideas of your own?”

Eden frowned, stroking the hellhound’s hairy ears. Finally he sighed, pointed at the small dog, and said, “We might as well call that one Little Sod. It’s going to happen sooner or later, regardless of what we officially name him. Little Sod the Christmas Humbugger – that’s about the grandest title he deserves!”

“I don’t think he’s a Humbugger!” Kate protested, cradling the weird little creation. “I think it’s nice that we’ve got a dog each… And that he prefers me to you, even though I can’t do any of the things you can do…”

“That’s precisely why he likes you,” Eden said darkly. “You can’t see into his Humbuggery little brain like I can. He knows I’m onto him, which is precisely why his name is going to be Sod!”

“Well,” said Rob, “To keep up the food theme of our animals, I think Sod should be called Sardine, because sardines are stinky and awful and they ruin every food item you put them in. Call him Sardine and it’s like calling him The Blasphemous Stink-God of Clent…”

On cue, a small, squeaky fart emanated from the dog’s backside, and everyone darted for cover, except for Kate, who remained where she was, screwing up her face, and eventually choking out,

“I think…he likes that title… But I’m not having a dog called fucking Sardine!”

“Oh god,” Eden muttered, creeping dubiously around the sofa with expression of revulsion. “Why don’t we just call him Hitler and have it over with!”

“Veto,” Samuel stated, flicking through a book. “I am absolutely not wandering around the countryside with you all hollering ‘HITLER!’ – this is a small village and I will not be dubbed a neo-Nazi!”

“Kate should name him,” said Clara. “He’s her little stink monster. And if Kate does it, he might end up with a nice name, and grow up to be a nice dog.” She didn’t look very convinced, but nonetheless, Kate nodded, and eventually said,

“I want to name him Poe…”

The small dog pricked up its one pointy ear, and sneezed violently. Eden was already protesting,

“No way! No sodding way is Poe’s memory being tarnished by that horrible little beast! Look, even he doesn’t want to be called Poe, that dog is not a fan of literature, culture, or anything decent!”

“Ok… Not Poe then. Nothing literary, I guess. Shit, that’s difficult…”

Kate lapsed into thought, and Rob suggested,

“Trump. We should call him Trump. He’s an arrogant little stinkbomb with bad hair, and he farts all the time. Trump is perfect!”

“Fuck off, Rob!” said Kate, looking appalled and hugging her nameless farting dog protectively. “I am absolutely damn well NOT having my dog named after President Fart! You know I can barely even say the word Trump without laughing!”

Eden laughed, admitting, “Even that dog doesn’t deserve to be called Trump. God, that documentary, talking about how Americans had grown up with the ‘Trump’ name meaning entrepreneurial brilliance, riches beyond belief…when to us, it’s just a fart. And the fucking Americans have now voted a fart into the White House. They are, quite literally, being ruled over by a walking, talking, bright orange sack of skin containing nothing but reeking bowel gas. One day he’ll puncture, and the methane will just explode, killing millions of racist plonkers at one of his rallies. Maybe it’s all a conspiracy…maybe it’s for the good of the people…maybe he’s like a Trojan horse, a lethal ball of flatulent gas, ready to rupture and annihilate every obsessively religious, pro-life, anti-choice, nutjob twat in America. Maybe the stupidest president in the history of the world is actually a fantastically sinister Democrat scheme…”

He beamed at the flickering fire in the hearth, and Rob asked,

“Exactly how much weed have you smoked today?”

“Lots,” said Eden, still beaming. “I knew today would be an important day, and that I had to be mentally prepared for it! I had to be a genius!”

“Genius!” Kate exclaimed, as though she’d just won the lottery. “That’s exactly it! We’re going to name him Einstein, because he looks just like him – see?” Grinning, she held the dog aloft, and the others studied his wild grey eyebrows, his deranged scruffy beard, and his mismatched eyes and ears.

“Shit…” said Rob, still peering at the dog. “I hate to admit it, but there’s definitely a resemblance. If this dog was human, he would definitely be spending all day in a lab somewhere, causing explosions and making crazy potions, and—”

“Nope,” Eden interjected. “I don’t like Einstein. I like the theme, but it’s still not right. That dog would be a mad scientist, but he wouldn’t do it for the good of humanity. He’d be a speed freak, cooking meth all day, so I’m thinking…Breaking Bad. We should call him Heisenberg. It’s sinister, just like he is…”

Kate lowered the dog back onto her lap, and said,

“Heisenberg?”

The dog yapped once in response, and dove into her crotch for a second time. As she fought him off, Clara laughed, saying,

“Ok, I think he likes it! One down, one to go.”

“He will be called Heisenberg the Sod,” Eden corrected. “He may be referred to as Sod alone, as I plan to do. That is his full title.”

“I can live with it,” Kate agreed, smiling. “So? What about the big guy?”

“Pudding,” said Eden, decisively. “His name is Evil Pudding, and that is that!”

“Oh, dear god…” Samuel muttered from the corner. “Here we go again…”

“You don’t like it?” Eden asked, frowning. “Evil Pudding, and you don’t like it?! It’s perfect! He’s big and fiendish, but he’s also big and furry and cuddly. Like a pudding. An evil pudding. Don’t ruin it!”

Samuel sighed. “Do you remember the very first horse I bought you, one day into your life as an immortal? You wanted to name him Fiend, but in those times it seemed rather unwise for two demons to be living in the heart of London, galloping about the streets on a horse named Fiend. But now that we are in more lenient times, perhaps this dog may adopt that name. Anything has to be better than Evil Pudding!”

Eden considered this, and beamed, agreeing,

“I like it! He shall be Fiendish Pudding, that I may call him Fiend or Pudding, as my mood requires!”

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Rob declared, raising a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and taking a large gulp. “Let the ceremony be closed, with the decisions of Sod and Pudding as our new comrades!”

“Heisenberg,” said Kate, frowning.

Fiend!” hissed Eden.

“Sod, and Pudding,” Rob repeated, taking another swig of whiskey.

“I despair,” Samuel muttered, turning the page of his book, and picking up his glass of blood-wine.

 

 

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The Superiority of Possessing Eight Legs

We meet once more, presently festive humans! It has been quite some time since last we spoke, but I am a spider, and all spiders must become expert in the art of patience… We spin our beautiful webs, and thereupon we lurk, awaiting the moment when a string will twang, and we must pounce, busily, delicately wrapping up our prey, before we savagely bite off its head as it wriggles beneath us! Ah, the act of insect murder is a great and wondrous thing! To re-make your acquaintance, my name is Bartholomew. I am Lord Bartholomew Winderberg the 77th, to be precise, and since my last post on this blog, I confess that my uncle met his sticky end beneath the boot of the Foul One, Rob, thus elevating my position from Chief Arachnid in Charge of the Arts, to Official Spidery Overlord of the Manor. Quite the honour, I think you will agree – I am, essentially, the eight-legged King of this grand dominion!

I am writing this tale as I went on an adventure yesterday. Obviously, for an arachnid of my standing, there is very little time to be gallivanting off on piffling adventures, but the truth be told, I was feeling somewhat irked with life in the manor house, and I strongly desired to venture out for some fresh air. It’s the riff-raff, you see. The cold weather brings in all manner of vulgar, slovenly little spiders who don’t wipe their feet, who leave shoddily woven cobwebs all over my oil paintings, and who have accents so atrocious one can barely understand them! I eat them at every possible opportunity, or simply bind them up in my webs and leave them to desiccate, for I am the largest and most IMPRESSIVE spider in all of Clent!

Well, now that I have had my outburst, onwards, to my adventure…

scuttle away stage left, fading out to a hazy panoramic memory of some weeks prior—

If you have read the previous entry, which I did not personally write, so naturally it will be sub-par, you will see that Eden and Kate, my least hated of the immortal vampires I live amongst, endured something of a bad acid trip recently, involving babies. Horrible, dribbling, vomiting human babies. Happily for this entire household, vampires cannot procreate, and I am pleased to declare that there will be no unutterably vile miniature Robs slithering around my home! Nonetheless, they have decided that where a baby can never exist, a Christmas dog will become their new lovechild, and I can tolerate this, I suppose, so long as it does not attempt to devour me…

—scuttle back to centre stage, focusing camera on orator alone, as we return to the tale of My Adventure—

The Christmas Dog quest began yesterday. It is not Christmas yet, clearly, but Eden is no patient creature, and generally shows his displeasure by explosions of screaming and swearing, or sulking on the ceiling (he is rather like me, actually…we both rather like to sit on the ceiling and think…), and then passing out all over the floor with a needle in his arm, occasionally accompanied by founts of bloody vomit. As nobody seems to enjoy clearing up said vomit, his whims were, as usual, bowed to, and thus they left early to seek a canine with which to share their lives – I decided to come alone for the ride!

As they dressed for the snow in our spacious and beauteous hallway, I scuttled across the high, ornately carved ceiling, and surreptitiously dropped, turning an elegant backflip, into the hood of Kate’s jacket. It was furry, and black, and she smelled nice, so I curled up, quite well hidden from view. Then out we went, out into the vast and terrible world beyond the gates of my manor!

T’was cold and white out there, the hillsides and valleys sparkling gloriously, and as we were preparing to bring home a hound of unknown size, we climbed into the big black van that the vampires usually reserve for outings with their band equipment (I hear quite enough of their ‘music’, rattling my web-strings, and it ranges from the divine to the utterly abhorrent!).

We set off to some ghastly thrashing music, Rob driving, Clara beside him, the rest of us sitting on beanbags in the back of the van, and Samuel asked,

“Do you actually know what you’re looking for, Eden, by way of dogs?”

Eden beamed, and declared,

“A hellhound! A vast, fearsome beast to guard my castle, a sinister black monster to become my loyal friend forever and ever!”

“Well,” Clara interjected, “You do remember dogs die, right? And the bigger they are, the quicker they die. You were gutted about Sausage…”

“He’s gutted about all of them,” said Rob dryly. “Mourns every sodding dog for about the lifespan of the bugger itself. I think you just like dogs because they give you an excuse to be miserable.”

“Do not! I love dogs, they’re the best things on Earth! Well…except for heroin, and weed, and blood…and Kate. If there’s a god, which there isn’t…I hope…because I’ve done lots of terrible, terrible things and I don’t want to burn in a fiery pit for all eternity, but IF THERE’S A GOD, then dogs are the very best thing he ever made, and IF THERE’S A GOD he’s a cruel evil miserable bastard for taking all my dogs away from me…” A little crease of misery appeared between Eden’s eyebrows, as he quietly mourned two hundred years of dead dogs.

“Kate?” Samuel asked. “Since the dog was truly your idea, what are your feelings?”

“A pink poodle with a little puffball on the end of its tail, and we’re going to call her Princess Poochie-Poo,” Kate replied. The van fell into silence, and Eden stared at her, wide-eyed, as though she’d just turned into a grapefruit. She burst out laughing and said, “Of course fucking not! No goddamn poodles, that’s the first rule!”

“Oh thank shit…” Eden mumbled, slumping against the wall. “I thought you’d been abducted by a cheerleader…or a drag queen…”

“What I want,” Kate continued thoughtfully, “Is… Hmm…I do love pugs, but apparently their eyes can fall out, and then I do—”

“Their fucking EYES fall out?!!” Eden and Rob exclaimed, in perfect synchronicity.

“Yep… It’s the inbreeding, their flat faces. The Kennel Club have ruined pugs forever – they can’t breathe on hot days, they get fungus in their wrinkles, and when their eyes fall out they dangle about on eyeball strings, and you have to plop them back in quick before the circulation cuts off and that’s the end of the eye.”

Eden had his face buried in his hands. He shuddered, emerged, and said firmly,

“No pugs. Not a single pug. Not a single fucking dog that looks like its face might fall off in a strong breeze. That is the first rule. Poodles have officially been bumped down the list of abhorrence!”

Their conversation continued, but I ignored them, and took the chance to take a short nap, enjoying the warmth and comfort of Kate’s proximity. I rarely get to snuggle with my favourite vampiress while she’s awake, and I can hear her talking…

Finally I was awoken by a gust of cold air, and found we had exited the van, and were walking through the sludgy remnants of snow towards a very noisy block of kennels. Then I was made mildly motion sick as Eden whooped, grabbed Kate and swung her around, singing joyously,

“A dog, a DOG, we’re going to get a dog, our very first dog together, ever, ever, EVER! I love you!”

“I love you too!” she said, laughing, and I felt a little bit sad that she wasn’t saying it to me. Both of them were bouncing along, hand in hand, ahead of the others, and I curled up in Kate’s furry hood, determined not to be seen – I could never be ejected here, cast out and destitute, for the Manor is my home and I must return there to uphold standards, just as my family have done for centuries!

The first dogs we met were vile and beastly, and decidedly insane – vast German Shepherds and Staffordshire Bull Terriers that leapt at the bars, frothing and barking and snarling. Eden, of course, could make eye-contact with every single one and after a few moments, it would quiet, and sit down, occasionally raising one paw to the bars.

“I’ve never seen you do that…” Kate said, sounding awed, when he quieted the most ravingly demented dog of all. “I knew you could, in theory, I mean I’ve seen everything you do with Noodle, but I’ve never seen anything like this…”

Eden beamed at her. “I could probably teach you…but it did take me decades to learn. And I did get nearly mauled a few times along the way, especially when I decided I wanted to speak Wolf. That was a bad idea. The rest of the pack all creep up behind you when you’re only trying to be friendly! I’m still not fluent in Wolf…”

“Thank fucking god for that,” said Rob, blowing a raspberry at the dog and causing it to explode against the bars once more. “You’d be the king of all prats if you could speak Wolf, you’d be even worse than Vlad the Cliché Midget. You’d smuggle in your own herd and go full on Dracula, poncing about the valleys with your own pack of trained, howling wolves. You’d probably bring a fog machine with you too, for extra gothy twat-factor…”

“Ohhhhhh…” Eden breathed, his eyes, which were glowing warm green in the snowy brightness, becoming slightly unfocused. “That would be wonderful…  I must learn to speak Wolf, as soon as possible!”

“Wolves are illegal,” Samuel pointed out, prodding him in the back and moving us on down the row. “Your faithful friends would inevitably be shot or imprisoned, and even if you can speak Wolf, nobody else in the village can, and we can quite do without mauled bodies being strewn all about our house.”

“If anyone’s mauling bodies for Christmas, it’s going to be me,” said Rob, grinning evilly and giving Clara a rather pornographic kiss, until she broke away, giggling at god knows what. (They speak telepathically, the vampires. Their ‘in jokes’ are quite literally ‘in’, in many cases – they never move outside their heads, and it’s immensely frustrating for a spider on the wall!)

They continued perusing the dogs, Kate falling in love with a sad-eyed Beagle, until Eden pointed out that it was seven years old and smelled like cancer. Kate gave it a tearful goodbye, and on we went.

Finally, The Dreaded Dog was found. It was an unbelievably vast, shaggy black monstrosity, standing tall and regal in its cage, and staring up at us with a steady golden gaze. Eden dropped to his knees in the snow with a reverently whispered, “Fuck me…”, and he began silently communing with the dog. After a few silent minutes, it raised one enormous paw to the bars, and he met it with his own hand, black-painted nails chipped and chewed.

“I’m taking you home,” he said quietly, beaming. “I’m going to—”

A small, demented looking lump of bristling fur exploded from behind the vast dog, and launched itself at the wire, yapping and chasing its tail and practically doing backflips of excitement. It had wizardly grey eyebrows like Einstein, an impressive beard, one ear up and one ear down, and one strange blue eye. It reminded me of the character I had read about, when I scuttled across Harry Potter – Mad-Eye Moody. Eden had almost fallen over backwards in shock, and Rob was in fits of laughter, spluttering,

“What the fuck is that thing?!”

“I think it might be a Gremlin,” Clara said, grinning.

Kate was reading the sign on the door, reporting,

“They’ve got to be adopted together. If we adopt the big one, then the crazy one comes too…”

“Eden has conquered worse,” Samuel said, with a smile. “And after all, you did crave the patter of tiny feet, did you not?”

The small dog was now regarding Eden quizzically, head tilted. It barked once, and began spinning in wild circles, chasing its tufted tail.

“He says he’d like to see our house,” Eden translated, “And he’ll take it under advisement. But I get the feeling he might be a complete sod. This dog might well be Rob in canine form…” He glanced back to the big dog, which immediately let out a low, threatening growl. “He has to come,” Eden sighed. “Big Dog says he’s his only friend, and even though he’s demented, they won’t be taken apart…”

“Bloody well sounds like us,” Rob muttered, producing a hipflask and taking a swig. “I’m the big impressive one, and that little rabid nutjob there, that’s you.”

“It fucking well is not! I am VASTLY IMPRESSIVE! And I am mostly assuredly NOT MAD!

“You’re a whiny little prettyboy who needs to eat a fucking burger, and if you’re not mad, then why’s there a whacking great cage in our cellar?”

“I am older than you!” Eden howled, fingers tangled into his chaotic hair. “I was a demon before you, and I KNOW EVERYTHING! I am SANITY PERSONIFIED! I am MISUNDERSTOOD, yet I am utterly, wholly, completely fucking SANE!

“I bloody hope you do know everything, if we’re taking this tiny dysfunctional fucker home with us!”

Somebody cleared their throat, and we turned to find a staff member watching us with a frown. Samuel stepped forward, and stated,

“We would like to adopt them both.”

“Well, we’ll have to vet your premises, make sure it’s secure for the dogs, then we’ll interview you all, and after that we’ll…require…” She trailed off under Samuel’s piercing gaze, clearly experiencing the process they call bewitchment, or mindfucking. The vampires have many sinister talents. Fifteen minutes later, we had left the dog sanctuary with a hefty donation, and both dogs were in the back of the van with us.

Eden was sitting on a squashed purple beanbag with his arm around the shoulders of the behemoth, while Slim Crazy sat in Kate’s lap, apparently trying to sing. I had never heard a dog sing before, and it was not a pleasant sound. Eden winced and looked it firmly in the eyes. It growled at him, but fell silent.

“He doesn’t like me much,” Eden said, frowning. “Dogs always like me, but he doesn’t like me at all!”

“He thinks you don’t like him,” Kate said, stroking the weird little dog’s floppy ear. “And that’s without any psychic deduction necessary!”

“Well, I don’t particularly like him! I don’t like anybody who hates me. Hate me, and I shall HATE YOU BACK EVEN HARDER!”

The behemoth whined, and plopped a huge shaggy paw on Eden’s lap.

“Fine,” Eden muttered, meeting the dog’s gaze. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Just don’t let him piss in my bed or anything – I’ve met his kind before!”

The small dog let out a sneeze that sounded like a snigger, and Rob started the engine, turning the van and trundling through the slushy snow, heading towards the dogs’ new home. My manor house…

They’d bloody well better not piss on anything, I thought darkly, peering around Kate’s spiky hair at the two canines. This house is MINE, I am King of the Spiders! My ancestors have kept the manor house in a reputable, insect-free state for centuries, even despite these foul immortal inhabitants! I will not lose the grace of my dwellings to vulgar furry beasts with only FOUR legs! I have my EYES on you, Dog, I thought, watching the small one. Never piss off a REGAL SPIDER!

We continued home, blessedly without either hound vomiting over anything, which seemed like a good sign. Eden had his arms wrapped around the black monstrosity’s barrel chest, while Kate was cheerfully enduring having her face cleansed by the eager tongue of Mad-Eye Moody.

When we got back to the manor, I hastily scuttled out of Kate’s hood, and followed them from the ceiling. The dogs were fed from a stash bought at the shelter, both of them devouring everything in seconds. Repulsive, I thought. No elegance at all. No SPIDERY patience! I can make a fly’s carcass last a whole week, yet they can’t even make a meal the size of their own heads last five minutes! No culture – none! Daresay it’s the lack of LEGS that does it. Legs bring culture, and I have EIGHT OF THEM! I still remember my uncle Phillip – he was always drunk off his face, crawling into Rob’s whiskey, and he ended up with just three legs by the end. Lost more DIGNITY with every leg he shed!

The big dog seemed to be somewhat in thrall to the small menace – its last bowl-lickings were stolen from it as the insane one snapped and growled, and though the larger canine could have broken him in half with one chomp, he backed away, whining, and allowed his food to be taken.

Interesting… I thought. It appears they are BOTH demented. I am now saddled with two more deranged, legless creations dwelling without invitation in MY Manor!

As soon as the hounds were fed, they followed the vampires, as did I, into the living room, and a great fire was lit in the hearth to warm our admittedly cold and ancient dwellings. Then, the Naming Ceremony proceeded, at great length.

I have spoken much, for today – do you know how difficult typing is for a spider, even with eight fine and furry legs? The buttons are so hard to press! As such, I shall now retire for a sip of Samuel’s brandy, before hiding behind my favourite oil painting and eating the rest of my latest dead fly, perhaps with the dessert of a hapless bumpkin spider, if I am lucky... Soon, I shall continue this wintry tale, and inform you of the names and ongoing antics of our new canine atrocities…

For now, I bid you a spidery farewell, and hope your festive season is drunken and glittering, for you have but two legs; what more can you hope for than to get hopelessly inebriated and have your phallus engulfed in something slippery? You shall never enjoy the cultured pleasures of web spinning, nor the joys of eating a wriggling fly’s head… Ohhhh, those juicy flies, their many eyes, they way they squelch and pop within my jaws, ’tis a joy I cannot put into words! Poor, legless humans…

For myself, I pray that I shall not be eaten by these foul dogs before I can complete my tale, as any good spidery narrator should!

Merry Christmas, you legless, culture-free bipeds – don’t you dare squish any of my distant relations!

 

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A Vampire’s Dating Profile…

Hello world – this is Eden, and I am all alone… Kate is off at some ghastly family affair, and as usual I am not in the mood for spending time in the company of mortals that I cannot eat, and also, as an extra kick in the bollocks, I would have to be polite to these mortals, and sober around them. So FUCK THAT, thought I!! Fuck it right to hell! I’m staying here and getting wrecked! I have some heroin fresh from our little trip to America (New Jersey is a hole, but it’s on the way home and it really does serve up some fine dope. We had many adventures, on our travels, but there’s no time for those tales now, I’m on a crusade here!), so, I have heroin, I have whiskey, I know exactly which sock Rob keeps his cocaine in, and naturally, my rolling tin is stuffed to the gills with weed. Damn good weed too, again from our trip to the USA. Legalised weed, for fuck’s sake! In America, the land of slavery, shitty healthcare, racist shootings, Trump, and Aryan Jesus! So if it’s possible there, why in buggery-fuck’s name don’t we have this bollocks here?! It’s never happening under Thatcher v2, is it? No matter how fabulous her shoes may be, Theresa May is a fascist ANUS! However, I refuse to get into yet more politics on Kate’s blog, but I have some Banana Skunk, some Blue Tornado, and a little Grapevine Blast-Off. I feel we should start with the latter – I want to be BLASTED OFF! (or sucked off…or both…)

Anyway, Kate has assigned me a Task for the night, to keep me away from evil deeds… Tonight, I am to pretend that I am a sad, masturbating little singleton (and trust me, as an 193 year old vampire – despite what the media has told you about our sordid sex lives, there is a lot of being single and sexually frustrated in almost two centuries of un-life, no matter how spectacular, sinister and glorious your visage! We have a heightened sex drive, might I add, and it is severely awkward keeping your immortality a secret with casual sexual partners, so YES, I have had a WANK or five in my long, long life! And I still haven’t gone BLIND, no matter what they preached in my youth! Oh, never touch thyself in rude places, my boy, never eye up a woman’s lewd ankle, never draw a crude rendition of a breast and then spank thy monkey, or thou shalt go BLIND and grow hairy palms, such that everybody shalt know how SINFUL thou art! Christ…I grew up with a devoutly Christian mother – why do think I’m called Eden? Yes, it’s my real name – my elder sister was named Mary, so I had to confess to spanking my monkey in a strange little priest-box many a time. Sometimes I heard his breathing grow heavier, once I even heard the unbuttoning of trousers, followed by skin-on-skin slapping and slipping and heavy breathing as he probed me for details – How long for? Did you salivate on your cock? Was it hard? Tell me, how hard was your cock? How long did you masturbate for? Are you fully grown? Did you ejaculate? FUCK the church, but not literally, because they’d like it far too much! I probably look young enough still for them to enjoy it – I was turned at 24 and get ID’d every time I buy alcohol or Rizlas. Give them a wrinkly old man, slip him some Viagra, and let him bugger THEM for a change!).

SO, my project for tonight is to create a dating profile for myself. I am to use OkCupid as my model, and I am to answer all the questions. Kate told me it would be fun but personally I think she just wants to bugger a window into my soul, not that she doesn’t know everything about me already…admittedly it was unfair – I met her when she was mortal, and I (sorry Kate) perved on all her thoughts. So, she either wants to sodomise my soul, or she simply wants to keep me away from injecting Rob’s cocaine… Nonetheless, let us toke some Blast-Off, and get going!

Right, joint rolled, lighter sparked, away we go! BLAST OFF!

 

FIRST QUESTION!

Username: MidnightEden

HERE LIES MY DATING PROFILE! R.I.P SELF RESPECT!

My self-summary

Oh Christ, my first OkCupid browse brings me to a woman who announces she “couldn’t live without God” O.o I may be out of my depth already. The computer can’t decide whether I’m a man or woman, straight or gay, so I had a little browse of an earnest chap in spectacles who thinks “this profile thing is just weird” – I wholly agree, old bean, I wholly agree. However, off we go regardless. My self summary:

HELLO, horny females! I am, by fortune or misfortune, an undead 193 year old stoned-as-fuck vampire junkie, and I am naturally QUITE the catch!

I live with…umm…three and a half other vampires, in a sprawling, antiquated mansion in the rugged hills of Clent, which currently possesses a desperately annoying drippy tap that I can’t be fucked doing anything about – heroin does tend to sap one’s motivation. My family consists of Rob, a green-mohicaned, ring-through-the-nose punk who leaves dead girls sliced up in bathtubs and slimy anal beads in my bed. God only knows why I’ve tolerated him since I was six years old. Then there’s Clara, Rob’s girlfriend (and really, WHY?! I wooed her first, but she just kicked me in the bollocks! And then she goes on to tolerate Rob?!), Clara has long, wavy red hair and the biggest tits you’ve ever seen in your life – they’re (Rob and Clara, not her tits!) coming up to a century together and I still have moments where I just zone out and stare at those enormous, white, bouncing, pert tit—umm…I don’t want another stiletto to the nuts, so we shall be MOVING ON! We also have Samuel, our maker, who has black hair and sharp, piercing blue eyes that see everything, every sin, he tried to chop off Rob’s head back in 1858, the year of the Great Stink. Appropriate that Rob, the foulest of the foul, should be turned in the foulest year in London’s recent history (YES IT IS FUCKING RECENT! I AM NOT OLD!! I DON’T REMEMBER EITHER PLAGUE SO I AM YOUNG!), being so utterly foul himself… Then there’s my half a housemate. My girlfriend has, just for tonight and this profile, been rendered invisible, and I shall say no more, but when she regains her corporate body, we will have the best sex you can possibly imagine. Vampires have many talents, *stoned winkyface* 😉

So, I suppose, to move onto myself, now that I have set the scene, I am an irksome two inches beneath six foot (Rob is six foot one, just to make me really hate him…), extremely thin, pale, with hair that is naturally black, but dyed with a blue sheen whenever I can be fucking bothered with that annoying mess of hair-dye, and it is either styled into a demented spiky hedgehog or hanging long and tangled because I simply cannot be fucked with it at all (it grows excessively, inhumanly quickly – I died as an angsty alcoholic, and haircuts were simply not a priority, nor did I care for the opinions of high society, who had long since shunned me. I STILL BEAR A GRUDGE! Or, well…here’s a lovely thought – all those people are DEAD IN THEIR GRAVES now, friends and enemies alike, as I walk on through the world, unchanged and beautiful! That is delightful 😉 ). My eyes were once brown, as a mortal, but since my death, they fade outwards into a bright, bright green, ringed in black, as all vampire eyes are.

My hobbies include heroin, weed, whiskey, having lots of noisy sex, NOT being fucked up the arse, driving far too fast in a ludicrously expensive car (or poodling along to Jerry Lee Lewis in our glorious, sparkling purple ’59 Cadillac, tail-fins and all. God, I love that car!), swimming in the pool we’ve finally convinced Samuel to install (it’s an indoor pool, naturally, because England has vile weather, and that meant we had to install a sort of conservatory onto the back of our antiquated property. I suppose it is a little blasphemous, considering that we live in a house that the National Trust has several times tried to buy and preserve. Kings have visited here many centuries before we moved in, but fuck OFF – this is our house now! It makes us feel comfortable, this ancient mansion, back in our own space and time… And yet, the pool – who doesn’t like bobbing about in a warm, clean pool, utterly naked on a blow up bed with a cocktail and a beautiful girl or two?). Samuel has an irrational hatred of conservatories. And why? It’s sensible, I think, not wholly frivolous, not all about us tearing up this almost-castle that has stood for so long – but he feels it’s a weakness, an easy attack point to our house, because glass breaks easily. As such, we have a locked, barred door between the pool and the house, the pool a glorious warm bath in its steaming glass conservatory. I suppose it’s logical, things have attacked us here, but they got in despite our extreme safety doors at the front (nobody wants to live in a prison, and windows will always be a weakness, yet a necessity… Good god those undead, rotting, yet sentient creatures were unbelievably disturbing, but this too, is a tale for another day, and a better writer than I… Kate will tell you that tale, eventually, and many others…). I am rambling, my apologies. No, I don’t apologise – I would never apologise for very good weed, the sort of weed that sends you off on surreal tangents! Goddamnit Theresa May, get THIS SHIT SORTED OUT!! LEGALISE WEED! I may be a vampire but I could easily fake…hmm…well, I do legitimately have PTSD, it’s a little unavoidable after being so long alive and the literal tortures I have endured (we won, though I nearly died, escaping it by inches. My nemesis, his head burned in my fire. Amusing that an elderly couple currently rent that old London property of ours, and have no idea that the head of an ancient, hideous vampire once burned upon their bedroom fire. I remember his dried-out brain charring first, his eyeballs flaring, sparking, burning, the fire-light shining through the empty sockets of his skull. They shall never know 😉 )

Other hobbies of mine? Well, I like riding horses, I like making music, I play guitar and sing. Then, naturally, I like eating people! When we went on tour I saw a girl in a t-shirt saying ‘EAT ME, EDEN!’ and I fulfilled her wish backstage after the gig, leaving her just about alive, but when I got back to the hotel I realised she perhaps meant her pussy, not her blood. Awkward…

 

What I’m doing with my life

SOD ALL! Absolutely SOD ALL! And it’s glorious  😀

I come from an aristocratic family – as such, I have done sod all for my entire, and extended, life, unless you count self destruction as a job, in which case I have been gainfully employed since I was 22. As I am barred from mentioning my presently invisible girlfriend Kate on this profile, that I must be Properly Single, I can say little more…

Wait, no, what am I doing with my life? Well, I am at perpetual war with Rob! It is my raison d’etre to make that bastard SUFFER, and the feeling is mutual! He may be my best friend, but there are only so many greased up anal beads and butt-plugs left in your bed, and frogs in your shoes that one can tolerate before retaliating with an EXTREMELY cunning plan! I invented my own religion, many decades ago, which I dub Poo Voodoo, and I use it in vengeance on a frequent basis! I pluck a dog shit from the countryside, place it in a box, tie it in loving ribbons, and bequeath it to my enemy! Nobody fucks with a DOG SHIT SENDER!!! This is only the base level of my religion – I shall require extreme dedication before I tell you more…

Oh, and naturally I have to mention eating people for a second (third? God, I have no idea, this weed is pretty respectable. Well done America, you did something right. Trump will no doubt ban it within six months, so I suppose we’d better fly back over and stock up soon…) – so, to reiterate, for a ???? time, eating people is fantastic – I highly recommend it! If you’re a vampire, anyway. Kate was strange; she enjoyed human blood even as a mortal, she is even weirder than me…but once you’re a vampire, the taste changes…everything changes; Kate, naturally, went wild for it. Oh shit, bollocks and fuck, I’m sorry, she doesn’t exist. This is an invisible fantasy until, *checks watch*, until she returns home, in around 45 minutes. Then we’re getting hardcore kinky in here! (I love you, spirit girl, say no more… It’ll be even better when your annoying family members are dead and you’re all ours, though you may not agree…)

SO, as I mentioned, we are in a band, but can never become famous, lest they notice that we end up seventy years old and I still look 24. So, we change our band’s name constantly. Neon Midnight is our true name, but generally we go by any old shite, from Shitbox Polo to the Fangbangers to The Nameless. So, we keep a low profile, but trust me, and this gives me great pleasure, we overshadow every band we support – it comes with the territory. Our fingers move faster, our voices are impossible, and we have over half a century of practice. We shit all over every band we support! 😉

ONWARDS, TO THE NEXT QUESTION!

 

I’m really good at

EVERYTHING! 😀 Well, except sobriety, I am terrible at sobriety and I do not regret a th— well, alright, I regret many things, but nonetheless, drugs are my love, just as much as my invisible girlfriend is my love…  But despite my junkie alcoholic fuck uppery, I will give you the best sex of your life, and then feed your post-orgasmic hunger with… Well, shit, I can’t really cook, I’m afraid; grew up with servants and now I live on blood, so I’ll fuck you half to death and then…to be frank, when we’ve both cummed about a gallon of bliss, I’ll leave you with a Pot Noodle and a few soggy condoms, as a memoir of our glorious, Earth-shattering intercourse. Is that passable?

I already mentioned our music, but to reiterate, for ROB THE BASTARD, I am the lead singer AND the lead guitarist, and you try doing that shit all at once at our level of complexity! Like I said – half a century of practice – I’ll surpass anything you’ve ever seen in your life, and I am not tooting my own fart-trombone! I’ll play for you while you gobble up that post-sex Pot Noodle. You’ll come in your pants, regardless of slurping up noodles, then I’ll order you a taxi to piss off in, and my invisible girlfriend shall take me back to bed for even better sex than any mortal could ever provide!

NEXT SODDING QUESTION!

 

Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food

Oh, for fuck’s sake, could this be ANY more Americanised? LEARN TO SPELL, YOU HEATHEN DUMP-TRUCK, and they’re “films and TV”, not movies and shows! NOW YOU KNOW!

There is far too much to list here – where do I even begin?!

Alright – our whole family undeniably love everything about us, our species, vampires – soap operas for the undead are always appreciated in this household, even if we spend the entire thing hollering at the television “BULLSHIT! This is BULLSHIT!”, or in the case of the Vampire Diaries, “JUST GET ON WITH IT! FUCK HIM RIGHT NOW! CHAIN HIM TO THE BED AND FUCK HIM! AND THEN EAT HIM! KATHERINE WAS FAR MORE FUN than Elena anyway!”. Besides the vampires, Breaking Bad is fantastic, and Kate shares my obsession. We spent hours debating theories, and now we watch it all the way through at least once a year. Oops, shit, sorry, she’s invisible right now, isn’t she? Ok, I watch it alone then, constantly, like a sad old bastard, masturbating over Jessie’s goth girlfriend…

Music…dear God… Well, let’s keep this brief, if at all possible – I latched onto goth in the early 80’s and never quite moved on. I appreciate some punk, courtesy of Rob, particularly female-led, so long as they sound like a snarling Brody Dalle (or like my invisible girlfriend, who has sandpaper for a singing voice, an effortless, soaring, rasping scream, she kicks some serious shit and has had endless record deal offers – if Samuel stopped slapping us down, I’d let her conquer the world with her violent, beautiful, shredded and impossible voice….), and not like Pussy Riot, who just yell annoyingly and angrily into microphones like a pissed off Catholic girlfriend who just discovered I’m a vampire. Been there, done that, my mortal friends – it wasn’t fun, and it isn’t music – I vastly appreciate the sentiment and political power of Pussy Riot and their crusade, but dear god, ladies, find yourself a lead screamer who can actually scream – when you collaborated with The Jack Wood it was fabulous. That’s what you need, should you desire to conquer hearts and minds, as you utterly deserve to. Find someone like Jack Wood’s singer, permanently – sexy, powerful, a screamer, a music-feeler, swaying and kicking and letting loose….

I hate the direction goth is taking, and can rarely be fucked with the festivals these days unless Samuel drags me there because he wants to meet one of his ‘friends’, as he calls them (Samuel is obsessed with Youtube. We utterly despair. Egotistical twats talking to themselves about complete bollocks in a lonesome bedroom (I talk to myself all the time, but at least I don’t sell my ramblings to the internet! “Where the FUCK is my other sock?! Who the FUCK is stealing my socks?! I am going to FUCK ROB WITH A TRAFFIC CONE!!”), or “collaborating” with some other egotistical paranoid twat in a sad attempt to amp their, umm, “fame”. Christ on a Hobnob… Samuel has plenty of real friends, INCLUDING ME, so why he insists upon hauling me out to these German festivals that stink of sausages, hairspray, sweaty men and clove cigarettes, when half the bands there now sound like static and machine guns, overlaid with the vocals of someone angrily vomiting with a sore throat – why Samuel goes just so he can meet some weird little “internet famous” ponce glued to their “selfie stick”, is utterly beyond me! Samuel is around 800 years old, attractive, living with Rob, Clara, and myself, his best friend is a nearly two thousand year old vampire currently flitting between Italy and France with his immortal boy lover; why does he need to meet these random mortals obsessed with cameras beaming back their own faces, and talking to strangers, instead of his own real life friends? I am quite content here, with my immortal family. They are all I need… Samuel is ancient. He’s going bonkers with this Youtube fad…) – so, old school goth only. Unless I’m on speed, ecstasy or coke, in which case, my principles go RIGHT out of the window, and I will dance for hours to this present day Industrial crap, until I vomit. Quite literally. And usually I vomit over some ponce in “cyberlox” and neon tights. Dear god, where has the goth scene gone? Even the ‘trad goths’ are pretentious as all sodding hell, in places, despite the fact that I literally went to the Batcave, endless times, I drink blood, I am UNDEAD and beautiful, my hair is BETTER THAN THEIRS, I’ve been reading gothic literature since its inception, etc etc. NO! Of course not! I look barely 24, so I’m a poser, naturally, despite the fact that these bouncing neon children would sneer their pierced noses at the music that really matters!

…because it does. I don’t care how much black you wear and how much metal you have in your face, if you don’t respect the actual music, you aren’t a goth. You’re a something else. Which is fine (if I’m being civil. If I’m being realistic, these bouncing neon children who think Suicide Commando and X-RX are goth, they…umm…well. I just fucking eat them, for crimes against humanity and culture! I hide their corpses from Samuel, naturally, but they disappear in the night 😉 ), be whoever you want to be, I’ll eat you regardless, but do your sodding research before you turn into a elitist bullshitting arsehole! And neon dread-falls should be punished with a hundred lashes regardless; they’re HIDEOUS!

On the other hand, I give few shits, my family are around me, but we seem to irk the goths of most areas we land in, especially America; Rob looks too punk, Clara overshadows them ALL and the girls get bitchy (Clara just laughs, hoists her enormous tits even higher, and dances like the trained stripper, poledancer and gymnast she is. Take on a pale, stunning, well-endowed redhead with a muscular punk at her side and you will always lose…), Kate is made up with more artistic skill than these bland copycat motherfuckers could possibly dream of, and me, well…I can hear their thoughts, so I’m not being vain when I say they generally want me. They’re not getting me though! We’ve had pretentious American toss-pots stride up and quiz us on songs by The Cure. We give them one strike before we either take them into the bathrooms and drain them to death (when Samuel’s not looking, naturally – egotism isn’t a sin worthy of death, to him. But IT IS TO ME!), or we simply mindfuck them to go home, toss out all their black clothes, bleach their hair blonde, and wear nothing but pink for the next decade. I enjoy these confrontations 😉 )

…so, this question intrigues me – at these festivals, do I vomit from the drugs and booze, or my allergy to the terrible, grinding industrial cybergoth music? I believe it is the latter. Drugs and booze are my friends 🙂 Returning to the subject of my favourite music, I also listen to a lot of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Billy Holiday, and whatever modern bollocks my invisible girlfriend whacks on while we fuck. I, umm, am embarrassed to confess that I’m learning to enjoy Oasis and some truly weird electronica. Digital Daggers, however, are appropriately sinister. I rather like them…

Food? Well, that’s simple – YOU!! You are my food, particularly if you’re a Type O. Red wine and whiskey also appreciated. Venison steak occasionally, and I confess that I have an awful love for macaroni cheese… Ohhhh, I could really go for some of that right now, after our time in the USA, but as I said, I am all alone, and I cannot fucking cook! Even if I could, it would never taste the way it tastes in America. I know not what alchemy those chefs work, but Jesus H Christ I could eat it forever, I’m almost literally dribbling at the thought of it! I would be one big fat spherical bastard if I was a modern-day mortal living in the USA! (which many of them are. Either that or they’re tanned like a hotdog, obsessed with stupid exercise regimes, Paleo diets, and boring as all hell…)

Can I pay you to come over and make me proper American macaroni cheese, anybody? Fucking damnit, I hate the munchies, trust American weed to make me want to eat everything in sight!

MOVING ON BEFORE I GO OUT AND DEVOUR A FAT MAN!

 

The six things I could never do without

My presently invisible girlfriend, my immortal family, BLOOD, drugs, a guitar and a mic (that’s one, fuck off), and finally, DOGS! :3

 

I spend a lot of time thinking about

How shit 50 Shades of Grey is. Kate insisted we watch it on DVD, for science, and we laughed our pert little arses off. “I don’t make love, Anastasia, I FUCK!!!!!!” I’ve started using that line in the bedroom whenever I want to make her laugh, and the vibrations of her laughter do lovely things while I’m…inside her… Is this too pornographic? Probably. Will Kate edit it out? I doubt it. She’s as filthy as me 😉

I also think about the fact that now my Invisible Girlfriend is an immortal, she could do so much better than me. She could find somebody functional, perfect, become a maker, or mindfuck anyone into bed – she could have anyone she liked. And me, I’m a fucked up useless junkie. How long before she gets bored? I think about that, far too much…

I also think about dogs. I think about dogs being eaten in Eastern countries. Sadly many of the vampires I know are so immoral they wouldn’t ‘t give a fuck, but I frequently contemplate rounding up a vampire army and swarming down upon that sodding dog eating festival and ripping out throats all over the damn place. Then I’d let out the caged dogs, and encourage them to eat the corpses… It would, unfortunately, cause something of a spectacle, however, because every bastard has a camera-phone these days. Samuel has made it verboten, and he is 800 years old – I cannot fight him. He would put me in The Dreaded Cage… So, all the dogs die, and I am powerless, each year. I think about that a lot. I do good, in some ways (I’ve done horrific evil too, but don’tthinkdon’tthinkaboutthat!!!!), yet NOW with these sodding CAMERAS everywhere, my slaughter-to-save good deeds are seriously difficult to achieve!!

I think, often, about the aforementioned Horrific Evil that I have done. Clara thinks I have PTSD. I hear children’s laughter and…things happen, inside my brain. It wasn’t my fault, I didn’t intend it! It just…went wrong…but those images are burned like the boiling explosions of the sun, into my scarred mind forever…

Ugh…  This is horrifically depressing. I feel like I’m seeing a psychiatrist – it’s clearly time for more smack.

SHOOTING UP, THEN MOVING ON BEFORE I STAKE MYSELF!

 

On a typical Friday night I am

Lounging, naked, in bed, with my invisible girlfriend (Kate, this is DIFFICULT! You’re in every element of my life now!), having thoroughly bonked all over the room, and now we’re smoking some good strong weed, maybe shooting a little smack, watching True Blood, as I run my finger up and down her xylophone ribs, or tease her pierced nipples into peaks, or…well…go somewhere a little ruder before round two. Then perhaps we fill my vast bathtub, and float about sharing a bottle of blood-wine and a joint.

Other times, my whole family go out clubbing – a goth and rock club, none of that chavvy Broad Street nonsense, none of that techno psy-trance tedium, and we get drunk as rolling skunks, drop a few ecstasy pills or snort some coke (never both, you human muppets! I know it sounds “cool” to take as many drugs as you can, but coke and ecstasy cancel each other out – coke brings you down from ecstasy, and the latter is far superior! So cut the crap! Do your sodding research, or take the word of a wise and drug-addled immortal! Coke OR ecstasy, or ecstasy AND speed! And fuck off with your mephedrone, you tasteless little turnip! I ATE the last dealer who tried to flog me that utter shite! I have vampire senses, I hear your thoughts, I smell the drugs, and you will not fuck ME over!), and then we dance like mad bastards all night. My invisible girlfriend is beautiful, and elegant, and I’m not allowed to talk about her here 😦

You should message me if

You want a threesome 😉 My invisible girlfriend is hereby returned to flesh, bone, brains and brilliance – she’s skinny and graceful, pale white with black and pink hair, eyes as green as a toxic frog, cheekbones that could slice you open, and her…umm…oh gosh, if I continue onto the more lewd aspects of her body she’ll only cut them out, so I’ll say no more. But I love her utterly, and you, Human, will always come second. But we could take a third, occasionally, in our four-poster bed, provided you pay in blood…

You could also message me if you’re an immortal and want to come to a seriously fucked up, blood-drenched party – the more the merrier! It’s my birthday in a few months, and our…semi-friend Vlad (yes, really. That’s his name. He is the epitome of vampiric cliché, but the sadism of his parties has won me over) – he will throw a grandiose, insane party at any excuse. We once recreated the scene from Blade, slaying seven victims atop a punctured metal walkway, and showering in their blood. Fuck that was good – I’m glad he warned us to wear wipe-clean clothing! We’ve had blood waterslides, victim’s heads bouncing down the slide before we slither joyously around in their gushing arterial blood, and…Jesus, there’s been far, far more. I mean, he nearly chopped off my head once, during a disagreement over a victim, but we’ve made it up since. So, lonesome immortals, drop me a message – you will never become one of our family, we are beyond complete, but we can show you a good time 😉

END  OF QUESTIONS!

Well, I feel that Kate succeeded – I have indeed been kept busy. And I can hear her car coming now – she’s about three miles or so away but the power of that engine is rather distinctive. I hope her father didn’t have another attempt at shoe-horning us apart because I’m such a terrible junkie fuck up… (No, he doesn’t know that we’re vampires. Kate is reluctant on the subject of mindfucking her family, but that was essential. Do not notice her changed eyes, cold hands, pale skin. She mindfucked him once more to hide my obvious intoxication at a family wedding (why do you think I avoid them so determinedly?!) , but in general, I am raw and naked and useless in his presence, and I must not mindfuck him…)

My girlfriend is returned to flesh, and I am no longer a sad lonesome masturbator on a terrifying dating site full of Jesus obsessives! TIME TO CELEBRATE!

I reckon I can do a shot of good New Jersey dope before Kate gets here, if I go full vamp-speed.

OVER AND OUT, it’s time to get high, then fuck like sleepy animals!!

 

I wanna fuck my vein like an animal!

I want a syringe on the inside!

I wanna fuck it like a JUNKIE!

My whole existence is fucked

You get me closer to…extremely fucked?

 

Well, alright, weed rarely produces fantastic poetry. Nonetheless.

I WANNA FUCK MY VEINS

UNTIL I CAME

HEROIN, IS NOT A SIN

GONNA GET HIGH

HAVE SOME SEX!

I’M NOT A HERO IN SPANDEX!

(‘CAUSE NOT MUCH RHYMES WITH THAT)

FUCK A FUCKING CAT!

I’M NOT INTO SCAT!

WEAR AN UGLY HAT!

FINGERS UP TO SOBRIETY!

FINGERS UP TO TRUMP SOCIETYYYYY!

And OUT!

…and that is all I have to say

I like to do it all my way

Heroin sex is underrated

Ecstasy sex is a pile of shite…

Usually…

But not if you’re FUCKING ME! 😀

 

Right, I’ve really got to get going if I’m going to cook up a big golden brown shot before Kate roars up and tells me off. Mmmm, opiate sex. So long, singletons, may your quest for bonking go smoothly! (as may your future blowjobs… (that is one vampiric problem, fangs – you either learn to appreciate sadistic and scratchy blowjobs, or you buy a lot of dental dams…) )

EDEN OUT!

 

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