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!). The entire household were present, so I suppose, as a highly skilled spidery narrator, I should set the scene:

The eldest of this house of vampires is Samuel, who rather resembles Eden’s older and more sensible brother, bar his blue eyes. He is generally taken to pottering around the garden, cooking, sipping blood-wine in the library, obsessively watching Youtube and trying to understand Science and Modernity, and on less quiet occasions, he partners up with the intimidatingly ancient Frederick, whereupon they get roaring drunk, hold immense orgies, and sit upon the roof reminiscing over their eight hundred years of friendship. Then, there is The Foul One, Rob, who I LOATHE AND DESPISE for tossing several of my relatives into Eden’s bath, boots and toilet! Rob has a towering green mohican and silver rings through just about everything. He wears torn, studded and spiked leather jackets scribbled with insults, lowers the tone of our household, and befriends anybody with equal talent in such matters – he and Eden have been friends since the days of their human lives, and therefore seem quite able to regularly kick each other in the gonads without too much offence being caused. He is taken to mass murders, violent punk ‘moshpits’, and noisy repulsive coitus. His girlfriend of a century is Clara, who is equally lewd and promiscuous, having been employed in a New York bawdy house as a human being – like some spiders, she now enjoys ripping off the phallus of her victims, and is far more deadly than she appears. Despite these disturbing peculiarities of character, she is a marvel to lay eyes upon, with tumbling red hair, white skin, a heart-shaped face, sparkling golden eyes and a heaving bosom that I occasionally enjoy scuttling across in the night… Eden, of course, was in a state of great excitement about his dog – he is skinny, with jet black hair that stands out in mad spikes around his white face, eyes that seem warm brown or vivid green depending on his mood and state of intoxication, often ringed in smoky eyeliner, and he has a youthful, beautiful face that has earned him many a loathsome blowjob over the centuries. He is generally attired in anything black, dangled with chains and shredded, which I like – his clothes look like my webs, when they have become tattered from delicious fly massacres. His partner, and vampiric progeny, is Kate, the youngest, who is my favourite. Because she’s spidery, like me – pale and thin and spidery, with the brightest green eyes, and spiky black hair shot through with streaks of neon pink. I was greatly enjoying snuggling up in her hood, occasionally reaching out one of my fine and furry legs to stroke the back of her pale, bony neck…

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 Terrifying Halloween Soiree…

Hello, gloomy world… This is Eden, and my life has become TERRIFYING, during my 194th year upon this Earth! It’s all Kate’s fault! I am scared of NO MAN, I am the sinister shadow that swoops down from the roiling skies and EATS YOU ALIVE – I fear nothing! Except…well…

I must confess, that recently, horrible apparitions have been appearing to me. They are tiny, and sticky, and they dribble. They also vomit and shit themselves simultaneously, and then laugh about it as the stench causes me to gag! They are beyond terrifying! I am seriously considering faking my own death and moving to New Orleans, except…well…no, no, that’s no good, New Orleans is full of the same nonsense now, thanks to my broody ex-girlfriend! Kate has reached That Age… I mean, she hasn’t, obviously, since she’s an eternally immortal vampire (thanks to me – my first and only progeny! 🙂 I did very well, and as such, I think I shall light another joint, in celebration of my own excellent taste and superior skill!), but nonetheless, she is still tied to her horrible human friends, and cousins, and they are ALL plopping out sprogs like a goddamned popcorn maker. Babies… Babies everywhere, bouncing off the walls, screeching and puking – I dreamed about drowning in vomit last night, and the night before that I dreamed about being smothered to death with a shitty nappy, and had to hasten immediately to the bathroom! I am being HAUNTED! It shall be the DEATH OF ME! I need to go on a… a spa retreat or something, to calm my nerves – a spa retreat and a great big sack of heroin, Type O, and weed. That might assist in reclaiming my usual level of upstanding mental health and level headed sanity!

In the meantime, this is What Happened…

Kate took me to a party for Halloween – Rob and Clara went out on a murdering spree, because blood in your hair always looks far less sinful on Halloween, and oh how I envied them! Samuel stayed at home with a book, declaring the entire occasion ‘crass and American’, which gave Clara the hump, naturally. So, anyway, that left Kate and me going to this ‘party’, all alone.

I was quite excited! I hadn’t been to a mortal party in ages! So, naturally, I filled an entire cigar case with high-strength joints and pre-loaded syringes, injected myself with speed, and double-dropped two extremely potent ecstasy pills and one pretty purple acid tab before I drove us there. Kate came along for the ride, matching me pill for pill, and off into the night we roared, on a great and fabulous crusade to get absolutely wankered, and surreptitiously EAT anybody who seemed tedious!

I got a new car for my birthday this year, which probably explains why I didn’t tell you anything about my birthday at all. I was having far too much fun bossing around slimy little salesmen, cartwheeling across the gleaming floors of my own personal heaven, and then zooming all over the country in my new and beloved baby. It’s an Audi R8, modded to hell and back, vertical-opening doors, purple and black and fantastic! The only downside is that Rob won’t stop bragging about the Lamborghini he intends to buy himself as a Christmas present, so now I have to share if I want to drive his Lambo, which OF COURSE I SODDING WELL DO!!

Anyway, to return to the tale at hand, the windows were open, the pills were kicking in, and Kate was dangling out into the night air screaming with joy, I had Jerry Lee Lewis on the stereo and everything was perfect. This, I thought, this is what being a vampire on Halloween is All About! I should be a rotten old Victorian skeleton buried beneath some ghastly London Asda car-park by now, dead and forgotten by everyone on Earth, vile Millennials trampling all over my grave playing Pokemon Walk About Like A Twat, knocking down my old house, and instead, HERE I AM! I am whooshing through the sinister night air aboard my gleaming mechanical steed, my brain buzzing with all the delicious chemicals the modern world can serve up, and at my side is the most beautiful girl in the known universe, who has perversely chosen me to be her Person, forever and ever. And when we get to that party, there will be more drugs and loud music and thick, delicious mortal blood a-plenty!

“I LOVE MY UNDEATH!!” I hollered out of the window, beaming. “AM I NOT DEMONIC?!”

I was dressed as myself, because I’m already a vampire, so plfthhhh to costumes! I simply wore my most flamboyant accoutrements, and spent nearly as long as Kate in front of the mirror. Kate’s backside, as she hung out of the car window, was so gleaming and pert in its vinyl catsuit I wanted to bite it. Her shoes would have snapped the ankles of a lumbering human within five seconds flat, and she had accented her make-up with the occasional dribble of human blood, taken from our pre-clubbing snack.

All was well. It was better than well. It was FUCKING SPLENDIFEROUS!

Finally, we squealed to a halt on a suburban street, which seemed to have far too many boring cars on it. You know, the sort of boring car people buy when they get married, and off goes the Jag, and in comes the Volvo, but I couldn’t judge this place based on its tedious neighbours – all the more to eat! I pressed the Magical Button, and sighed in delight as my door slid into the air, and out I stepped like a superstar! There was a whoosh, and Kate’s shiny vinyl-clad body was all over me. We lost a few minutes there, I think, but eventually we broke apart, and I walked behind her, admiring her gleaming bum, up the path to a front door hung with black, purple and orange balloons.

Hmm, I thought, somewhere in the depths of my increasingly twisted brain. It’s rather quiet…

I could hear music, but it wasn’t party volume music, and there wasn’t enough drunken laughter and debauched, sexual moaning. I wanted to DANCE, and drink and smoke and then find a bedroom to fuck Kate in!

“Hang on!” I hissed. “I have a bad feeling about this!”

“A bad feeling?” Kate repeated, turning around and frowning at me. She looked nervous, and rightly so – when the most psychic member of your family has a BAD FEELING, you should shudder with DREAD and AWE!

“No,” I clarified, “Not that sort of Bad Feeling, we’re not about to die or anything, I just think we should amply fortify ourselves for what lies ahead – this place seems…strange…odd…UNHOLY!”

“There are stakes in the car…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I don’t mean stakes, I just mean we need to take more drugs, a LOT more drugs, right now, if we’re to SURVIVE this night!”

Kate started laughing, and I delved in my pocket, handing her a hipflask filled with blood-wine, and passing out two more pills each, and another acid tab. On brief reflection, I ate two acid tabs. Then we drained the flask dead, and knocked on the door.

It was answered by a midget.

The midget was dressed as the devil, and its midgetty little eyes stared blankly up at me through the holes in its mask. It said nothing.

“Well, fuck me!” I exclaimed. “I haven’t been to a party with midget waiters in decades! Are you serving up plates of cocaine too?! You know, I thought this was going to be a shit party – no offence, little bean – but now I see I was sorely mistaken! Are there stripper midgets? I once fucked this incredible midget, with these tits that just didn’t belong on such a ti—”

“Woss a mijjit? ‘n a cocacaine?” interrupted the midget, in a very high pitched, nearly nonsensical voice.

It’s been playing with helium, I thought. And it’s clearly very, very drunk indeed!

“Go and do some coke, or speed,” I suggested. “Straighten you up a bit. I’ve got some, if you like? Would you prefer to snort or inject?”

I was about to produce my wares, feeling it only decent to share with this poor midget who was already in such messy shape, when a woman the size of the Titanic, tits exploding from her velvet corset, came striding up and demanded,

“What on EARTH are you doing to my son! Do I even know you?”

“Ah,” I said. “Shit. My apologies – I thought it was a midget. Can I come in?”

“It? IT?! He is a four year old boy, and you were just about to give—”

“He’s with me,” Kate interjected. “Sorry. We were just…joking?”

I watched that dazed flicker of bewitchment pass over the woman’s face, and she scooped up her sinister midget and disappeared into the house. We followed after. I hissed at Kate,

“What the shit is this all about? Why has that woman brought an infant to a party if she doesn’t want it to take drugs?”

“Weird,” Kate agreed. “It’s pretty weird…but maybe her babysitter cancelled or something. Are you tripping yet?”

Kate’s eyes were like shiny black buttons ringed in neon green, and the ghastly beige patterned carpet was swirling around my feet as thought it were a bowl of steaming soup and I was a buoyant crouton. I nodded, informing her,

“I am the crunchiest crouton this carpet-soup has ever seen. I think I have herbs in me. In fact, I know I do, but I need more of them, if I am to remain the Crouton King!”

Kate sniggered, but not at me, she was transfixed by something on the ceiling. I whipped out my stash tin, produced a joint, and sparked it up, sucking down herbal smoke, and taking Kate’s hand. I pulled her down to the floor with me, so that we might appreciate the soup a little better. I could smell it now, could feel its warmth swirling about my toes. It was chicken noodle, I decided, with little bits of mushroom in it, and it was a bloody good soup. Of course it was – my mind had cooked it up. No wonder I was chosen to bless this Carpet Soup with my presence!

I passed the joint to Kate, and after a couple of drags, she said,

“This carpet…it’s like spaghetti, it’s all wrapped around my feet!”

“Oh no, it’s fine – it’s just the noodles. If you don’t move, they’ll sink. You have to rise above, and become a crouton, just like me. We must always remain the same species. Welcome to the world of the immortal crouton – may we never grow soggy nor sink! Keep smoking – you’ll float better.”

Soon enough we’d almost finished the joint, and just as I took the last drag, some absolute twat dressed like Austin Powers came marching out of…somewhere, and protested,

“There’s no smoking in this house – not ever, what were you thinking?! You have to go outside, and….oh god, is that weed?!”

“Bloody good weed,” I told him, nodding. “I have more, if you’d like?”

“PUT IT OUT, now, think about the children! Jesus Christ, man!”

I mumbled an apology and smushed my roach into a nearby plant-pot, only to be groaned at and informed,

“That is a prize-winning orchid!!”

“No…” I disagreed, stroking the plant’s shiny green leaves. “It has dreams of becoming a salad. I can hear its thoughts. It’ll be far happier if you put one of those pointy yellow peppers next to it, and—”

“And two cherry tomatoes!” Kate blurted out, giggling. “LIKE A DICK! LIKE A REALLY BIG YELLOW DICK with teeny-weeny bollocks!”

“ANNA!” Austin Powers was yelling, “Get the children outside for fireworks, and open all the windows, there is W-E-E-D smoke in the house!”

He’d flounced off before I had the chance to ask why he was so proud of his abilities to spell a four letter word…

.

.

The night proceeded in grim style… The fireworks, I confess, were fantastic – I thought the Carpet Soup was trippy, but those fireworks were fearsome and terrifying and fabulous and amazing, and we may both have gotten a little carried away with the screaming, squealing and swearing, as each fizzle turned into a BANG, and then a blossoming flower of insane luminosity would erupt from the ground or rain down from the sky! Soon we found ourselves left all alone in the dark with a box of sparklers, which we made great use of 🙂 I felt like a wizard! I kept telling Kate, Yer a wizarrrd, Harry! and then we’d laugh like idiots and draw pictures in the air with our wands.

Eventually we were all sparklered out, so in we went, and Kate made a stealth mission to the CD player to crank it up, bewitching anyone who got in her way. I was starting to feel a bit weird… A bit weird like I shouldn’t have taken that final acid tab. Everyone was ignoring me, or staring at me, but nobody seemed to want to talk to me…which made me sad, but finally seemed understandable when I let in a few people’s thoughts and used their brains as mirrors – my eyes were vast and psycho-black-and-green, and I seemed to be trying to chew my own tongue off. Frankly, I looked like a deranged crackhead who might stab you for a fiver. Oops. I should have worn a costume after all…perhaps a burka 😦 And all around me, people were sipping wine, or god forbid, orange juice, they were nibbling from goddamn fucking cheese platters, and all of them were perfectly in control of their faculties. Nobody was dancing. Nobody was having fun. Nobody was trying to swim across the floor in the grips of a K-hole. And just then…

I saw a tit.

I saw a bloody enormous fucking TIT!

I tell you, there was a tit, right there – right in the middle of this tedious middleaged un-party! A rampaging TIT, vast and fleshy and…tittish!

Now, usually this is the beginning of a bloody good story – a Wandering Tit always warms the cockles of one’s heart, but on this occasion, it was not a tantalising Sex Tit, it was a…a functional tit!  A MOTHER’S TIT! There was a sodding baby clamped right onto it, slurping up tit-juice like there was no tomorrow! I’m four pills down, I’m tripping my nuts off on three tabs of high strength LSD, and just feet away from me, a bloody baby is eating its dinner!

I felt deviant, awkward, wrong, sick in the head – more corrupt than even I like to feel! How can I be this high so close to the spectacle of tender motherhood?! It was all going abysmally, shamefully, horrifically wrong… So wrong, that I had to had to sit down on the floor in a manoeuvre that probably looked a little bit more like falling over on my arse, but never mind, the floor is always an excellent place to be in situations like these. You can’t fall off the floor. I repeated that, like a mantra to myself – I’m on the floor…I’m on the FLOOR, and I can’t fall off, so it’s all alright! And I am a CROUTON, floating above the soup of this mad world, never forget that you’re a crouton!

Unfortunately, I was still staring at the tit. And the tit had a face, attached to it, which said,

“Hi, you must be Kate’s boyfriend, right? Eden, is it? I’m Mel – nice to finally meet you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. Kate, that’s her, she’s abandoned me, I’m all lost, but so long as I remember I’m a crouton it’ll all be fine, and Eden is my name, I’m sorry, my mother was terrible, and speaking of mothers, I wasn’t trying to stare at your tit but there’s just rather a lot of it sort of sitting there, and it looked at me, and I looked back, and then I had an existential crisis, and now I think I’m going to die, or stop talking, or both. Hello.”

“Umm…hello?” said Mel, with one eyebrow raised, sounding considerably less certain about my sanity. “You seem a bit shaken up by the baby. Are you and Kate thinking of having one? Oh my god, is she…is she expecting?! She is, isn’t she! I knew it! You’ve both been so odd tonight, around the children! Oh, that’s wonderful news – congratulations!”

“Expecting! Expecting?! Yes, no, that’s a good word, expecting, expectation, I had many expectations tonight, but now I really do think I might be sick, so I shall be hastening out of the door forthwith, it was simply charming to meet your…tit… God, it really is huge, isn’t it? It’s a tit. There’s a baby. I need to go…somewhere else…”

As I stumbled off the floor, she called after me,

“It’s ok, Eden, don’t panic – you’ll make fantastic parents, I just know it!”

I fell out of the front door, and vomited a technicolour rainbow of hallucinations and human blood all over what was no doubt another prize-winning flower arrangement.

Then I called Kate’s mobile until she found me and took me home, and I even let her drive the R8 because my entire vision seemed to be obscured by the mirage of a slobbery little mouth full of tit-meat and greasy milk…

When I could finally speak, I mumbled,

“That was bad… I mean, that was really, really bad. Please let’s never do that again… Especially not on Halloween, I love Halloween, and they just shat all over it!”

Kate laughed, glanced at the clock, and pointed out,

“It’s only midnight – how about we go on the hunt for a while, stop in the city centre? Might calm you down?”

“Calm… Calm is good. Type O. I need a LOT of Type O… Actually, I packed some emergency rations, of the heroin variety, in case your friends bored me to tears. They did not bore me, I honestly wish they had, but instead they’ve terrified me out of my immortal mind, so if you wouldn’t mind driving rather smoothly for the next few miles, in the words of the Ramones, I wanna be sedated…”

She laughed, shaking her head, and slowed the car, telling me,

“Make me one too. That really was a weird fucking party, and it wasn’t just the acid… I missed maybe two or three years of seeing my friends, because of…well, you, and all of this – becoming a vampire, travelling, the band, touring…and now I come back, expect everything to be the same and try to reconnect with the humans, and shit, everything’s changed so much! Everyone’s changed except for me – for us… They’ve all just wandered off down a weird new ageing path, and left me behind…or maybe it’s the other way around, who knows… “

She sighed, frowning out of the windscreen, and as I started cooking up on top of an old A-to-Z, I asked quietly,

“Do you want it to change? That woman, the…the TIT woman, Mel…she thought you were ‘expecting’. God knows why…I don’t know where she thinks you’d hide a baby in that tiny catsuit, or in your tiny body at all. But maybe you would be…expecting, by now, I mean, if it weren’t for me…”

She snorted, glancing across at me and pointing out,

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Eden, we both know exactly where I’d be if you hadn’t come along, and it’s far from anywhere nice. I couldn’t go back to that life…not any of it. But even if it weren’t for that…no. Fuck no! I love my life NOW, that house we just left stank of nappies and curdled milk-sick, and it was the most dull party I’ve ever been to in my life, even worse than the New Year’s Eve of 2005 when I got there with a pocket full of MDMA and found everyone sitting in silence sipping tea! In fact, the word ‘party’ doesn’t even apply. I bet even the Tory ‘Party’ have more fun!”

“They fuck dead pigs,” I replied sagely, sucking up the second syringe of golden liquid. “Pull over – we’re good to go.”

The car swerved into the entrance way to a closed garage, and she gave me a kiss, before taking a syringe and a belt, and glancing at me with a smile as we celebrated Halloween our way.

Finally, relaxed and blissful, we moved on into the city centre. I was still tripping, but babies and tits had ceased, for now, to haunt me. The city lights span and whirled like I was soaring through a neon galaxy, even if it did smell of cigarettes and chips and piss, and I dined like the King of Croutons! After a few pints of blood, the acid receded just enough for me to drive us slowly home, my right arm out of the window all the way, feeling the Halloween night of ghosts and ghouls float coldly through my fingertips.

I am the King of Croutons, I thought happily to myself, as Kate fiddled with the music and put on some Digital Daggers. I am immortal… I fear no spirits, lost from their mortal bodies, for I am dead already, and therefore DEATH is my DOMINION! I fear only life. New life. The sort that sucks on a juicy great tit in the middle of a party filled with cheese and crackers and bloody fucking ORCHIDS! Orchids… Didn’t they used to call bollocks something like orchids, back in Latin class? I don’t remember – I’m too high and it was centuries ago and I loathed that beastly teacher. But orchids… Kate was right, they need a display of bollocks right next to them. Why? Because orchids don’t even LOOK like bollocks, not to me, it’s all wrong! Perverts. That place was filled with perverts, from the very first midget to the lack of WEED SMOKE, to that enormous boob-woman declaring to the whole room, WITH NO EVIDENCE, that Kate was having a baby! Madness! Obscenity of presumptuousness! Thank my left bollock I escaped just in time, and thank my RIGHT bollock that no infants vomited on me!

We reached the sanctity of our house, Rob and Clara’s post-murder sex noises audible to vampire ears from halfway up the drive, then we went to bed, peeled Kate out of her catsuit, and let the acid wear off in a steaming-hot bath, smoking weed and caring not for any prize-winning orchids bar my own.

After that, we were hot and wet and horny, and we fucked, and fucked, and shot up dope, and then slept, blissfully, in a tangle of bath-warmed limbs and a fluffy new blanket covered in pumpkins and skulls that Kate found god only knows where.

It was the perfect end to a ghastly night…

But then…the morning came.

.

.

The ‘news’ of Kate’s brand new pregnancy had spread, thanks to the hollering and gossiping of Madam Tit.  We were awoken to five increasingly irksome bleeps from her phone as friends offered congratulations, and then Kate hit me over the head with a pillow because apparently I’d CONFIRMED that she was pregnant, when I was far too high to do anything except babble and vomit! It wasn’t my fault!

Finally, yawning and gorgeously half naked, she crawled out of bed, brought us both blood-bags, and fired up the laptop. Thirty seconds later she was gasping with one hand over her mouth, muttering, “Ohhhhmygod…shit, Eden, what did you DO?!”

“I didn’t get you pregnant!” I blurted out. “I get credit for that, don’t I?” And then I buried myself under the duvet as she scrolled and swore under her breath.

Finally, there was a rush of air and she landed on top of me, wrenching the duvet away and stating,

“THIS, is what I’m going to say on Facebook, because by the FUCKING way my mother’s heard the news too and is going INSANE about our new baby, I am being bombarded with pictures of the little snotrags, and I want to hit you so hard right now, because you know what? You know FUCKING what?! Some of them are actually cute. Some of them don’t look like bald dribbling lepers. Some of them look like…Ugh, I don’t know, some of them could almost be ours, and I’m never going to have that. Not ever – no baby, no happy mother. Not ever, ever, ever! And I’d never even given a damn thought to it until THIS CLUSTERFUCK TODAY! And now, now I—”

“Oh god…” I said quietly, horrified. “You…you actually want one, don’t you? You want to…adopt, or…something, I…I saw Clara go through all this, so many times, and now you…you want a bloody baby and oh shit, Kate, I’m sorry I took that choice from you, I promise I’ll try to—”

“No I do NOT want a fucking baby!” she raged back at me, grabbing a chunk of my hair and yanking it just like Rob does when he’s being an arse. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I thought about babies, a lot. I love what we have, I love our life, not just us, but Rob, and Clara, and Samuel – I want everything the way it is now! Last night, that party…it was so fucking dull! Eden, I couldn’t bear that, not for a week, let alone for eighteen years! You made me see what I’ll never have, and it was…ok, it was a little bit painful. It was weird. Very weird. And now my mum thinks I’m pregnant and she’s over the moon, and I cannot just tell everyone, ‘Hey guys, sorry, Eden was blasted on acid and he accidentally stared at a breastfeeding woman’s tit and got all confused’! So, here’s the story; my period was two weeks late, and—”

“You don’t even have periods, you’re a vampi—”

“Jesus, they don’t know that, shut up! My period was two weeks late, and I got a stomach bug. I put two and two together and made five. But I was wrong, and we are OVERJOYED, because we’re not ready for a baby, and we don’t WANT ONE! But maybe…just maybe, we could get a dog for Christmas…”

“A dog?” I repeat, not daring to hope. “You mean Humbug? We’ll have Humbug to stay again?”

“No, not Humbug this time – a dog! Our own dog, a puppy even, if we can find one at a rescue centre. I got talking to an old friend last night, and she’d be willing to look after it whenever we were touring, or on holiday. So…no babies, and no regrets – just a massive, furry, dribbling fuckwit of a dog.”

I was so happy I rolled on top of her and took my hands to some very rude places until she shook me off, laughing as she protested,

“Give me ten minutes, Crouton Boy – I need to my make my Official Empty Womb Statement to the world of Facebook, then I need to shut off my phone before mum goes mad again, and then I need to check out local rescue centres for our furry new kid!”

This sounds too good to be true. It’s like some perfect movie-dream Christmas, not the hungover morning after Halloween!

“Then you’ll fuck me? And then we’ll choose a dog?”

“Yup!”

Her weight on me vanished as she darted across the room, landed in the armchair, and her fingertips danced lightning quick across the keys, announcing the simple truth that dogs are far, far superior to babies. I suspect her mother will disagree, perhaps even accuse me of impotence, but I have tolerated far worse an insult! (Well, I mean technically I am impotent, aren’t I? I can GET IT UP, most assuredly, I may STAND TO ATTENTION for as long as I am needed, but my sperm, well… Who knows.) I wonder if Samuel’s studied his own sperm in his quest for science

Interesting… Albeit disgusting, the idea of Samuel staring through a microscope at a dish of my own jism, looking for little be-fanged sperms!

It wasn’t all bad though, I reflected, as I stared out of the window at the gloomy autumnal-dying woodlands, Kate transfixed by the computer.

Halloween had been a bust, but for now, the dreaded ‘I turned a girl (into a vampire) and I liked it…but now she misses her ovaries’ genie, it had been STUFFED back into its bottle, and soon…soon, there would be a new member of our family, with a great big waggly tail 🙂

 

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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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To Mr Trump

Hello America, I don’t live in your country, born and bred in London, 1823 vintage, now living in Clent, UK, but I have lived in America, several times, over the centuries – it’s generally been a pleasant sort of place. But Trump? TRUMP?!! What the fuck is this insanity about? (May I remind you that to ‘trump’ is to fart in the UK. Bear that in mind and may it give you strength. Presidant Fart, Presidant Shart… “Can we make this a hashtag to drive him insane with?” suggests my girlfriend, Kate, from over my shoulder) Hillary was awful, but at least she seemed almost relatively sane, as politicians go, and trust me I’ve seen a few. But she actually received more votes, which Trump is still vastly ‘butthurt’ about, to use the modern terminology. So, your US voting system is frankly fucked, the US is fucked, possibly the entire planet is fucked given that this touped orange squinty-eyed racist misogynistic maniac has the nuclear codes, and in his first interview in office declares that waterboarding and torture is a fabulous idea. Now, I may be an 193 year old vampire with my fair share of slaughters behind me, but even I would not ‘waterboard’ someone unless they were a proper cunt. Like..umm…well, how awkward, I’m struggling to think of one. Oh wait – that touped orangutan, he might do for some righteous vengeance! He said he would torture ‘suspects’. Well, Mr Fart, may I enquire – who hasn’t paid their taxes, ever, and is proud of it, and has also, on tape evidence, sexually assaulted women? He won’t release taxes, refuses to submit evidence, has upcoming sexual assault cases, I believe – does that make him a suspect? Can we waterboard you? I could handle that, to say the ,least…

I would like to step away from US politics but I’ll keep this fairly brief, in case I can whip this cocaine addicted (oh come the fuck on, I know my way around a chemical, every chemical known to man and more, and cocaine – all that sniffing Mr Fart does on camera, all those Twitter outbursts at 5am, all that insane, ludicrous ego? COCAINE! Yes, cocaine is lovely, but I’m not the fucking president, small ‘p’ there, and he it deserves even smaller. Like his tiny orange cocktail sausage cock, I suspect…) hyper-sensitive maniac up into a Twitter shitstorm, so over and out – I suppose I’m going to use my Twitter account for the first time, how utterly vulgar… (I despise Twitter, it is full of ego maniacs and morons. Like Mr Fart…)

Are you hearing me, President Fart? I don’t even care, I vastly enjoyed getting drunk and writing this out, Kate cackling behind me, though I am saddened by the ailing mortals whose Obama Care is being ripped away from them, I am saddened for the Muslims, of whom I’ve known many, I’m furious with people who vote before doing their research, I’m shocked and appalled that despite receiving less votes this revolting tit of a shit of a wanker is now the president. And over here, we have Brexit. I’m going to start eating all  these idiots, sucking their blood out and leaving them for dead! I swear. I only ever used to murder killers and rapists but now the idiots are on my list too. Watch out, in the darkened streets, for a vampire sweeping down upon you – I can hear your thoughts, and I know just who you are… An idiot?  I AM EATING YOU!!

Idiots, beware… I was too stoned to get you before the election, but now, I’M GOING TO FUCKING  EAT YOU!!

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Rob and Eden’s New Year’s Resolutions!

Just ’cause I’d forgotten this one, and I kind of love it – Kate. Happy, uhh, Poo Smear, I guess (Yes, Rob is still calling it that this year, and debauchery is planned… Have a good one. It’ll probably involve less evisceration than ours 😉 )

ofherbsandaltars

Happy Poo Smear, fuckers! This is Rob, and although the planet would explode if I got any more awesome, I’m going to make some New Year’s Resolutions. Mostly to encourage Eden to make some too, because he needs a lot of self-improvement. He just about qualifies to be my sidekick.

Right! One whiskey, five whiskeys, seven whiskeys, GO!

R – I want to have an orgy with a pair of really hot identical twins. I haven’t fucked twins since 1989, and those ones had really annoying voices. They were French, and in the end I had to ballgag them both, and then they dribbled. I reckon I can do better! 2013 is the year for Twin Fucking!

E – I have no idea. I’ve seen too many New Year’s Eves to give a flying fuck…

R – Drink more, you boring bastard! Don’t you have any goals in life?

E…

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The Sinister Saga of the Etsy Bastards…

So… This is Eden, and thank you very much, Robert, for labelling me a ‘DYSFUNCTIONAL CREATURE in your previous post! I may have been on something of a spiritual quest of late, involving a lot of recreational substances, but I am an ADULT, and the best thing about being an ADULT is that you can TAKE AS MANY DRUGS AS YOU LIKE! So I did 😉 And yes, perhaps you may have heard me yowling like a cat for a straight hour at 5am, but I was purely experimenting with a new musical style, and…umm, alright, I confess that when I listened to the recordings later, it was hideous. But just because I got completely off my tits for a straight month and howled like a wolf on the roof once or twice, I am NOT GOING MAD!

Anyway, now that Rob has been put in his rightful place (the lavatory…) my purpose here is to write a Letter to a shitty company who have violated my metaphorical anus in the past few weeks, and who deserve a right royal bollock-bashing for it! Here is my motherfucking Letter!

 

“Dear Touch of Glam Beauty,

As I am going to make this letter public, I should probably set the scene. Nobody has even fucking heard of you, so to enlighten my readers, I am addressing an Etsy shop in the United States of Fucking Me Over! I recently purchased from them – in a state of great excitement – a ‘rainbow highlighter’! Now, what is this thing, I hear you cry! What the fuck does it DO?!

Well – let me tell you! I first heard of this Thing via my girlfriend Kate. She has recently created an Instagram account, and has become horrifically addicted to it. Forever wandering about the house crashing into walls because she’s staring like a bug-eyed zombie at her phone – scrolling, scrolling, scrolling endlessly away, for hours upon hours. Some of the things she shows me, I approve of. She follows a lot of dogs, which naturally, I approve of. I particularly recommend a small scruffy fellow named TinyGremlinDog, who I would, if I was an evil vampire, seriously consider kidnapping. He’s all black, with a tiny little nose, and big, beautiful, shiny black eyes – he seems a fitting companion for a sinister immortal such as I (I visualise myself soaring through the night sky with my evil minion-dog perched upon my shoulder…murdering the evil, watching him lapping up their blood, munching on their severed intestines! Yessss! I NEED this dog for my sinister workings!)

But anyway, anyway – I’m losing my thread here! Kate has this fucking Instagram Thing now, and she uses it to inspire herself regarding makeup. As for myself, being a male of the gothic persuasion, who is quite old enough to have been around throughout the initial explosion of the punk and gothic subcultures, I do wear makeup, and I like to think that I am actually quite good at it! But Kate…when I first met Kate, I was almost ashamed! She wears the Sistine Chapel all over her face on a near daily basis, and we’ve spent many happy nights together in the bathroom, as she teaches me things. I think I am 28% more beautiful since I met Kate, and that’s not bad, for my 193rd year on this Earth.

So – SO! The rainbow highlighter! It was a TREND, on the fucking Instagram thing – people were painting shimmering rainbows all over their sodding cheekbones, and personally…I thought it was a bit peculiar. I was a little on the fence about the whole charade, frankly. I thought, well, it’s pretty, I suppose, but it’s a little bit too cheerful, isn’t it? All those colours? I am a sodding GOTH, and I am also a motherfucking VAMPIRE – I can’t be seen with rainbows all over my face! People would mock me for the next millennia! (TWILIGHT JOKES WOULD RAIN DOWN FROM THE ROILING SKIES, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I can’t be seen to glitter! Jesus, JUST when all these sparkling vampire-ponce jokes were finally starting to die off! >_< ) But Kate put her foot down. She likes colours in her makeup, and I have to grudgingly admit that she makes colours look good. So, we ordered this sodding rainbow-bastard of a highlighter, and waited with bated breath!!

*

*

*

BUT, BUUUUUTTTTT, when this Thing arrived, ALL WAS IN RUINS! There was DEATH, there was BOTULISM, DECOMPOSITION and DESPAIR! We had paid an abominably deranged £20 to have shipped to us something barely bigger than a postage stamp, and when it arrived, it came in an ENORMOUS, UNNECESSARY BOX, stuffed to the gills with crinkly papery old bollocks. Well…alright, we thought – we’ve clearly been fucking ripped off here, but at least The Precious will be safe!

But it wasn’t – NOT AT ALL!

When we opened the container, our DREAMS were smashed into a million reeking fragments! Or more precisely, the arsefucking highlighter was shattered into a billion soul-destroying bollock-sucking cucumber-fucking CRUMBS! The whole point of these stupid things, is to carefully construct a rainbow of colour that can be swept all over your fucking face, so if you smash it up, if you FUCKING SMASH IT ALL UP, all you have is a useless mess of silvery dust, and THAT is what arrived on our miserable, accursed doorstep yesterday!!

We wept! We moaned! We wailed like banshees! We ripped out the fucking intestines of a fat man named Barry who was rude to me in the supermarket! DO NOT ANGER A PREVIOUSLY PEEVED VAMPIRE! It shall not go well for you, my detested one!

Then…

Once we’d finished devouring Barry’s vital fluids, and tossed his corpulent corpse into the Atlantic, we examined this disastrous product, and Kate rapidly became extremely pissed off! To her, it was apparent that the packaging of our Rainbow Shitbird Disaster was beyond all retribution – it was a metal pan rattling loosely about inside a crappy plastic box, and it would never have survived the transatlantic crossing! This was no mere bad luck, no unfortunate sinister curse – this was dangerous idiocy at work! All of that expensive bollocks, that oversized box stuffed with crinkly fucking nonsense, it was all for naught if the creator is too heinously stupid to glue down the pan!

In a vitriolic rage of vampiric redemption, Kate pounded out a furious demand to the seller! (She really was furious. Much as I love her, she isn’t the most patient of people, and when it comes to her online shopping, she’s a bit of a crack fiend. She waits…and waits…and then she absolutely loses her shit when the mail arrives. Ecstatic, deranged happiness, and then she fucks me for hours 😉 . But if the crack-mail is bad, you will have one goddamn angry demon on your hands! She typed so fast that the ‘E’ key went flying across the room, and her eyes had paled to a sinister shade of burning emerald green. I backed away, and hid under the duvet until she’d finished…)

Kate’s demands were not unreasonable. She just wanted her highlighter, intact – precisely as we had paid for it! And when the seller replied – you, Touch of Glam Beauty, YOU BLOODY SOD! When YOU replied, you informed us that you would replace our highlighter, for free…but only if we lived in the USA! But because we live in England (where we don’t have Donald Trump, so SUCK ON THAT! But we do have Boris Johnson. And Jeremy Hunt. And Brexit. It’s all up the shitter everywhere, I suppose, frankly…), we would have to regurgitate a further ludicrous £20 into your greedy, gluttonous, incompetent hands for this same privilege! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SMOKING?! Your packaging was the cause of this almighty clusterfuck, and if you are willing to pay $6 on American shipping, you should AT LEAST be willing to put that selfsame $6 towards OUR shipping! And what the fuck happened to the insurance in all of this?! You forced us to vomit up a royally insane $20 for an oversized, tracked box of mail – surely the whole point of this toilet-licking, shit-smeared decadence is that you can claim insurance if they royally fuck up your mail! So tell me…tell me, WHY IN SHIT’S NAME is this saving not being passed onto the consumer?! AKA, ME!!!  No…no! Not if you live in England! If you live in England you must be a gullible bumpkin, unknowing of the cosmopolitan ways in this land of the gun-toting free!

As such, Touch of Glam, AS FUCKING SUCH, we have demanded a refund from you instead, and you know what we did next? DO YOU KNOW??!!!

We went to a different Etsy retailer, and we bought a better rainbow highlighter. And do you know what they charged for shipping? They charged £7. SEVEN BITCHFUCKING POUNDS, YOU FIENDISH SAUSAGE-GOBBLING RIP-OFF MERCHANT BUM-BOIL! You promised the shimmering rainbows of the Gods, and then served me up a plate filled with genital warts and FAECAL VOMIT!!

Oh, how I detest you! How I utterly loathe and ABHOR YOU! It wasn’t just the £20 – fuck the £20! We are, as I mentioned, somewhat immortal, and due to the wise business decisions of my maker over the past few centuries, we are not exactly paupers. We can afford to toss away money on any old crap we like! We can afford to use diamonds as buttplugs, should we feel the need. But nonetheless, NONE THE FUCKING LESS, I am astounded by your fiendishness!

FIENDISHNESS!!! What a word, for me to use! I regularly rip out people’s throats, feed from femoral arteries, decimate corpses and dump them into a watery grave! I may not be the most moral of folk, but at least I know how the goddamn postal service works! If you are going to rip someone off so grievously for postage, you had better stuff that box full of shiny free shit, and you had DAMNED WELL better make sure your packaging isn’t so profoundly spastic that the whole product shatters into shitty little crumbs of useless filth!

So… We still await our rainbow highlighter…

The question that remains, however, is…will I still love Kate, when she has a rainbow for a face? Only time can tell… Will I…oh god… Will I allow her to bedeck me in these shimmering, feculent fucking rainbows? I HIGHLY DOUBT IT! But…but, what if…what if she gets me in the night?! What if she creeps up on me and turns me into a candyraver unicorn while I’m sleeping?! WHAT THEN?!!

Just because you make me happy, Kate, I have declared in her general direction, Just because you’ve been in the love of my life for quite some time, and I love you utterly, and because of you I’m not completely fucking miserable anymore, that doesn’t mean you can turn me into a goddamn fucking mermaid!

BECAUSE I AM A CREATURE OF THE SHADOWS! I am a demon of the NIGHT! Never forget how SINISTER I am!!

Right now I’m drunk, and I’m wearing Clara’s furry red slippers because they caress my toes so beautifully, even if my heels hang out of the back, but that…THAT doesn’t make me any less SINISTER! I’ll wear tiny, furry fucking slippers if I WANT TO!

NEVER FUCK WITH A DEMON IN FURRY SLIPPERS!

Yours, with grave distaste,

Eden the Unholy!

 

PS – I wrote you a poem:

LET IT BE HEARD, FAR AND WIDE,

That Etsy has shits inside!

People are trying to bullshit you

People are peddling haunted poo!

TRUST NO ONE!

TRUST NO ONE!

Etsy is a gutter…

Of fiendish, slimy fuckers!

I declare that we should eat them all!

I declare we should CUT OFF THEIR BALLS!

Do not seek to deceive me

You thieving bastard scum!

I shall come, I might even CUM

Right in your fucking eye!

I shall come for you, fiendishly, fiendishly!

You scheming, thieving SHITE!

DO NOT MAKE ME EAT YOU,

I’ll eat you in the night!

 

Touch of Glam, Touch of Glam

You are a stinking, reeking, fucking sham!

Let it be heard far and wide

That your scheming heart has shits inside!

I ate that fat man Barry

And it was all because of you!

You stink, you all stink of POO!

But I shall still, I shall still

I SHALL STILL FUCKING EAT YOU!

 

We demanded a refund as you were being so dickish

And you did not even reply!

PREPARE FOR A BAD REVIEW!

Prepare to be FLUSHED DOWN THE FUCKING LOO!

I have had it with you!

My furry slippers will be up your arse

This entire charade is one flatulent farce!

So let it be heard, far and wide

Touch of Glam has SHITS inside!

 

AND THUS I HAVE SPOKEN!”

 

Ah, that was cathartic! Now I’m going to roll a big fat joint, and flip a coin with Kate over who gets to leave this Etsy shitstore a terrible review 😉 Then I might go and howl madly on the roof for a while – I highly recommend it! I like to insult the stars, one by one, in the style of a psychotic profanity-spitting werewolf. I think it’s my new hobby! Kate joins in, sometimes, she doesn’t think I’m mad…much. The first time we met she thought I was a fucking lunatic, but that’s a tale for another time. Night night, edible little humans…

 And… and…

And never buy ANYTHING from Touch of Glam!

They’re a bucket of turds,

They’re fucking absurd,

They’re a SHIT ON MY SHOE,

I’m telling you, I’m TELLING YOU,

Do not step in poo…

Avoid them, avoid those loathsome turds.

HEED MY FUCKING WORDS!!!

 

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Five Songs…to Kill Yourself To

Alright mortals, this is Rob, and I’ve got some helpful advice for you, since Eden’s been off on one lately (he’s a dysfunctional fucking creature, let’s say no more, but he’ll be alright, he always is), so I figured I’d fill in for him this month. And tonight, I’m gonna tell you how to KILL YOURSELF, IN STYLE! I should be writing for motherfucking Cosmopolitan, I’m everyone’s best friend!

Now, we all know there are a lot of things to consider, when ending your life – dogs and spider plants to rehome, getting just the right mood across in your suicide note – not too accusatory or maudlin (you don’t want your ashes flushed down the shitter by your pissed off wife, put it that way), a little lighthearted to comfort the grieving, but not jokey enough to make everyone really, really hate you. Then you should probably throw out all your sex toys, burn your hard-drive, get in the necessary equipment (here, we’re going to focus on hanging as the method of our expiration; it’s a good all-round choice for a reliable death, and not so prohibitory as other methods can be, like a heroin overdose, which sounds lovely, but where’s your average middleaged housewife going to get bags of smack from, and who’s going to teach her what to do with all those needles? Then there’s trains, of course, jumping in front of them, but what a mess – nice bit of vengeance if you really hate your job, and you can splatter yourself right in front of all your colleagues, but for most people, hanging’s a good solid option. Let’s stick with that!)

So, now that you’ve taken care of everyone else, what about yourself? What about your final moments on this Earth? No doubt you have perfectly good reasons for offing yourself – financial strife, failing health, a cat that won’t stop shitting in your bed, an all-consuming fear of cornflakes, etc etc – and that means your final minutes could be the best ones you ever have. You know you’re leaving, now – it’s all over, all the shit things you’ve drudged through, no more of that! No more of your mother-in-law’s overcooked Brussels sprouts, no more queuing at the post office, no more getting the stink-eye from that sour-faced old prune at the local pub, no more wet socks, tepid baths, eye-watering bowel movements, losing your keys, disappointing sex – and what about the future? Everyone knows that the future is full of Awful Fucking Things. By definition, we all die, and for most of us, it won’t be at all pleasant. Will you tumble down a flight of stairs, break a hip and lie there alone in the dark for days on end until you finally expire, cold and alone, to have your face eaten off by your beloved cats? Will you get a cancer diagnosis and spend your final months vomiting your guts up and wishing you were dead? Will you live to be 100 and see everyone you’ve ever cared about wither and die horribly before your eyes? Either way, it’s a pretty shitty picture. So, once your noose is a-swinging, prepped and ready, just ponder all those terrible fates. All those crappy days that you’ll never have to live through – what a joyful fucking thought!

Now, with a BIG FAT smile on your face, let’s pick out a final tune to play you out!

 

1 – Johnny Cash – Sunday Morning Coming Down

Who wouldn’t want Johnny Cash to be the last thing their dying ears ever heard? For this suicide, you need whiskey. You need LOTS of whiskey, and several packs of cigarettes. Have a final fucking party for yourself, a really glum one, and once the room’s completely fogged over with smoke, and you have a strange urge to buy a Ford Thunderbird and drive it off a cliff, it’s about time to get on that stool. Whiskey in hand, take a bow, have a final swig, and pop on the noose. Now, this is a good long song, so if we’re going for short-drop hanging, you can still rest easy that old Johnny won’t give out before you do. What a guy! (now, obviously ‘Don’t Know Where I’m Bound’ is another good choice, but I’d save that one for your funeral, really depress the shit out all your relatives. Sunday Morning’s far better for dying to!)

 

2 – Oasis, D’You Know What I Mean?

Don’t hop up on that stool ‘til all the Morse code and helicopter buggery’s over with, no one deserves to go out to that. Wait ‘til it gets going, with every golden drop of its fuck-you-cuntybollocks Mancunian swagger. Coming in a mess, going out in style – damn right we are Mr Gallagher! Do you feel like you’re in a movie yet? Feeling pissed off and goddamn righteous yet? Fuck YES you are! Now whack that noose over your head, take the leap, and get ready to give God one big fat middle finger!

 

3 – Bruce Springsteen – The River

For the most maudlin suicide of all! Life goes to shit, this song declares – everyone begins with soaring hopes, and everyone gets stomped down into the dirt – failure piling upon misery, piling upon shattered dreams and broken hopes and ruined lives! Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true, or is it something worse? asks Bruce, and who knows, mate, but it’s enough to make anyone want to top themselves, this song. This suicide also requires whiskey, and maybe a drunken phonecall to an ex. If you’ve got a harmonica, join the fuck in – it doesn’t matter if you can’t play, harmonicas always sound like the howling organs of misery even when you’re right off key. Hop up on that stool, grab the noose, pump your last breath into that damned organ of pain, and take the leap. A glorious fucking exit!

 

4 – Quiet Riot – Bang Your Head

Because ‘Highway to Hell’s just too damn obvious at this point, so for the same ‘flinging yourself drunken and furious into the devil’s embrace’ vibe, this is my first choice. Before your suicide, you might want to sit down and watch The Wrestler. Ah, the glory days, but they’re all over now, and life’s turned into a right royal shitsandwich – it’s time for that final Ram Jam into the great beyond! BANG YOUR HEAD!

 

5 – The Cure – Lovesong

This is for the suicide that isn’t intended to end in death, if you’re being totally fucking honest with yourself. Anyone who tries to hang themselves to something this weepy has far too many regrets, and doesn’t want to be doing it at all. So, Reluctant Ceiling Swinger, I suggest you either relegate this track to your funeral (mummy’ll weep her little eyes out), or instead, invite your friend out to the pub, and have a bitch and moan instead. Maybe you can get over your crippling fear of cornflakes after all! (but if you’re really determined to go out to this track, try Adele’s cover. That’ll have you hurling yourself into the noose out of sheer hopelessness at the trashing of good art… Dear LORD, Adele. What the fuck were you doing?!)

Right then, my little mortal underlings, if you’re not dead by the end of this list, I hope you live out the rest of your short little lives in relative tranquility, or at least you can afford to get drunk enough to forget about your impending old age, incontinence and terrible oncoming doom. Hopefully Eden’ll pull his maudlin arse out of this latest shitfit soon and carry on blogging (oh fuck, no – I never said that, Eden’s not a ‘blogger’, noooo – he’s a ‘writer’. Course you are mate. Absolutely, whatever you say 😉 ), so, yeah, onwards and upwards, he’ll be back, and if he doesn’t get his shit together soon you’ll have more of me, and I’m way more fun anyway.

Night night, fuckers!

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