While Roquefort was realizing that Voluptua had, in fact, brought handcuffs, and not the padded kind, Tarin the Righteous was laying out her problems before Fr. Stephen.
“You see, I’m so conflicted! On the one hand, I know I must stay ever faithful and ever true to my mission: and that mission is to plant a stake in the heart of Roquefort. And yet, I grow lonely, plagued by doubts, unable to sleep because of restless desires. I know I must resist the charms of Lucretius, for they are only the charms of physical pleasure, yet how strongly they bind me, like cruel chains!”
“Catena saeva,” mused Fr. Stephen. “Was he into that kind of thing, then?”
“I meant figuratively, Father,” reproached Tarin. “And anyway, he is not for me. There is another, written in the great book of prophecy, who will join me in my lonely wanderings through this cold life.”
“There’s a book of prophecy?”
“Oh, yes! An evil book, bound in the skin of an Assyrian wood smuggler, written in the blood of two-headed tortoises and smelling faintly of bad breath. Even Roquefort fears this book, not because it harms him, but because it speaks the truth.”
“Fascinating! Who owns it?”
“No one knows. It’s a moot point, anyway, because the language cannot be learned. One must be born knowing it. The last person to have been able to read it died before I was born, drowned in blood and opals. It prophesied my coming and that I must slay Roquefort, slay him with the Wooden Stake of Latvia, Lithuana, Estonia, and Sometimes Y. Yet I am not strong enough to do it on my own. The man who is able to help me in this quest is my chosen one, and together we will defeat evil of all kinds. For this man, chosen to soothe the ceaseless desires of my perfectly waxed flesh, will posses this tool, the Wooden Stake of Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, and Sometimes Y. ”
Fr. Stephen tactfully refrained from any comment as to what notable Austrian psychiatrists would have said about the Wooden Stake of Latvia and Co. He instead contributed: “So what are you waiting for? Get on eHarmony. Possibly wear something more approachable than chain-mail.”
“But there is another side to this coin, a dark and seamy side.”
“There always seems to be,” observed Fr. Stephen, fishing the ice-cubs out of his scotch. Idiot bartender, knew nothing of whiskey.
“For if I unite my powers with Lucretius, we would be more powerful than Roquefort himself and would rule the vampire world. And, you know, the human one too, more indirectly.”
“I see the conundrum,” Fr. Stephen said. Before he could offer any advice however, a woman sauntered up to them, looking tall, dark and carnivorous.
“Forgive me for interrupting. But I saw you from across the bar and I had to ask. Am I in the presence of Tarin the Righteous?”
“You are,” said Tarin, eyeing the woman suspiciously.
“And you must be the famous Fr. Stephen. Is that a gun in your pocket, or are---”
“Actually, it is a gun. Who are you?”
“I know who she is, Stephen,” said Tarin nastily. “This is Voluptua. She seems like a good idea but she’s not.”
“Oh dear. How embarrassing. I see my reputation has preceded me. Perhaps I ought to go,” Voluptua murmured. Then she paused. “Can I just ask you, however, Tarin, if you’ve seen that ghastly Roquefort about anywhere?”
“If I saw Roquefort, everyone would know because I’d have ripped his head off. Then stepped on it repeatedly,” Tarin snapped.
“And quite rightly, my dear, quite rightly,” Voluptua said.
“I thought you were in league with Roquefort,” Fr. Stephen asked.
“Don’t talk to her, Stephen, it’s like wrestling with shit,” Tarin cut in.
“Well I was, but now it’d be rather useful to me to have him dead. I was going to offer to pay you to do it, but if you’re already trying and failing, then I’d better look for offers elsewhere.”
“I bet you’d get some on the street corner,” Tarin said. “And don’t even try appealing to my vanity. I wouldn’t take money from you in the first place.”
“In that case, forgive my intrusion,” Voluptua said. “I hope we live to meet on better terms, Lady Tarin. Fr. Stephen, have a pleasant night and mind your guns. There are dangerous people afoot.”
And with that she slunk off. Tarin found herself, against her better instincts, gazing hypnotically at Voluptua’s ripe, plump, persimmon-like buttocks. She shook herself. This was no time for Anglo-Saxon monosyllables.
“Warm in here, eh, Stephen?”
“And getting warmer. Who is she?”
“The devil with D-cups. Satan in a slinky dress. Mephistopheles in a miniskirt. Beelzebub with a beautiful bum. Old Nick without knickers. Lucifer with Lauren Bacall’s lips. In short, the opposite of everything we stand for!”
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “I can assure you I had no intention of standing.”
“She was born from the black sands of time, and went to Eton.”
“Isn’t that a boys’ school?”
“I didn’t say she was enrolled.”
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Chapter 3: Voluptua is on the Case
Fr. Stephen and Tarin walked into a bar, followed closely by three nuns, three Irishmen, and several talking animals.
Fr. Stephen looked around. “Why do all the men in here look like they escaped from the covers of Harlequin romance novels?”
“Who cares,” said Tarin, “I brought a change of panties. Dirty martini, please.”
As Tarin the Righteous and Fr. Stephen ordered their drinks, they were unaware that they were being watched by two creatures of unspeakably well-dressed evil, who were lurking attractively in a dark corner. One of these was Roquefort.
“Look, already the dangerous Lady Tarin, Tarin the Righteous and Tarin the Often Braless, is on our trail,” Roquefort drawled softly.
“Our trail?” purred his companion. “I rather think, darling Roquefort, that she’s only on yours.”
Roquefort cast a sidelong glance at the woman to his right: for it was none other than Voluptua, the oldest and most beautiful female vampire, raven haired, ruthless, rapacious, ravenous for the fluids of innocent men.
“I don’t know how you stay out of these scrapes, Voluptua. Alright then, they’re after me. Should I kill her now and be done? Kill the priest as a warning? Order another drink?”
“No, no, that’s boring,” Voluptua said, her eyes gazing at the couple by the bar, “I have a much better idea. I seduce the girl, Tarin. Then, while she’s questioning her sexuality, I seduce the priest. Then, while he’s questioning his vocation, you and I have a lot of incredibly kinky sex. You lie in bed recovering. I then have follow-up sex with both the girl and the priest. We all do a few lines of coke. Possibly we’ll get Lucretius to stop by. I’ll seduce him. Then we’ll have a drink, smoke a joint maybe, have a goodbye shag. Then it’ll back to the old routine of feasting on the blood of the living. Brilliant, what?”
“Voluptua,” said Roquefort, “that plan is not without glowing merits. But, like most of your plans, it appears to consist entirely of you sleeping with everyone involved—and I’m not saying I object, here—I just don’t see how it in any way solves my problem of what to do with Tarin the Righteous stalking me.”
“Oh,” Voluptua said. “Well I was about to work that in anyway, although I must say it seems a bit tangential. They’ll completely see the error of their ways and side with the forces of darkness. And if they don’t, then I’ll have earned their trust and can always slaughter them in a ruthless and gory way.”
“Voluptua, they say your beauty is so blinding that no mortal can ever know you, because they grow maddened by your loveliness. And yet now I see that even this beauty is eclipsed by the supple brilliance of your foul mind. Kiss me, darling!”
“I don’t like kissing men whom I can’t kill when I want to,” said Voluptua, “but do allow me to shag you mercilessly in the handicapped stall of the men’s room.”
“No clawing.”
“No promises.”
Fr. Stephen looked around. “Why do all the men in here look like they escaped from the covers of Harlequin romance novels?”
“Who cares,” said Tarin, “I brought a change of panties. Dirty martini, please.”
As Tarin the Righteous and Fr. Stephen ordered their drinks, they were unaware that they were being watched by two creatures of unspeakably well-dressed evil, who were lurking attractively in a dark corner. One of these was Roquefort.
“Look, already the dangerous Lady Tarin, Tarin the Righteous and Tarin the Often Braless, is on our trail,” Roquefort drawled softly.
“Our trail?” purred his companion. “I rather think, darling Roquefort, that she’s only on yours.”
Roquefort cast a sidelong glance at the woman to his right: for it was none other than Voluptua, the oldest and most beautiful female vampire, raven haired, ruthless, rapacious, ravenous for the fluids of innocent men.
“I don’t know how you stay out of these scrapes, Voluptua. Alright then, they’re after me. Should I kill her now and be done? Kill the priest as a warning? Order another drink?”
“No, no, that’s boring,” Voluptua said, her eyes gazing at the couple by the bar, “I have a much better idea. I seduce the girl, Tarin. Then, while she’s questioning her sexuality, I seduce the priest. Then, while he’s questioning his vocation, you and I have a lot of incredibly kinky sex. You lie in bed recovering. I then have follow-up sex with both the girl and the priest. We all do a few lines of coke. Possibly we’ll get Lucretius to stop by. I’ll seduce him. Then we’ll have a drink, smoke a joint maybe, have a goodbye shag. Then it’ll back to the old routine of feasting on the blood of the living. Brilliant, what?”
“Voluptua,” said Roquefort, “that plan is not without glowing merits. But, like most of your plans, it appears to consist entirely of you sleeping with everyone involved—and I’m not saying I object, here—I just don’t see how it in any way solves my problem of what to do with Tarin the Righteous stalking me.”
“Oh,” Voluptua said. “Well I was about to work that in anyway, although I must say it seems a bit tangential. They’ll completely see the error of their ways and side with the forces of darkness. And if they don’t, then I’ll have earned their trust and can always slaughter them in a ruthless and gory way.”
“Voluptua, they say your beauty is so blinding that no mortal can ever know you, because they grow maddened by your loveliness. And yet now I see that even this beauty is eclipsed by the supple brilliance of your foul mind. Kiss me, darling!”
“I don’t like kissing men whom I can’t kill when I want to,” said Voluptua, “but do allow me to shag you mercilessly in the handicapped stall of the men’s room.”
“No clawing.”
“No promises.”
Chapter 2: Moist and Steaming Boysenberries, Multiverse
Little did Roquefort know that his arch-nemesis, Tarin the Righteous, was wending her chain-mailed way through the night to find him. Tarin was a dedicated and lascivious vampire-slayer, sworn to rid the world of the blood-sucking pleasure-mongers who beset it.
But first, breakfast. As soon as the sun set, Tarin would rise in search of wholesome non-human sustenance. She sauntered, clinking, into IHOP.
“Pancakes, orange juice and… sausage,” breathed Tarin, through pouty, ripe lips.
“Ummmm… maple or boysenberry syrup?” asked the waiter.
“Boysenberry. Always boysenberry,” purred Tarin. “Zounds! Is that—but it couldn’t be---” She gazed over to the next table, where a mysterious figure wearing all black sat alone.
“What kind of toast?”
“Sourdough. Sour like my heart. And…. Extra butter… dripping butter…”
The waiter left, and Tarin called to the figure across the table: “Lucretius! Is it truly thou?”
Lucretius turned, his hair falling over his black eyes, which absorbed the light in the room, then reflected it back, darker, more swollen with potential and charged with pheromones. “Yes. May I… join you?”
Tarin pouted, her lips growing yet fuller for no discernable reason. “Perhaps.”
But Lucretius had already made him self comfortable across the table. “How long has it been?”
“My life has been hell without you—but not as bad as it was with you.” Tarin refused his gaze.
“Which way I fly is hell,” quoted Lucretius.
“Don’t be such a whiner,” Tarin replied. “You are a demon.”
“Pancakes, sausage and toast?”
“…Yes,” Tarin murmured.
“Why are there so many ellipses in your speech?” asked the waiter.
“Don’t question!” snapped Lucretius.
Tarin moaned in anticipation of the meal. The steam rose from the plate. “I can barely wait,” she whispered.
“Just put it in your mouth,” replied Lucretius, running his forked tongue over his lips. “Right between your lips.”
“I’m going to,” quipped Tarin.
“And then pull it out again—and then back in--- ah!”
“I can’t very well eat if you’re going to thrust against the table like that,” complained Tarin. “Uuuuhhhh. Uhhuhhhhhhh.”
“Darling, our lives must be united once again. Our powers combined were unstoppable, and coated with tight tight leather.”
“But you belong to the forces of darkness, and were threatened by my constant stream of lovers.”
Luctretius growled. “I hated your constant stream of lovers!”
“But no man was able to satisfy my appetites… I constantly search for the final, ultimate companion, able to quench the burning within my loins--- and always, always disappointed!” A faraway look had come into Tarin’s eyes.
At that moment the door to IHOP swung open. In walked Fr. Stephen, the Latin-spewing and weapons-crazed priest. Lucretius met his eye and hissed. “By the vas deferens of Satan! That nerdtacular priest stalks me yet again!”
“How do you know he’s not stalking me?” quipped Tarin.
“Stop quipping! I hate that fuck!”
“Pace, filiae,” said Fr. Stephen to Tarin. “Cur ad deamonem dices?”
“He has a forked tongue. You figure it out,” quipped Tarin.
“Oh, I WARNED you about that quipping,” snarled Lucretius, leaping up. “That is it. I will treat with you no longer, slut of sluts, or with you, sordid priest of Babylon!”
“Yea, fly, perfidious one, into the oily night which bore you,” Fr. Stephen said, standing his ground against the sardonic, demonic and Byronic creature. “You are unworthy to gaze upon this worthy’s face.”
“I only gaze on it when she won’t let me gaze on anything else,” said Lucretius petulantly. “You wouldn’t know, though. You are God’s eunuch.”
“I beg your pardon!” Fr. Stephen said, “Would you be so good as to stuff it up your ass?”
“Watch for me on wild nights, priest, for I will not forget the remarks of this evening, or your campaign of thwarting my schemes.”
“Know this, Demon: I carry guns in places that even you, with all your worldly and dark knowledge, would tremble to imagine,” said Fr. Stephen.
“I hope they all go off at once,” said Lucretius, and stalked, darkly and stormily, from the IHOP.
Tarin had by now finished her meal and was looking very satisfied. “Won’t you join me for a cup of coffee, Father? There is much with which I must speak with you with which about, about the demon with whom we have just been conversing with.”
“Your breasts are lovely, but your grammer is terrible,” said Fr. Stephen, sitting down. “Do they serve scotch here?”
“No,” said Tarin. “Boysenberry syrup, though.”
“I’ll struggle by on mere coffee, then,” said Fr. Stephen, “And now, my child, what can I help you with?”
“A matter of both personal and cosmic importance. A matter which covers the most private desires of the human soul and the all-consuming passions of the multiverse. A matter, in short, which we can only discuss here, in the privacy of IHOP.”
“Well, if we’re dealing with the moist and steaming passions of your multiverse, perhaps we should go to a bar,” Fr. Stephen said. “Man shall not live on pancakes alone, you know.”
But first, breakfast. As soon as the sun set, Tarin would rise in search of wholesome non-human sustenance. She sauntered, clinking, into IHOP.
“Pancakes, orange juice and… sausage,” breathed Tarin, through pouty, ripe lips.
“Ummmm… maple or boysenberry syrup?” asked the waiter.
“Boysenberry. Always boysenberry,” purred Tarin. “Zounds! Is that—but it couldn’t be---” She gazed over to the next table, where a mysterious figure wearing all black sat alone.
“What kind of toast?”
“Sourdough. Sour like my heart. And…. Extra butter… dripping butter…”
The waiter left, and Tarin called to the figure across the table: “Lucretius! Is it truly thou?”
Lucretius turned, his hair falling over his black eyes, which absorbed the light in the room, then reflected it back, darker, more swollen with potential and charged with pheromones. “Yes. May I… join you?”
Tarin pouted, her lips growing yet fuller for no discernable reason. “Perhaps.”
But Lucretius had already made him self comfortable across the table. “How long has it been?”
“My life has been hell without you—but not as bad as it was with you.” Tarin refused his gaze.
“Which way I fly is hell,” quoted Lucretius.
“Don’t be such a whiner,” Tarin replied. “You are a demon.”
“Pancakes, sausage and toast?”
“…Yes,” Tarin murmured.
“Why are there so many ellipses in your speech?” asked the waiter.
“Don’t question!” snapped Lucretius.
Tarin moaned in anticipation of the meal. The steam rose from the plate. “I can barely wait,” she whispered.
“Just put it in your mouth,” replied Lucretius, running his forked tongue over his lips. “Right between your lips.”
“I’m going to,” quipped Tarin.
“And then pull it out again—and then back in--- ah!”
“I can’t very well eat if you’re going to thrust against the table like that,” complained Tarin. “Uuuuhhhh. Uhhuhhhhhhh.”
“Darling, our lives must be united once again. Our powers combined were unstoppable, and coated with tight tight leather.”
“But you belong to the forces of darkness, and were threatened by my constant stream of lovers.”
Luctretius growled. “I hated your constant stream of lovers!”
“But no man was able to satisfy my appetites… I constantly search for the final, ultimate companion, able to quench the burning within my loins--- and always, always disappointed!” A faraway look had come into Tarin’s eyes.
At that moment the door to IHOP swung open. In walked Fr. Stephen, the Latin-spewing and weapons-crazed priest. Lucretius met his eye and hissed. “By the vas deferens of Satan! That nerdtacular priest stalks me yet again!”
“How do you know he’s not stalking me?” quipped Tarin.
“Stop quipping! I hate that fuck!”
“Pace, filiae,” said Fr. Stephen to Tarin. “Cur ad deamonem dices?”
“He has a forked tongue. You figure it out,” quipped Tarin.
“Oh, I WARNED you about that quipping,” snarled Lucretius, leaping up. “That is it. I will treat with you no longer, slut of sluts, or with you, sordid priest of Babylon!”
“Yea, fly, perfidious one, into the oily night which bore you,” Fr. Stephen said, standing his ground against the sardonic, demonic and Byronic creature. “You are unworthy to gaze upon this worthy’s face.”
“I only gaze on it when she won’t let me gaze on anything else,” said Lucretius petulantly. “You wouldn’t know, though. You are God’s eunuch.”
“I beg your pardon!” Fr. Stephen said, “Would you be so good as to stuff it up your ass?”
“Watch for me on wild nights, priest, for I will not forget the remarks of this evening, or your campaign of thwarting my schemes.”
“Know this, Demon: I carry guns in places that even you, with all your worldly and dark knowledge, would tremble to imagine,” said Fr. Stephen.
“I hope they all go off at once,” said Lucretius, and stalked, darkly and stormily, from the IHOP.
Tarin had by now finished her meal and was looking very satisfied. “Won’t you join me for a cup of coffee, Father? There is much with which I must speak with you with which about, about the demon with whom we have just been conversing with.”
“Your breasts are lovely, but your grammer is terrible,” said Fr. Stephen, sitting down. “Do they serve scotch here?”
“No,” said Tarin. “Boysenberry syrup, though.”
“I’ll struggle by on mere coffee, then,” said Fr. Stephen, “And now, my child, what can I help you with?”
“A matter of both personal and cosmic importance. A matter which covers the most private desires of the human soul and the all-consuming passions of the multiverse. A matter, in short, which we can only discuss here, in the privacy of IHOP.”
“Well, if we’re dealing with the moist and steaming passions of your multiverse, perhaps we should go to a bar,” Fr. Stephen said. “Man shall not live on pancakes alone, you know.”
Chapter 1: Roquefort in Action and Getting Same
Roquefort the tall, Heathcliffian vampire stared grimly around the dimly lit bar. His pale skin glimmered in the light, and his scrotum scar throbbed with awareness of nearby prey. He looked around with his searing golden eyes. A woman was staring at him.
Roquefort sauntered over, in a way that Trevor often does, and sat next to the woman. Her long blonde hair was a silken curtain between them. He slid his hand up her long leg until it rested on her thigh.
“Excuse me?” she said in a husky, Scandinavian-Japanese voice.
“Your leg enticed me. Just the left one.” Roquefort murmured.
“That is odd,” the woman replied. “Because I am actually a model for prosthetic legs. That leg is silicone and metal.”
“Yet it feels like heaven beneath my hand,” Roquefort continued. “What is your name, you silicone-rich goddess?”
“Inger,” said Inger. “And yours?”
“Roquefort,” said Roquefort.
“Ah!” gasped Inger. “The most satisfying form of cheese. Perhaps we should... meet again..."
Inger stared at Roquefort. She could not explain her growing attraction for this strange, sexually aggressive man. “Roquefort, there is something bizarre about you, but I can’t understand what it is. And yet I long to be under you.”
“My luscious multi-ethnic darling, that can be arranged. I will tell you the secret of my life—if you let me whisper it in your ear.”
“Of course! I would--- wha?? Your short friend is humping my leg! My real leg! And he’s getting it all sticky!”
“WITHERS!” thunder Roquefort, enraged. “This is really not on. Not at all. I am locking you you of the attic tonight. Now be gone!”
Withers climbed off Inger’s real leg and slunk off, to return at a later time. Downbound Train by Bruce Springsteen came on the jukebox.
“Its getting hot in here!” Inger said.
Roquefort leaned under her thick golden hair. “My secret, you legwench, is that I am a vampire---“
Before Inger could be surprised, he sank his long and pentrating fangs into the white flesh of her neck in a penetrating fashion.
“Ah! Your long fangs have penetrated me!” Inger whispered. “And I love it.”
Roquefort sauntered over, in a way that Trevor often does, and sat next to the woman. Her long blonde hair was a silken curtain between them. He slid his hand up her long leg until it rested on her thigh.
“Excuse me?” she said in a husky, Scandinavian-Japanese voice.
“Your leg enticed me. Just the left one.” Roquefort murmured.
“That is odd,” the woman replied. “Because I am actually a model for prosthetic legs. That leg is silicone and metal.”
“Yet it feels like heaven beneath my hand,” Roquefort continued. “What is your name, you silicone-rich goddess?”
“Inger,” said Inger. “And yours?”
“Roquefort,” said Roquefort.
“Ah!” gasped Inger. “The most satisfying form of cheese. Perhaps we should... meet again..."
Inger stared at Roquefort. She could not explain her growing attraction for this strange, sexually aggressive man. “Roquefort, there is something bizarre about you, but I can’t understand what it is. And yet I long to be under you.”
“My luscious multi-ethnic darling, that can be arranged. I will tell you the secret of my life—if you let me whisper it in your ear.”
“Of course! I would--- wha?? Your short friend is humping my leg! My real leg! And he’s getting it all sticky!”
“WITHERS!” thunder Roquefort, enraged. “This is really not on. Not at all. I am locking you you of the attic tonight. Now be gone!”
Withers climbed off Inger’s real leg and slunk off, to return at a later time. Downbound Train by Bruce Springsteen came on the jukebox.
“Its getting hot in here!” Inger said.
Roquefort leaned under her thick golden hair. “My secret, you legwench, is that I am a vampire---“
Before Inger could be surprised, he sank his long and pentrating fangs into the white flesh of her neck in a penetrating fashion.
“Ah! Your long fangs have penetrated me!” Inger whispered. “And I love it.”
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