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The inventor of the piano defends his instrument. |
| The Vampire Virtuoso Chapter 8 As Continental flight 421 landed at John F. Kennedy International in New York and began to taxi across the tarmac to its designated terminal, I ran my tongue across my teeth and enjoyed the lingering remnants of Cajun flavor that still swirled throughout my mouth. Like a bizarre version of the battery bunny on the television commercials, the vibrant essence of the spicy individual that served as my most recent meal continued to energize me. My friends had accompanied me to Louis Armstrong International New Orleans airport and in the parking lot, after spotting a cluster of drunken kids from one of the local institutions of higher learning, we grabbed a bite together before my scheduled flight. Truly, besides seeing good friends and relishing old times together, one of my favorite reasons to travel is the opportunity to savor the distinctive flavors provided by ethnic and cultural diversity in this great melting pot of a nation. It was a shame to have to return to the “Big Apple” so soon, especially when I had been having such a good time. But then on the other hand, it was always good to be home. I felt relaxed and upbeat as I walked into my comfortable, dark den and noticed one message on my answering machine. I walked over and hit the playback button. My relaxed mood vanished as I recognized the voice. “Bartolomeo, hello, are you there?” In Ferdinando's voice I heard a state of monumental distress. “Oh no, tell me no, please.” I am by nature a calm man. As I have previously stated, the combination of my superior intellect and supernatural abilities normally allow me to remain rational when any other living being would be frantic. However, Ferdinando reached a point that day, after centuries of irritation, that was close to pushing me beyond the brink of blind rage. The voice grated on my nerves like the sound of screeching chalk or fingernails on a blackboard. “Bartolomeo, this is Ferdinando and I have encountered an unanticipated problem. Hello, Bartolomeo, I really need to speak with you. It is quite urgent.” The phone number that appeared on my caller I.D. was not that of his cell phone. I raced through a number of scenarios in my mind in an effort to prepare myself for the worst. The first thing that popped into my mind was that Ferdinando had still not reached Seattle. Then I remembered that Ferdinando loved to gamble, especially since he possessed the ability to read the mind of the dealer and the other players at a poker or blackjack table, so it seemed possible he could be in Las Vegas, or down the road, in Atlantic City. The possibility also existed that he had killed everyone at the Hendrix Foundation just as he had done with the last Russian Tsar, Nicholas II and his family. Out of jealousy, he had attempted to terminate my relationship with 17 year old Anastasia. After Anastasia refused Ferdinando’s advances, he arranged for a messenger to be sent to Alexandra, Nicholas’s wife, requiring the royal family to dress for official photographs, which were to prove to the world that although incarcerated, they were being treated in a humane manner. Just after midnight on the morning of July 17, 1918, the royal family huddled together waiting for the photographer in a damp basement. Ferdinando and a squad of Bolshevik goons burst in and fired bullet after bullet into them. Ferdinando had no way of knowing that I had already given Anastasia and, at her request, her terminally ill younger brother, Alexei, the gift of immortality. Feigning death, they lay in a corner in great pain, oozing blood, both having been shot and bayoneted. When Ferdinando and his murdering friends left and the priests came in to remove the bodies, my young lover and her beloved baby brother were nowhere to be found. Ever since that day, although he denied involvement, relations between us have been strained. Encouraged by Aset to forgive Ferdinando and to rebuild our friendship, I did my very best to comply with her wishes, but our bond deteriorated even further during World War II. While I was doing my best to find a way to assassinate Hitler, for whom I occasionally played piano and who was never alone or without the protection of his Secret Service guards, Ferdinando was commanding a division of tanks, wreaking havoc as a German officer during the blitzkrieg. I have never understood why Aset seems to employ two sets of standards. She tolerates and at times seems to encourage Ferdinando’s abhorrent behavior, which throughout his existence has been dominated by acts of gluttony and perversion while at the same time providing me with such a noble task. It is something that has always caused me a great deal of consternation. Now, acting with all the subtlety of a nuclear device, he has made a shambles of the simplest of tasks and because of the many disagreements we have endured, I suspect he may have done so on purpose in an effort to irritate me. I considered the possibility that this time he might actually have been apprehended for the murders. Was this message on my answering machine the one call that he was allowed from jail while awaiting arraignment? Could he possibly have already implicated me somehow in the deaths? Standing there with my hands on my hips wondering what had gone wrong would not solve this puzzle. I would have to call Ferdinando’s cell phone if I wanted to have any chance of finding out what had happened. I depressed the talk button on my phone and said, “Ferdinando De Medici,” after which I listened to the ringing. Ferdinando’s phone rang and rang and kept ringing. He was pathetic when it came to answering the phone. Invariably, if he even heard the ringing, he would dumbly stare at the digital readout provided by the caller I.D. feature and attempt to remember the name that was associated with the number that was displayed. By the time he figured out, if indeed he ever did, who it was, they had almost always hung up, or the phone had transferred the caller to the voice mail feature. As I had anticipated, Ferdinando’s voice mail message greeted me. In Italian he said, “Sadly, I am otherwise engaged in a way that precludes my answering this device. Leave a message and I shall contact you when opportunity first arises.” I took a breath and said, “Ferdinando, I have just returned to New York and am responding to your call, which I have just heard on my answering machine. Why did you not call my cellular number? I know that it is programmed into your cell phone. Let me know what has happened. Keep in mind that sunrise here is three hours earlier than sunrise in Seattle.” I paused and before hanging up, added, “Call me soon.” I laid the phone down on the coffee table in front of my sofa and picked up the remote to the 61-inch Sony plasma TV that was mounted over the fireplace. The early morning news on CNN delivered the grisly details of a bus crash in Idaho that had killed 16 high school students and four adults returning from a speech debate contest in Boise. The next ten minutes were filled with crying parents, sobbing siblings, concerned highway patrol officers, four minutes worth of commercials and finally several mortified school officials who expressed their heartfelt sympathies and made sure the world understood that because of their rigorously enforced maintenance schedule which included all school district owned vehicles, they were not in any way at fault for this unspeakable tragedy. Bored, I had the remote pointed at the TV and was about to change the channel as the bus crash story ended and the anchorperson back at the news desk, Sharon Anderson, said, “Here’s a story that will raise the hair on the back of your neck. We have a report this morning of a vampire in Seattle. With all the details, here’s Andrea Robbins.” My finger halted above the channel button and I froze, wide eyed, staring helplessly at the picture which showed a reporter in a yellow, full length raincoat standing in a downpour underneath an umbrella in front of a large sign with the silhouetted image of a guitar player. The sign proclaimed the building behind it was the James Marshall Hendrix Foundation administrative office. “Good morning, Sharon, and early birds across America. Fans of the late guitar great, Jimi Hendrix, will be shocked this morning to hear that late last night, police were summoned to the location of the Hendrix Foundation when a silent alarm alerted them to a break in and potential hostage situation in progress. So far, Seattle Police Chief, Robert Fairfax has refused to comment on the incident, other than to say the investigation is ongoing and that a full report will be released upon completion, but police officer, Leonard Jefferson, was one of the first officers to arrive on the scene and had this to say.” The picture changed from the live shot of the reporter to a recorded interview showing a black police officer who appeared shaken as a result of the ordeal he had faced. He stood under a covered porch holding the side of his neck with his left hand as if it were sore, as he leaned away from a microphone being shoved towards his face by the female reporter in the raincoat. “I don’t believe it” he began, “I saw it and I still don’t believe it.” “Believe what, Officer Jefferson? Tell us what you saw.” The police officer looked at the reporter and then glanced self-consciously at the camera for a second before turning back to the reporter and saying, “My partner and I were in the area and responded to the report of a break in here. The alarm company said the hostage code had been entered by someone in the building, which meant we were to approach without sirens and that we needed to get here in a hurry. We got here within minutes and he was still inside.” Eagerly, the reporter asked, “Who was still inside?” Still pushing the microphone up to the officer’s lips, she inquired, “Did you see the intruder?” “Yes, yes, we saw him alright. Not at first, though. The first thing we saw was the bodies.” It looked as if the reporter was going to shove the microphone right down the officer’s opened mouth as she blurted out, “Bodies? There were bodies inside? How many, Officer Jefferson? Had they been shot, were they still alive?” “There were three bodies, two male, one female. They, they were all dead...” My right arm, of which I was no longer aware, was still extended in front of me, pointing the remote, as I reacted to the officer’s revelation by involuntarily slapping my left cheek with my free hand. Had Ferdinando gone mad? What on earth would have made him do such a… “Their throats were slashed. Oh Jesus, there was blood everywhere, everywhere.” The officer was trembling. “Then we thought we heard something and looked up…” He looked up as if reliving the moment; the camera was focused tightly on his face clearly revealing just how terrified he was. Although it was obvious he wasn’t in complete control of his faculties and should be allowed to stop, the reporter wasn’t going to let him, not yet, not without telling us about the suspect. “Officer Jefferson,” she reached out and actually shook him in an effort to keep his attention, “you said you saw the suspect,” he looked at her blankly, his eyes blinking as he tried to focus on what she was saying and on what had happened, “Tell us about the suspect. What did he look like?” “He was wearing purple. It looked like silk, like something out of a renaissance painting. Kinda like that one called Blue Boy,” the officer replied, “and he had a big hat with a feather in it. He was slightly obese and as pale as a ghost. He… it was so strange I tell you… his eyes, they weren’t normal. They glowed like an animal’s eyes when I shined my flashlight at him and he hissed at us like…like a snake. He had fangs, too. I tell you, I don’t know for sure, but they looked real. Maybe he wanted us to think he was a vampire or something.” “Where, Officer Jefferson? Where in the building did you see the suspect?” “Just inside,” he continued in a halting voice, “near the front door. The bodies were on the floor and then we looked up… and there he was, right there… on the ceiling.” Standing just outside the office on the front porch, the officer stared upward again, his jaw slack, as if he were still inside the office and could see the suspect. For a split second, a nearby streak of lightning illuminated the dark scene like a camera flash, adding detail to his awestruck features while thunder boomed ominously and the sound of the pouring rain increased. Before the reporter could badger him any further, the interview was interrupted by several uniformed officers who seemed to be concerned with both the mental and physical well being of Officer Jefferson, as well as the information he was so freely offering without giving any thought to the possible legal ramifications of what he might say. Over the sound of the rain, which was now coming down in sheets, the microphone picked up the voice of one of the men saying, “Come along Leonard, everything’s gonna be okay. Just come with us.” Thunder partially drowned out the next few mumbled words from Jefferson as he was lead away, but part of it sounded like, “He ripped Jim’s throat apart.” The reporter was doing her best to stay near enough for the microphone to pick up the next sentence. “I shot him six times at point blank range, but it didn’t faze him. He killed my partner, Jim, and then attacked me. He started to suck blood from the wound he made in my neck. He was incredibly strong; too strong…I couldn’t…” The words became unintelligible as the reporter was held back and the distance became too great for the microphone to pick up what was being said. Jefferson was then lifted onto a stretcher and loaded into the back of a waiting ambulance. The last moments of video were difficult to make out, due to insufficient lighting and fat raindrops that blurred the picture as they pelted the lens of the video camera. The network cameraman was doing the best he could as he zoomed in with his telephoto lens for a grainy shot of what was probably a paramedic in the dimly lit back of the emergency vehicle, bending over, taking a look at the officer’s neck. The live shot of the reporter reappeared as she wrapped up the story. “A manhunt, if indeed it is a man that the police are seeking, is underway tonight in Seattle for the killer of at least three citizens and one peace officer. The suspect is currently still at large and anyone needing to be out at this hour is being urged to exercise extreme caution. Chief Fairfax has asked anyone seeing anything suspicious to please alert the police, especially if they see someone fitting Officer Jefferson’s description of the suspect. Reporting from Seattle, at the Jimi Hendrix Foundation offices, for KOMO Channel 4, this is Andrea Robbins, CNN morning news.” My cell phone began to ring almost before Ms. Robbins had faded from view. “Draw the blinds and close the shutters,” I said to myself, “Looks like I’m going to lose some sleep over this.” Within a short amount of time I received calls from my friends in New Orleans, several close friends in New York, my law partners, and my agent. I was saying goodbye to my agent… and yes, he is a vampire whose reputation as a greedy bloodsucker is particularly well deserved… when I heard a noise behind me. I whirled about to find Aset looking at me with those strange, green reptilian eyes that spoke of great concern. I bowed and said, “My lady, I would imagine you have heard the news.” She stood silently, wearing a dark shroud, looking much the same as the first time I encountered her in the Medici castle. “Ferdinando has attracted the attention of the national and international media by allowing himself to be seen by a Seattle police officer.” Shaking my head in frustration, I complained, “He is such a… such an embarrassment. Why have you allowed…” I halted as her expression suddenly hardened. To my eternal dismay, she had always loved Ferdinando, no matter what he did. Realizing the futility of asking her to punish the idiot, I asked instead for advice. “Do you have any suggestions as to how I should proceed?” As motionless and imposing as a grand statue in the center of a park, she stood before me, either waiting for me to offer a workable solution to my own dilemma or perhaps carefully considering how to respond. “I could go to Seattle,” I offered, but she did not reply. She simply stared, without blinking, without moving, without even breathing. Yet something about that stare spoke volumes. There is so much wisdom in silence. I believe it was Aldous Huxley, the English novelist, who once said, “After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.” It is a pity Mr. Huxley is no longer with us; I like the way he thought. “Or perhaps,” I opined, “it would be better to do nothing for now and simply wait to see what develops.” Finally her silence came to an end. Addressing the situation with all the reverence of an archaeologist faced with the delicate task of removing the brittle, funerary wrappings from an ancient mummified king, she spoke methodically, meticulously selecting the words she uttered. “That which is done cannot be undone. It is that which must yet be done upon which we must now focus.” She glided forward to within a foot of me and said, “There is much to be lost, Bartolomeo, so very much to be lost. You cannot afford to allow the mistakes of others to force you into even greater blunders of your own.” She pulled back the hood that covered her long black hair and pointed to the phone on the coffee table. “Among the many calls you will receive this day will be one from John Sharkey, who will once again be convinced that you are the spawn of the Devil. For over thirty years he has labored to uncover a new ending to a sad story. He believes that somewhere, buried beneath the historical mound of one-sided, depressing evidence, an undiscovered clue exists that will force historians to rewrite the final chapter of Janis Joplin’s life. When Harold Obermeyer went to Texas, he whispered words of hope and heroism into Sharkey’s ears, renewing his faith. Perhaps Janis’s death, which Sharkey viewed as tragic, was not the by-product of a pitiable desire to be loved and accepted for who she was. Maybe she wasn’t just trying to escape from reality. Possibly, rather than throwing it all away, her last moments were valiantly spent fighting for her life, battling some satanic beast. Then you came along as Bevitore Di Anima, smashing his fragile hopes to pieces like fine china on a hard floor by telling him that Obermeyer is a charlatan and that he has wasted the foundation’s money.” Aset reached out and placed her cold, pale hand on my shoulder. “First impressions are hard to sway,” she said, empathetically, “especially when they have been reinforced. As a personal friend of the Joplin family, Sharkey’s powerful first impression was that Janis must have been murdered. He wants desperately to find support for that belief and has never believed otherwise until you came along. Now, with the deaths of the Hendrix administrators (who were also friends of his), the evidence suggests that his first impression was accurate and that the information offered by Obermeyer is true…that you are a murderer and a vile demon.” Unable to instantaneously hypothesize a workable alternative, I looked down at the floor and mumbled, “Perhaps I should return to Texas,” not in the least fancying what that would entail. Looking back up I nodded and grudgingly admitted, “It was a mistake to leave without forever sealing the lips of those that could do so much harm.” “Yes,” she nodded in agreement, “It was a mistake. Yet it did not appear to be so until now. I know you have never been a proponent of indiscriminate violence, Bartolomeo. Unlike Ferdinando, I know that you are a kind and gentle man who has never killed except when you have been involved in what you considered to be an act of war. Your motives were honorable in this case, but they were tragically flawed. There is too much at stake, far too much.” “What of the policeman in Seattle?” I asked. “Need he be silenced?” She shook her head no. “The validity of his report will be considered suspect based on his mental state. The small amount of venom injected into his nervous system by Ferdinando will induce a complete mental and emotional breakdown. Officer Jefferson will be under intense psychiatric care for some time. Your challenge lies in Texas.” “I have friends in New Orleans. Time is running short. They could tend to this for me without my having…” Dismissively, Aset waved a hand in the air and said, “Allowing others to perform your tasks may not be wise. As you should now be aware, delegation can lead to greater problems. “Yet, as I have said before,” she shrugged in an uncharacteristically indifferent gesture, “it is your war to wage; to win or to lose.” There was neither incrimination nor absolution to be read in her gaze. Later, struggling to make sense of it all, my head spun as I recalled her words, “Your war to wage; to win or to lose.” She had used these words previously, but I had never truly appreciated the fact that I had a choice in these matters. She made me what I am and I know that she could kill me at anytime. Kill me, yes… but she evidently is not allowed to control me. Was this her way of telling me that she abides by a set of rules that she abhors, yet by which she is eternally bound? Rules that assure me freedom of choice? Regarding the struggle to preserve the pianoforte and classical music, had she ever really cared which side prevailed, or did she just enjoy the continued conflict? Stirring the pot…eternal conflict. Is that not what Lucifer would most appreciate? Long ago I had convinced myself she could not be Satan or one of his demons based on her love of music and beauty. But how better to ensnare God’s creation, I asked myself. Chilled by the realization of the truth, I admitted to myself that she deceived Eve and then Adam. Deception is the nature of her game. Since the dawn of mankind every lie has served a purpose, every unjust death has been a part of her plan. I bowed my head, my long, grey hair falling forward about my face as I whispered, “She is Lucifer, the great deceiver, and I fear that I am and have never been anything more than a pawn in a contest that neither side wishes to bring to fruition.” The Vampire Virtuoso Chapter 9 Why did I ever give my cell phone number to John Sharkey? Moreover, why did I choose to leave him and the six Joplin Foundation administrators alive? Well, I supposed I knew the answer to that question. No matter how much A-Set prods and pushes me, I am not a murderer; although I might have committed one had I been able to get my hands on Ferdinando while I was watching the CNN report of the Seattle incident. Inwardly, I had to admit I had considered the possibility of a blood bath in Port Arthur if things had not gone well. Considered, yes, but could I have actually done it? A-Set had been correct about Sharkey; he now considered me to be a combination of the Anti-Christ and the Devil incarnate. The message he left for Mr. Di Anima was not what one would refer to as pleasant. But while A-Set had been correct about Sharkey, she was still dead wrong about me. My lust for blood was born of necessity after being changed. Unlike so many of my kind, I never kill when I feed. I take only enough blood to sustain my health. I am by nature a man of peace, cast into what I was beginning to doubt, but still very much wanted to believe, was a war waged for a just and honorable cause. Honorable or not, I told myself, if I were to disobey A-Set I feared not so much for my soul, but rather for my beloved instrument’s continued development. I would soon find out if I were capable of carrying out the ordered executions. Mildred’s trusting smile flickered briefly in my mind; I wished it hadn’t. I headed for the door without bothering to grab my suitcase. Whatever transpired, this would be a short trip. Back once again at John F. Kennedy airport as I waited to board my flight to Houston with the rest of the passengers at gate 161-C, I grimaced as I read the headline on page one of the USA Today newspaper: “VAMPIRES IN SEATTLE.” Here I was only two days from my Carnegie Hall concert and I was headed back to Port Arthur. I wouldn’t have minded that so much, but I was greatly troubled by the nature of the task that lay before me. Crusty old Chuck Evans had turned out to be a rather kindly sort and John Sharkey was simply a man defending the name and honor of a family friend. How could he be faulted for that? Nick Merchant had been the name of the third man in the meeting. He was younger than any of the others, barely into his fifties, and seemed to have no real opinion of his own; he just wanted to get back home to his family. Mike Irwin was the fourth male at the meeting; the only one not sporting a crew cut. He spoke barely a word, other than to complain that he was missing his son’s basketball game. Looking unconvinced and inconvenienced, he sat there for the entire time with his arms crossed. Then there was Mildred and the other two ladies: Elizabeth had sat across from Mildred, and the slightly taller one, Sarah. They were so easy to please and so grateful whenever somebody showed genuine interest in them. I couldn’t harm them, could I? Could I? No, no, of course I couldn’t. The first call to board the plane came over the loudspeaker system, but I was in no hurry. The seat would still be there whenever I got there and I didn’t have any carry on luggage to stow in the upper storage compartments, so I didn’t need any extra time to tend to that chore. Again, I glanced at the USA Today headline, “VAMPIRES IN SEATTLE.” If only the public knew; there are vampires in virtually every major city in the nation. Oh, not thousands, mind you, but at least one or two in most and up to five or ten in some of the really large cities. I believe there are nine of us in New York City. You might wonder why we don’t all live in one city so we could be near each other; have our own “vampire club,” as it were. How shall I explain? While we have much in common, we simply do not feel compelled to dwell near others of similar circumstance. To the contrary, we prefer having “our space.” Besides, if we all lived in one area, there would be an epidemic of nocturnal attacks on your average mortals that would eventually generate an out and out “witch hunt,” the likes of which hasn’t been seen for centuries. There are plenty of vampires, just not very many that can pass on the “gift” of eternal life, and certainly not that many with a quest such as mine. My quest…that was what tormented me. I had so fervently, for so long, believed in what I was doing, until now. The airport speaker system was playing Elton John’s, “Goodbye Norma Jean.” As I listened to the words, I had to ask myself if it is really such a good thing, as in my case, to have a candle that virtually never burns out. Oh, I admit that when you are young the prospect of living forever sounds enticing, but that is largely because your formative years are the time when you are still experiencing new things, making daily discoveries, learning about life and love and the world around you and how you fit in. My experience has been that the euphoria of youth begins to fade some time between the 90th and the 120th year of existence. After then, even if death is not imminent, you need something to keep you going, a motivo continuare. Mine has been the defense of classical music and its key instrument, my invention, the pianoforte. In the airport, the classic Elton John tune ended, followed by a Rolling Stones song, “Sympathy for the Devil.” Keith Richards loves that song. I remembered him picking up an acoustical guitar and playing it the night Jimi Hendrix visited us in London. The events that had transpired during that trip came back to me as vividly as if they had occurred only yesterday. Neither Keith nor Jimi were particularly good singers as I recall, but in my mind the ironic words to the song are forever imprinted. I silently mouthed the words in sync to the song as it echoed throughout the terminal, “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste, I’ve been around for a long, long year, stole many a man’s soul and faith.” Keith hadn’t known I was planning to kill Jimi or he never would have arranged that meeting. I suppose I am far more of a monster than Keith. The second call for boarding the flight to Houston momentarily interrupted the song and my memories. I looked around to find I was the only person still seated in the waiting area. The rest of the passengers were lined up and steadily disappearing through the last checkpoint, surrendering their boarding passes and awkwardly carrying, pushing or pulling their combinations of carry-on luggage and, in some cases, children with them down the carpeted corridor that lead to the waiting plane. What if I didn’t get on? What if I just decided to let the Joplin Foundation people blow the whistle on me? What if I allowed Obermeyer to turn me in? Would the piano fade from existence? Would the ultimate fate of classical music wind up emulating that of the dinosaur? Thanks to the evolution of my instrument and the advent of electronic amplification, which at one time I so adamantly vilified, I had to admit that the piano is solidly entrenched in the fabric of today’s music. Music has transcended the era in which only successful touring bands or orchestras could afford the expense of transporting and tuning several pianos. Today, keyboards of all shapes, weights, and sizes are integral parts of virtually every serious touring band’s array of instruments and most importantly, the number of children taking piano lessons is once again on the rise. I was startled when a Continental Airlines employee tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Sir, are you going to Houston? If so, you’ll need to board now.” I thanked the young man for his concern and raised my copy of the paper for him to see. “I was completely engrossed in this story on the front page.” I pointed to the headline. With an irritating, yet classic, Bronx Yankee accent and attitude he responded, “Vampires in Seattle, huh? Sounds like bullshit to me. They’ll put anything in them papers to get people to buy ‘em.” He shook his head and walked away, mumbling to himself. As the distance between us increased, I clearly heard him repeat the word vampires, followed by a dubious chuckle. I laid my copy of USA Today on the seat next to me and stood up as the announcement echoed, “Last call for Continental flight 397, nonstop service to Houston.” As I turned and briskly walked in the opposite direction of the gate, the Rolling Stones continued to play throughout the airport. If there is one thing I have learned in my 350 years, it is that sooner or later there are always consequences for our actions. In this case there most certainly would be consequences, possibly dire consequences. After all, how often does a pawn refuse to move as the queen commands? That is what I had been for too long. A pawn…a rather simple minded one at that, and too easily manipulated. But no longer. Aset would no doubt be furious, but the war was over as far as I was concerned. No longer would I play this insidious game. My mind catalogued the triumphs and tragedies; scenes of depravity and moral turpitude that I had witnessed and in some cases, engineered over the centuries. Pensively, I shook my head as I reminisced about disappearing with Anastasia, the love of my life and her baby brother, Alexei; the only mortals to whom I ever passed the gift of immortality. I left them in Paris, where they exist to this day. Since then I have spied, lied, dined, cavorted, consorted with and played my piano (wearing faces other than the one my fans recognize today) for benevolent monarchs and terrifying tyrants, saints and sinners, Kings and Queens, Princes and Princesses, Dukes, Duchesses and heads (some that ended up decapitated and impaled on a post) of state such as Mussolini, Stalin, Wilson, Churchill, Roosevelt, Hitler, Hirohito, Kennedy, Hussein, and Elizabeth II, to name but a few. Other than perhaps me, there would be no more casualties. Rather than flying to Texas, since my battle was over, I concluded that it was time for this weary soldier to return to his native soil. Sharkey had been wrong about me. Mildred, on the other hand, had been proven to be an excellent judge of character. As I headed for the ticket counter to make a change in my travel plans, I rubbed my cheek where she had planted the kiss and since whistling is very difficult for vampires, began to hum along with Mitch, or Mike or whatever that lead singer’s name is. “…I stuck around St. Petersburg When I saw it was a time for a change Killed the czar and his ministers Anastasia screamed in vain I rode a tank Held a general’s rank When the blitzkrieg raged And the bodies stank Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name, oh yeah Ah, what’s puzzling you Is the nature of my game…” Epilogue “Finally this morning, a sad note for lovers of classical music everywhere: The Arts and Entertainment channel has announced cancellation of the highly anticipated Christopher Bartholomew concert this Friday night that was to be broadcast live from Carnegie Hall. Officials of the network revealed that Bartholomew, one of the world’s most popular concert pianists, was found brutally murdered this morning in Florence, Italy, with what appeared to be a wooden leg from a piano hammered through his heart. Ironically, word from Italian law enforcement officials is that his body was found in an opened crypt that is believed to contain the remains of Bartolomeo Cristofori, the man to whom the invention of the piano is attributed. This is Sharon Anderson, CNN news.” THE END Still in the mood to be chilled?
I always appreciate hearing from readers. Feel free to comment or ask questions regarding anything you see. Contact me here, on the writing.com website by emailing me at georgelasher@Writing.Com or come check me out on Facebook. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?id=1625773285&aid=36414 Be sure to check out my novel, The Falcon and His Desert Rose. This 280 page, romantic, international thriller is available online in two formats: eBook (for $5.99) or paperback (for $12.99) from World Castle Publishing, or Amazon.com http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com/georgerlasher.htm http://www.amazon.com/Falcon-His-Desert-Rose-ebook/dp/B005UD7R1C/ref=tmm_kin_tit... Although you can't walk into a book store and find it on the shelves, The Falcon and his Desert Rose is available online from Barnesandnoble.com and many other websites. Kindest regards,   |
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