The Cliffs of Insanitweets

( random mutterings of the mentally unstable )

The Sainted Confessor, part 1

I'm posting what I have right now because I'm close to the end of the chapter, which has become....massive. This may be a repeat from a post a week or so back, but I want it all together, so please have patience with me. And, yes, this is what I've been doing with my time. Not Joker Blogs so much as this. I've been a writing fool. Oh oh, and all this is unproofed; however, I now have an editor and she's gonna fix me up really good with all three books. And I have an artist who will probably be doing the jacket art. So yay!
( read here )

The Sainted Confessor, part 2

Faust, known also as the Confessor amongst those closest to him, was a young Darkling who dwelt in the Soho area of New York City but, every night, could always be found at Studio 54. He had a section of one of the infamous balconies of hedonism partitioned specifically for his particular activities of preference. No one really knows for certain from whence he came as a mortal child, somewhere in America, that’s for certain. He always had that fresh-faced, hopeful enthusiasm you tend to find in the American face. It was known that he had been transformed by Rebekah and Mephistopheles, and that Mephistopheles gave the new Vampire his name, as a nod to the legendary Faust character. It was also known that Faust had traveled far and wide before finally settling in New York City to embrace a freer existence than perhaps he had ever known. He was truly a child of his age, but was ever seeking to learn the ways of his present incarnation or, as he may have perceived it, predicament.

( read more )

The Sainted Confessor, part 3

The cab ride took approximately 25 minutes from Studio 54 to Faust’s modest domicile on Bleecker in Soho. An overly renovated building, it was just this side of being ramshackle, artists’ paint literally holding it together in places. This was a domain for creative souls, souls who embraced their phoenix and flew with it from the ashes of their mundane existence.

The moment the cab stopped, Faust thrust a hefty sum of cash at the driver, thanked him profusely. The driver grinned and nodded in appreciation at the Darkling, gave him his name and number, and said in a thick accent, “You ever need ride, you ask for Draggan, k? I’ll be good to you, young man. You? You good soul.”

“Thank you, Draggan! I’ll be sure to call just you next time I need to go somewhere. You’ve been wonderful to my companion and me, and I really do appreciate it.”

As they exited the cab, Draggan scowled at Cadmus and gave him the Romany sign of the Evil Eye. Cadmus just stared blankly back at Draggan, searching for any flaw in his body that could be touched just a little. There.. right there. A clot in the man’s leg, ready to break free. Cadmus nudged it with his mind and felt the tiny killer float into the man’s blood stream. It would reach his lungs shortly and that would be the end of Draggan and his Gypsy Evil Eye.

Cadmus pretended a sweet smile, even lifting his lower eye lids the way he’d seen so many humans in full mirth do. “Have a nice life, Draggan,” he rasped, illiciting another sign of protection from the Gypsy cab driver as he followed Faust onto the street in front of the Darkling’s apartment building.

( in Faust's apartment )

The Sainted Confessor, part 4 (The Tale of Faust)

This section features actual slang from the 20s and 30s. If you aren't sure what something means, scream. Oh, and his mortal name is a nod to Bear McCreary, who rocks every which way to Sunday. Period.

THE TALE OF FAUST

Life was great. It was absolutely swell ! I hadn’t a care in the world, hoofing it to the wee hours in joints, then working on musicals all day with the hope of making it big someday in the Big Apple. I’d rode in on the rails to New York at the age of 15, old enough to know better, but still very young enough to not care! It was all an Adventure then. Still is.

I came from Illinois, what was then the heart of Gangster country. Faust rolled his eyes and gave an almost weary smile. Those were really violent days, the Age of Prohibition, but fun too, if you knew how to handle yourself. That mess should have taught this country something: the more Free Will is meddled with, the further away from the Plan you get. Hmm-mmm. No doubt there.

Now my generation, we were all about Free Will. Give us a snifter, a hookah, a cigar, and a dress made of stringed beads and a little air, and we’ll give you a party you’ll never ever forget. For my part, I wanted to embrace my Inner Bohemian and help others realise their own. I wanted to take the hilarity you could find in the prohibited substances of the day, and translate them onto stage and maybe even radio, so folks who couldn’t afford liquor or the risk they’d take trying to buy it could still enjoy the effects of it in the bland safety of their parlours.

I already looked young for my age, but nobody cared. In New York, nobody ever cares about your story as long as you’re doing what they expect of you or you’re doing something they think is aces. I was acing it in every way in those days. My song and dance routines born on Tin Pan Alley were the cat’s meow in certain circles back in the day. I was the community’s little darling. Everybody knew me and everybody loved me. Not braggin’, just sayin’.

I spent years on Tin Pan Alley and every year just seemed to be even better than the one before it. The whole world was in a full-on perpetual celebration, or so it seemed. And then that fated day in 1929 came, when we saw invincible men cast themselves from atop the highest structures they could find because everything we thought existed, everything we were so certain would always be there, suddenly….vanished.

( how Faust became a Vampire )

The Sainted Confessor, part 5

“And they left me here alone in my new body with my new name, nursing a new and burgeoning thirst.”

“The bloodlust…” Cadmus pointed out.

“No, not just that. It was a thirst for knowledge about the meaning of it all and for that one precious vision of God, the seed my parents planted before they left. Do you have any idea why they’d do such a thing? Because it’s been my experience over the past few decades from talking to so many fellow Vampires and humans alike, that Vampires are separate from God. If you know Rebekah and Mephistopheles, any insight would be most deeply appreciated.”

( Faust's entrapment )

The Sainted Confessor, part 6

Everything was a haze at first. He couldn’t really focus on anything, mainly because he was so dreadfully hungry. His face itched. When he moved to vigourously rub his face, as he was in a habit of doing upon waking, Faust realized that he was unable to move his right hand. He tried his left hand to find the same result. Faust felt not bonds, so this confused him.

He attempted to get up, to swing his legs over whatever surface he found himself, only to discover that his legs wouldn’t move either. Well, that wasn’t entirely correct. He could move his arms and legs, but the movement just...stopped…at the wrists and ankles.

Faust strained to clear his vision. The world was seen through a thin veil of wet cotton, it seemed. Even though his sight was impaired, Faust’s other senses began to swiftly awaken. Someone was there with him.

“Who –“

“Who indeed.”

“Cad-Cadmus?” Faust moved to free himself again to no avail. “What’s happened? Where are we? Are you okay?”

Cadmus licked his lips slowly as he processed what Faust had just said. Faust actually thought Cadmus shared his own predicament and was expressing concern for him. He never thought that he alone had run afoul of some poor choices and even poorer luck. His first inclination was to see if his new acquaintance and elder was all right. This one should never have been transformed. It was no wonder he hadn’t turned Beast. There was no conceivable way it could have happened without instantly destroying the Vampire Rebekah and Mephistopheles had just created.

“I am well, Faust,” Cadmus said, his smooth almost-British clip drenching the room with a feigned charm. Passing a hand over Faust’s eyes, Cadmus instantly cleared the youngling’s impaired vision. Faust cut his mosaic eyes to Cadmus, who sat at his bedside, the questions already beginning to form in their cerulean perfection. “You, on the other hand, are very far from being well. You will never be well again.”

“What are you talking about? Cadmus, please….let me go. I’m hungry.”

“Never you fear, little one. Here, here, look.” Cadmus took Faust’s chin and pulled it toward him and the side table next to Faust’s bed. Sitting on the table was the chalice. “Do you see this? Do you see this chalice? It’s very special, this vessel of life. It transforms human blood into Vampire Blood.”

“I don’t care,” Faust said, his voice level, barely containing a growing panic. “Just let me go.”

Cadmus picked up the chalice and, transferring it to his left hand, he supported Faust’s head and neck with his right. “Drink. This will be the most divine Blood ever to grace your tongue. It may well bring you…a religious experience. This is the blood of your Domina.”


( Faust's Tribulation begins )

The Sainted Confessor, part 7

Two hours into it, the agony finally subsided as Faust’s unnatural Vampire flesh began knitting together the gaping wound in his belly. Until then, Faust was incapable of rational thought. The animal seeded within each human was the only thing that was present, desperate for escape, for a way far from this trap of pain and fear in which it found itself. At one point, Faust found himself scraping his upper left arm with his fangs, contemplating the virtues of gnawing off his limbs as way of escape. But his capacity for thought returned before he began the gory process, and he reasoned that the bonds that held him would not allow for even one limb to escape with him and, if he had no arms or legs, how would he ever get himself free of this monster in whose grasp he found himself?

Again, he cried for help. Faust cried himself hoarse. No one came. Not even his surly neighbours pounded on the thin walls for their crazy fellow tenant to quieten it down. Cadmus had done something to keep people from hearing Faust.

He thought about his play mates at the Studio. Surely some of them would wonder about his not making an appearance to cuddle up in the hot tub. But….none of them knew where Faust lived. Despite his open demeanor, Faust was actually a very private person, keeping himself to himself, and his deeper motivations deeper still. He had opened up to Cadmus because he….. Faust’s eyes widened and his jaw went a little slack. He couldn’t believe it. Faust had been Compelled to open his life up to Cadmus. He’d been drawn to Cadmus in way he’d never been with any other Vampire or human. This creature had Compelled him to bring him into his home, to give him the reasons behind his communion with so many for so long.

Faust thought back to that night at the Studio. It had been no accident that Cadmus had been there, and had honed in on Faust so quickly. He had been waiting on the Confessor. Now it seemed to clear when, then, it was all just happy coincidence. He wondered now if Cadmus even knew anything about Rebekah and Mephistopheles.

He wondered now if his search for God was over. Would he now die alone in this dilapidated apartment and suffer awareness until his soul dispersed without the hope of redemption just because he had been transformed? What was it when a person was transformed without his consent? The word….it was conversion. In the Vampire world, when a person was transformed without consent or despite his protestations, that transformation was referred to as conversion. Can someone be held accountable for sins committed against one’s will? Then again…he didn’t really fight that hard when it happened, now did he? Once the Blood touched his lips, Faust was a willing participant in his own damnation.

The wound was now completely closed and it itched. Faust tried to no avail to reach down to scratch the incision. “Grraaaaahhhh!!!!” he uttered loudly, beating his head on the pillow underneath his head. The line of knives beside him jangled with his movement. “Why why why why why?! Okay okay…. Let me think.. He wants information. He wants to know what I know. But what do I know?”


( The Ten Confessions )

The Sainted Confessor, part 8

Three hours. It took three hours for the incisions to heal. It took another two hours for the scars to disappear. During that time, Faust prayed. He recited the 23^rd Psalm many times. He also recited the sleep prayer beloved of so many children. It was the only thing he could think of and he wished more than anything that he could sleep, truly sleep.

But freshly fed Vampires seemed quite incapable of sleep. Vampires didn’t need sleep anyway. The only time they ever came close to sleep was the blood coma, which came only with extreme hunger or starvation. Despite Cadmus drinking from him, Faust was still saturated with Blood and not just any Blood but, according to Cadmus, the transformed Blood of Kelat herself. Faust had no reason to doubt the monster’s veracity, as he could sense the deep power of the food coursing through his being. And it was keeping him awake to enjoy every agonizing moment of his rejuvenation.

Once he felt at peace enough to think clearly, Faust thought back to the night he met Gideon.

It was 1942 and Faust was performing with the USO for a group of soldiers who were spending their last night Stateside before shipping off to war. He was half of a comedy duo in the fine tradition of Abbott and Costello. Faust was the clown to his partner’s flawless straight man. Nothing was off limits to ensure these boys got as many laughs as possible. Many of them would never return from the second Great War. The least he could do was give them his all so they’d leave with a laugh in their throats and a smile on their lips. The world was at war and everyone, even Vampires, needed to do their part. At least that’s how Faust saw it.


( Faust's memories of the Depression and the Second Great War )

The Sainted Confessor, part 9

Two nights later, Faust began to feel the hunger, the marrow-deep thirst that defined his Vampiric nature. It took longer this time, perhaps because of the quality of Blood he’d been fed. The thought of his cannibalism sickened Faust, yet it didn’t stop him from salivating at the thought of taking libation from the chalice again. Now. He wanted it now. He needed it. Faust found himself wishing Cadmus were there. Then he cast his eyes to the knives that rested beside him, waiting for their chance at his flesh. Only a little did the thought of their piercing his person sway Faust’s desire to have Cadmus lift the chalice to his chapped and peeling lips again.

“Cadmus, where are you?” Faust croaked, using his voice for the first time since the night Son of Sam last struck. “I need you. Oh, Christ…. What am I saying?”

Faust shook his head and licked his lips while he still had some moisture left in his mouth. He was so hot. This Summer was interminable. Despite what humans may believe about Vampires, if they believed at all, Darklings could feel heat and cold. The sway of the seasons could be just as uncomfortable on a Vampire as a human and, the more poorly-fed a Vampire was, the more he suffered the effects of the weather. Right now, Faust was wholly subject to the heatwave that held New York City in a vice grip of extreme discomfort. A drop of sweat dangled from a wet lock of hair right over his right eye, then plopped in before Faust even had a chance to blink. The salt burned and brought tears to both his eyes.


( angels and blood )

That's all I have so far, but I'm writing furiously. I need to be shed of this chapter and Faust's suffering, because it's eating me up inside.