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Suck - 1st rough chapter of a vampire novella

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Old 06-20-2009, 08:24 PM
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Default Suck - 1st rough chapter of a vampire novella



Revised today, June 13th 2009

Chapter 1

30th August 1988


The room is on the seventh floor. It is a small drum with a bed, a sink, a wardrobe, mirror and a small boarded up window. I have a desk where I write my thoughts whilst burning a candle to the devil each night. I read books everyday. Some I read and devour and others I read and toss away to the curse of the circular filing cabinet. The rubbish bin depletes the unwanted inventory of my possessions. The bin is emptied out the window onto the Hackney slums below. Let the dirty little gutter snipes read the dross that I care not to cast a review for.

I try to choose my books carefully, but sometimes the submissions choose me. My editor, Malcolm, likes to send some works of text indicating that a favourable review is required. My reviews are based on the work in front my nose, not what is expected by nose picky agents and houses of the frilly fancy printing press. I have been around a long time, over four hundred years. All these years harbouring no desire to do anything apart from that which I wish to do. There is no other moral than that. To do as one wishes to do, dear reader. What I need to do, every night and day is to read lit and feed on clit.

Some books are simple literary abortions and deserve the fatal blow of a reviewer’s pen. Some are passable and survive the might of my sword. Some, but not many, are great. The great ones I keep in leather bound editions in my concrete dive. Let us take a look; we have Burgess, Burroughs, Conrad, Dosteovsky, Genet, Greene, Maugham and Shelly amongst others populating my shelves. All received reviews. Favourable reviews from my pen upon their original publication.

Some last and some do not. Such is the way of death and literature in the modern world. Some survive. Some wither and die on the vine. It is a Darwinian truth. Quality lasts, failures fail. This is the way it is. A good book outlasts a good person. A good book is immortal. As am I. I am not a good person, yet I be immortal through a trespass in my past. More about my little accident later. Right now my mind is on the books on my desk not the blood in my veins.

Every artist I would wager strives towards creating that one work that will make them who they feel they ought to be. That one book shrouded by this golden fleece that the mortals will call immortal. That one work that will make their name carved in granite. The book that will make them be able to look in the mirror and reassess their fragile little egos. It is I who have the power to reward these writers, if the mood takes me. And crucify them if the mood does not.

Work as a literary review journalist is an ideal occupation for a vampire literary buff such as myself. It allows one something to do during the day before working the graveyard shift. Pouring through the rubbish heaps of modern literature again and again one recognises the dead rattius stench of a flop. Some books do not have a smell at all. It is preferable to stink than to not even have a smell, in my honest opinion. At least a stench gets noticed.The human condition at once both disgusts and intrigues me. After all, I was one once. A human, that is. The fear of death is a constant enigma for a lonely artiste who desires to immortalize himself with his manuscripts, his music, poetry, mutterings and spunk. Little does he know of the true hindrance of immortality. Living forever is not all it is perceived to be. Believe me. Lifetime landmarks such as reaching ones 21st birthday become somewhat tiresome after the 21st feigned celebration. It becomes a bore.

I have on my desk a long drawn out novel by an American author born of the last century. I can sense the amount of labour, love and whiskey that went into this steaming turd of a modern age saga. Tis be a book too starved for my sword. I will send it back to the Times where a young hack writer can cut his ill nourished teeth with it.

Whaltman, Wolfe, DH, spare me. You greats can go back to your dead meat reprints. Two much meat on the bones. Too many details spilled onto the page for little or no reason. A quill artist of merit should go beyond the flesh. And further negotiate the territory beyond the bones to the marrow of the bones where writers such as Bukowski and Hemmingway dwell. Literary writers attempt to draw from human experience. They want to live and breathe with their characters. Be one with their subjects. This is their quest.

Now, let it be known that I draw from human experience every fucking night.

Literally, that is. When that blood flows from her veins to mine I see the pattern of her life. I sense her emotional state just before I end that pathetic operatic slug that spelt her short existence. I can judge her education (usually minimal). Taste her last meal. Sense her love. What was hers is now mine. That is to say; she is now part of me. I Apologise. My thoughts have turned from reading to feeding. The clock chimes midnight. Time to think about the night ahead and the food that awaits.I like to eat hookers, strumpets, dollymops, tails and toffers. The modern day term is prostitute. I prefer the word hooker, a generalised American term. Hookers are nocturnal and easy to find. Sometimes I bite into one that is brim full of methamphetamine, a modern street drug used by hookers and students. The rush is unbelievable. In the trade we call it a Hot Shot. Some ladybirds are soaked with whiskey, others barbiturates. Sucking wenches is like drinking a surprise cocktail. No two are the same. Each can be delicious. Some leave a bad taste in the mouth. Some leave one wanting more. The flavour changes as the centuries move on.

Where am I? The continent is Europe. The country England and the city is London. Shoreditch, to be exact. The East End. Jack the Ripper territory. Many strumpets work the streets where I hunt.

My small room is in an condemned tower block. There are several squatters below bringing down the tone of the concrete establishment. I would never consider feeding on one of those malnourished, vegan deadheads. New-age didikkos are not my personal preference. Let the rats finish them off. I would rather eat their flea ridden mongrel dogs.

I also tend to avoid bulimics: too bland. Tasteless. A ladybird with an eating disorder spells a bad meal. I’ve made that mistake a few times. It’s like sucking a squeezed lemon. No juice. No life. No satisfaction, as Sir Mick would say.

My first taste of blood was like my first taste of good French wine. The warmth. The pleasure. The texture, and, well, the body. She had a good body. The first one. Firm and supple, a good looking muck snipe straight out of the work house. Nice figure. She was new to the game it seemed. Easy to pick up with a little charm. The stories are true. Us blood suckers simply ooze charm. We cultivate it over the years. We are a literate bunch with a witty social presence. She was a young Judy, almost twenty gulpy with all her life ahead of her. Fresh out of the lump hotel with nothing more than a deuce hog to her name. A sweet Ladybird if ever I saw one. But, my friends, my life came first. It is a question of the Darwin equation. She wore filthy dunnage and a curious smile. We were not really that different. She was a creature of the night who befriended bed fellows and sucked them off for a chink or a tuppany piece. I am a creature of the night who befriends ladybirds and suck them of their Life. Same meat, different gravy. Equally wholesme. She was good. Real tasty. I can almost taste her now. She had eaten fruit and had drank a little gin. I sucked her dry. The gin made one giddy as she shrivelled underneath me. I took her to a church. Fucked her first in the graveyard, my Nebuchadnezzar put to her grass and then sucked her, real horror show, for those that have read Burgess. She was a good suck.

You only really remember two sucks. The first and the last.

The first taste of blood is like the first drink, the first shot of heroin or the first snort of cocaine. You can never, however hard you try, experience that first rush again. It is impossible. Sucking is more than an addiction. It is a way of life. Or to be more exact, a way of prolonging the undead.Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go feed



Chapter two
31st August 1988 (One hundred years to the day Jack killed Polly)

I decide on a red velvet smoking jacket and a pair of dark maroon kecks. Clichť, admittedly, but consider the fashion alternatives. If I were wearing a white tuxedo and sucking the blood of a young wench and the rozzers happened to be in the general vicinity then I would be liable to stick out like a hardworking ladybird perched on a pew in church on Sunday morning. If I were to wear all white imagine, my friends, all that kennetsseno rouge splashing out on those virginal pussycat white togs after a jolly good night’s folly. Dark red burgundy be the colours, the camouflage, of us bloody suckers.

I also carry a man bag. A Gladstone alligator skin hold-all. The contents of my bag are similar to that of an alcoholic’s kit. Mints, mouthwash, a bottle of gin and a packet of Fisherman’s friends. Last thing one needs is the long arm of the law appearing just after ones performance and said officer getting a whiff of the old kennetsseno blood. General practice is to walk away from the scene after a swig of Gin and a couple of mints down the old cake hole. Just a harmless alcoholic as far as the long arm be concerned.

My set-up is complete with a pair of shiny black Carnaby crabshells and a black kingsman handkerchief. I check my image in the mirror. Who could resist the figure that looks back at me. Let us look through the looking glass? Not many could resist this beast. At least, none yet so far have gibbed out upon my advances. Do not believe the folk stories. Us suckers do have reflections. Our reflections are that of beautiful creatures. The type you would like to take home to your parents, if that is you be unaware of our dinning habits. There are three reasons why women find me irresistible: The way I look. What I do. And what I say.

I leave my dwellings.

The night is a cold pea-souper over Hackney road. My clothing swell and dandy. The gothic look is making a come-back for the fourth time. My hair is slicked back black. My lamps lit up in the London particular. I am hunting. Dressed to kill. But not ready for the kill. I have a plan. I have my directions. Whitechapel is where I must start this dirty little ditty. The same place Jack began his quest.

I avoid the passing Growlers and head on foot to the Chapel. Past the muck snipes and the ladybirds, beyond Liverpool Street station where the beggars gather outside the booze gatherings wandering in circles hoping for some juice. These nobodies be desperate for the comfort of despair. The wish to forget ones trespasses, or wish at least to be forgotten as a person. Such wishes are seldom granted in this mean metropolis.

I find myself at the chapel. The old Buck Row school where Jack murdered Mary Anne Nicholas or ‘Polly’ to her fellow ladybirds and cash carriers. The building is now converted into flats. The wall from the school to the old stable is still intact. It is here where I wait in the shadows for a passing wench.

Jack had to worry about coppers on the beat. No such problems for I. The bobbies now cruise around in patrol cars chasing lushingtons, snakesmen and negro druggists. The coppers are too scared to walk the London streets in this century. A truncheon no match for a long shivcane, a tazor or a gun.

The only problem was that of technology. The close circuit cameras. I soon put that problem to rest with two large stones and a fishing catapult purchased from a tackle shop in Essex. Two stones, carefully aimed break the lens. Nothing will be on record tonight. It is just a case of waiting. And waiting some more.

I soon saw her. An old punchable nun edging towards the age of forty or forty-five. She was obviously a whore from the wrong side of the tracks. I approached her slowly. Calm and casual like.

‘Sister, why you walk the streets at this hour?’

‘I walk the streets every night. And I think you know the reason why.’ She replied as a dry smile danced across her lips.

‘What is it you do?’

‘Whatever. I do what I do for money? Do you understand?’

I told her I did.

She unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a large area of mammary glands. A plump maze of mild curiosity. She had large breasts and a strong frame cultivated through hard work both on and off her back. She will do. The time is right. The same time as Jack.

‘What are your terms?’ I asked her politely.

‘My terms?’

‘Yes your terms?’

‘Well what do you suggest?’ She asked. I noticed for the first time that her teeth were awful. Broken black tombstones randomly scattered in a derelict graveyard. It matters not. I will be the one sucking. Her breath smelt of bad wine and onions. She was worthy of a good suck. But I will not be hanging around for any pillow talk.

‘How do you feel about sucking?’ I asked her.

She nodded in acceptance.

I smiled slowly and placed a finger upon the nape of her neck. I moved the finger up and down her neck ascertaining the vein and then checked either side of the street. There were no people around. It was pleasantly quiet. Now was the time.

And then I did it.

I rushed her furiously as she fell back against the wall. My teeth sank easily into to her flabby neck. She made little noise as I began to suck slowly at first and then increased the speed of my suck. Then I slowed it down and found a rhythm. Like fucking with sucking you have to find the pace that the wench desires. She seemed to suddenly understand what was happening to her and then her arms and legs kicked out. It was too late. I simply sucked harder. Her vocal cords had already been sucked dry and they were useless. She could not make a sound other than that of faint spasms. It was too late. She was finished. Complete. Dead. Done. The date 31st August 1988, the time 3.30am. The same timem the same place, one hundred years later that Jack killed his first.

The taste was bad.

I know not what she had eaten that day but what ever it was it was foul. I almost vomited onto the Chapel street. She had drank some cheap bitter red Spanish wine. A typical ladybird tipple. The taste did help to counteract the horrible kennetsseno of the suck. She was a bad one. But I was now fed.

I was on the fly way homeward before she hit the ground. Through Woods Dwellings the stench of rat piss the small as Jack would have smelt through the passageway. Two lush suits arguing across the road. But no matter, they had not seen me pass. I took the gin from my Gladstone and had a long swig, followed by a couple of mints. The deed had been done. I had marked the first one off the map of London town. Whitechapal is done. Jack would be proud. Same place. Same time. One hundred years later. Soon the curse shall be broken.

Nine days time will be Spitalfields, where Annie Sivvey met her fate.




Chapter 3

1st September 1988

Next day I was summoned to the City Times office in cannery wharf. I walk along Fenchurch sunlight discomfort shielded by the highest fashion of UV light protection sunglasses, purchased in Saint Maritz. Us Suck merchants dislike sunlight, but it is bearable with adequate protection. Don’t believe all the oxymonoric stories about sunlight killing the undead. How can you kill what is not living?

I enter the underground at Monument and head towards the City Times.The office is busy. A chitter chatter of interest in last nights disturbance in the Whitechapel area. Speculation audible throughout the building. Who, what, when, why? Apparently the body was found shrivelled like a dried fruit. A real messy love death. Lord knows which rampant trasseno might have committed such a scene in the middle of the night. The crime journalists gather in groups muttering clueless speculation. One young newspaper man has word from a copper that the location is the same that our old friend Jack used on Polly. He may be onto something, there.

No matter what, this little story will make for good morning reading and afternoon pattering for the nine to five amateur detectives. I can see them now, opening their broadsheets at the kitchen table whilst dipping their toasted soldiers into battery farmed boiled eggs. 'Look dear, there’s been a murder', he says unaware of the travesty of the abortive yellow juice dripping from his toast.

My editor, Malcolm, wants to see me in his office. Normally I do not grace the good offices. Instead they have a junior newspaper Joe deliver the review books to a post office in Shoreditch, where I pick up the latest literary dross.

Today is different.

Today I step into his office. And take a chair using a shivcane to balance myself. Anticipation of his excuse for this impolite summons clouds my mind. He sits there smiling like the Persian that got the Danish Blue.
‘Francis. Could we do lunch?’

‘I suppose we could,’ I say surveying his working space. A neat pile of paper and a framed photograph of his insolent daughter on his desk. She looks tasty in a pubescent way. I met her once at a company function. I was hungry and she was willing. I considered the contingency of feeding on her. She had bright blue eyes and a touch of red in each cheek. As if she had just washed her face. I toyed with the idea of taking her outside into the parking lot and sucking her dry before coming to the obvious conclusion. Bad form to mix business and pleasure. I do have some morals, after all. And the work keeps my mind occupied. She will have to wait.

‘There’s a French bistro just opened on the Stand. What are your thoughts on French food?’

‘French food is like French literature.’ I respond, ‘innovative, experimental, yet ultimately nourishing. The Olympia press can not be underestimated. Maurice took a gamble on Beckett, Miller, Donleavy, Burroughs and Nobokov whilst the rest of the world turned a blind eye.’

Malcolm likes it when I talk in this style. I think he reads the occasional book. Malcolm knows his station. I have more decorum in my left incisor then he has in his foreskin. Malcolm is a circumcised jew and well aware of his short-comings. He hath sunken cheeks above a camp smile. He be a closet homosexual who dabbles with the Piccadilly dally boys of a weekend. He has a wife and child who know nothing of his other, more colourfull side to his life. To be fair, many of us lead double lives.

‘Good.’ He checks his watch. ‘Let’s make it an early one.’ I follow his lead through the chaos of journos screaming blue murder in the newsrooms. I walk past unperturbed, safe in the knowledge that the killer will never be caught.

‘Nasty business last night.’ Malcolm comments as we enter a black hackney carriage.

‘Gruesome,’ I concur. We reach a small bistro dive on the Strand with a French theme and menu. I permit a cursory glance at the menu before choosing the escargots followed by a rare fillet steak quenched with a bottle of Medoc 1986. A good year. Malcolm opts for the goose liver pate followed by a duckling marinated in a strawberry sauce. The wine goes well with both steak and duck. It matters not what colour wine one drinks with ones food. The importance is on the quality of wine juxtaposed with the quality of food. A bad wine spoils a good meal and vice versa.

‘The paper is struggling. We need to get involved, brainstorm, and increase circulation.’

I hate the way Malcolm uses buzz words. ‘involved’, ‘brainstorm’ and ‘circulation’. The only circulation I can think of is that of his daughter’s blood coursing through my veins. The only brainstorm I can recall is that of the old wench I became involved with in an intimate way last night. My thoughts turn again to his daughter. Her young unpolluted Circulation joining mine as one involvement. My hunger increases as I glance across at my colleague.

’What do you suggest?’ I ask.

’You.’ He says.

Me?’

Yes you. I want you to cover some of the mainstream news. Starting with this Whitechapel mystery. Do you know how much our circulation would increase if we
found the killer.’

’Hmmm.’ I certainly knew how much my own circulation would cease if they found the killer. But then again, I could steer the bizzies in a bizzare direction if I handled the reporting the right way. It’s an idea. But not a good one.

’I am a reviewer of books. That is all I do. That is all I wish to do. There is enough death in the books I review.’

That is the point.’ Malcolm explains over a mouthful of wine, ‘you know about life.’ And death.’Will you do this for me? I need someone that understands the man on the street.’

’I know not of the man on the street.’ I tell him. My preference being ladies of the street.

’Your writing would suggest otherwise.’

’Perhaps, but I only deal with fiction. Fact seems too final.’

’Don’t you want to have this beast caught?’

’Not particularly. I was thinking on a new article. One on style.’

’Style?’

Yes. Style in the last century. Who had style? We can do art, music,’
’Lterature?’

‘Yes’

’Explain’

’Well, Burroughs had style. Keith Richards had style. Lou Reed had style. Luke Haines has style.’

’Luke Haines?’

’Songwriter. Wrote unsolved child murder. It will be seen as a classic for you in years to come.’ My thoughts kept turning to his daughter.’Who else had this style?’

’Johnny Depp. Jack Nicholson. Stanley Kubrick.’

’An awful lot of Americans.’

’Yes. It sucks doesn’t it?’

’What would the point of this article be?’

’To excuse myself from the whitechapel murder.’

’You don’t want to cover it.’

’No. I fear my pen is geared towards the arts. Not towards the crime.’

’I guess it was too much to ask.’

’You guessed right. Death is such a tiresome subject. I prefer to work with the
arts. Death is the final conclusion. Art is the suffering that preludes death. This is my interest.’

The snails arrive and I eat greedily. Let us put to rest another myth. We blood suckers like to eat garlic. The French escargots rich garlic butter sauce washed down with a good bottle of vin rouge. We can put that myth to bed. Where it came from who knows? Who can resist garlic? There are many French suckers of snails and blood.








Chapter Four.

4th September 1988

Three days later found me sitting in the olde Axe 69 Hackney Road. This be a public house where wenches take off their dry goods and dance naked for a fifty pence coin per punter. The coins are collected in a glass beer jug passed around before the wench in question performs her show. There be no stage, nor a pole. They simply dance naked on the filthy rat-bitten carpeted floor. Business men and perverts and straggling lushman stand around and watch the spectacle evolve. The current wench is dancing to ‘Venus in furs’ by the Velvet Underground and making a nice job of it. She hath pierced nipples and a pot belly and some growth of her hair emerging from beneath her armpits. Paradoxically her pubic region be shaven. She strikes me as a worn out gutter snipe hoping to improve her life by the shameful art of making it worse. But my friends, what’s good for the goose be good for the gander or some such muck. She approaches me slowly and runs a seductive finger along my lapel. Alas, tonight I am not biting.

I am here to meet a friend.

Edward is an expert on Jack the Ripper. He is what Ripologist’s refer to as a Ripologist. He hath a theory on who Jack was and why he did what he did. His knowledge is the reason for my quest. Edward may be my saviour He enters the olde Axe and takes a table near the front window. I take the seat next to him, carrying with me two pints of frothing ale. London Pride.

Edward hath the map and spreads it on the table. It is a map of old London town marked with lines, crosses that make a sinister pattern.

‘I am certain.’ He says, taking a swig from his vessel. ‘The evidence is overwhelming. Look at the map. What can you see.’

I can see it all. It be the Vesica Piscis.

Edward wears glasses and a sweatshirt with reindeers on the front. Some sad joke of a Christmas present from a relative who dislikes him with a passion. There is not much to like about Edward. He has a stutter, wears glasses and his ears jut out at embarrassing angles. I would be surprised if he ever put his Nebuchadnezzar to the grass in his puff. He seams disinterested in the woman dancing naked in the public house. Perhaps Edward be a brown hatter, a gardener of upwards persuasion. A queer, fag, homosexual.

‘I see the sign of the Vesica Piscis.’ I tell him in all seriousness. His lamps blink back at me knowingly.

And I do understand. The Whitechapel murders numbered five. The map in front of us shows where each murder took place. Edward has drawn a line between each site. He has then connected the lines to show the sign of the Vesica Piscis. When we join the lines we hath the reverse pentagram, the sign of the occult. A black magic spell. The Ripper had killed these hookers and had taken body parts to use in a spell. The same same spell I intend to use. The spell to rid me of this bloody hunger

‘ Would you venture to suggest Jack had carried out these murders to dispel a curse by the use of the black arts.’ I ask Edward.

‘It can work both ways,’ he tells me, ‘Maybe he wished to create a curse or perhaps he wished to banish a curse. Both theories are probable. But mathematically speaking there is no doubt that these murders were performed – I use the word performed – because they were were performed much like a surgeon performs an operation. They were performed swiftly in locations that could never be considered random. I have an idea who Jack was. I know that he studied the occult and even wrote articles on his findings. He took the body fat of a harlot to make candles used in the black magic rituals.’

‘Tell me?’

‘Not yet. There is more research to be done. I have sent some books to your post office box. You can read some more then. When will you be publishing this information in the times? I need some money for this work.’

‘All in good time,’ I tell the pathetic virgin. ‘In the meantime could I borrow your map.’

‘I have a copy.’

‘Good.’ Edward hands me the map. I fold it carefully and place it within the inner breast pocket of my black suit jacket.

I will be needing it.





Chapter 5
8th September 1988

So it is off to spitalfields I stroll. I choose to take Houndsditch, past the office lushman teeming with life, enshrouded by impenetrable egos alive with the promise of another nights drinking and more merry money making in the morning. An office wench walks past, her face bloated with booze and intercourse with the cultured and the privileged in the bars that line the city offices. These office men sell insurance, guarantees, invisible imports and exports exchanged through a vast drunken hub that is the square city mile. These office men drive sports cars back to the Sevenoaks Weald where they raise little families and admire the rolling hills. It was a different little set up in Jack the Trippers day. I use the word Tripper deliberately. Jack walked along slums and dark alleyways where gutter snipes actually lived. These days the streets are lit, but all offices, bars, restaurants. Still the same stench of booze and whore perfume exisits as it did when Jack was on his jolly.

I reach the end of Houndsditch and look right once towards Mitre Square. ‘Later’, I think to myself and head in the opposite direction, towards Brick Lane.

The Lane is now home to those of Asian decent. The smell of curry and josh sticks replaces one of booze and perfume and human cattle. Hanbury Street is within walking distance now. The time be 4am, 8th September 1988, one hundred years to the dot as our friend Jack did his little deed.

The only problem would be of finding a wench in this part of town. The ladybirds are not as common as they were back when Mr R was working and the clock is a ticking. Not a ladybird in sight.

I have little option. An Indian woman walks past and I move towards her from the shadows.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I ask her. ‘But do you have the time.’ Her expression indicates that she is of another foreign tongue somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta. Perhaps she has just arrived in country without abode or the proper travel documents. The circle keeps repeating. She is probably around thirty in age and has dark, almost black skin. Her movements are that of a frightened little creature in an unknown world. I raise my hand slowly towards the ground and then point at my wrist where one might imagine a wristwatch to be. If I had one. My watch be in a pocket on a chain. She seems to understand and looks into her bag for what I assume to be a time piece of some description. I will never know.

I rush her. My arms pinning her against the wall. Nobody around. I feel her tense within my grip she all terrified but it would be over very soon. I have to work quick. She is a kicker. Legs and arms flapping and screaming in some foreign tongue. My teeth sink into her and she was away in less then minutes all kicking and screaming as I relieved her of her life source... She tastes nice, clean. Vegetables and tea. Spinach and lemon. Sweet and sour.

Next the less wholesome task of removing the uterus. The upper part of her vagina has to be removed, as per Jacks black magic ritual. I struggle with her eastern dunnage. The sari proves to be like unwrapping an Egyptian mummy. I eventually had her open and removed it with several messy slices of my bowie knife. I pocket the horrendous item and leave her there with a mess of intestines on the outside, just like Jack had. I almost gagged at the inhumanity of it all, but then remembered what this was all for. I was nourished from the vegetarian blood and took a swig from the old gin bottle before heading on back up towards my drum. Walking at a pace that would be suspicious in any other metropolis. Everyone walks fast in London.
The deed had been done. The second murder. The second location on the map.

Back in my drum I study some of the documents.

This is what Jack wrote one hundred years ago, to the day.

Dear Boss,


I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha. ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn't you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife's so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck.
Yours truly
Jack the Ripper
Dont mind me giving the trade name
PS Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it No luck yet. They say I'm a doctor now. ha ha

************
I make exact copy and send it to the city Times.


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Last edited by J. Newman; 07-13-2009 at 09:43 PM..
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Old 06-20-2009, 09:55 PM
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It's cute. Bit rough, but you already said that. Interesting take to have a vampire who is a literature buff and whore connoisseur.

Keep it up
Pete
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Short+Sweet Theatre needs good writers to become
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Old 06-21-2009, 02:06 AM
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Originally Posted by J. Newman View Post


Suck

Chapter 1



The room is on the seventh floor. It is a small room with a bed, a sink (that doubles up as a urinal) (Personally, I would either leave out the brackets and say "...a sink that doubles as a urinal" or leave the urinal part out all together) and a desk where I write my thoughts. I read books everyday. Some I read and devour and others I throw away like a frustrated literary agent tossing a bad manuscript into the circular filing cabinet. (I likes the way you described the bin as a "circular filing cabinet" - at least I think that's what you meant, a bin? lol. But it still is a long sentence, perhaps try to cut it into a few sentences?) I try to choose my subjects carefully, but sometimes my subjects chose me.

The human condition at once both disgusts me and intrigues me. After all, I myself was once one. ("I myself" is kind of like repeating yourself. I'd say "I was one once." "One once" seems to flow better than "Once one" for me personally) A human, that is. Writers write about the struggle of the human condition. (I don't understand this sentence. It's kind of stating the obvious.) The fear of death is a constant subject for a lonely writer who wants to immortalize himself with his manuscripts, his music, poetry, mutterings and spunk. Little does he know of the true hindrance of immortality. Living forever is not all itís (not too sure about this but I'd write it as "It is" depending on the age of the character. If he/she is an old vampire, they would write full words instead of joining them together this appostrophies.) cracked up to be. Believe me. Daily habits such as buttoning a shirt become somewhat repetitive after the millionth time. (I get what your saying, but I think you need to pick something that normal humans would only get to do a few times in their lives. Graduate high school or University, pass a drivers license etc. This is because many people button shirts every day. More than once a day for some! So even mere humans may feel that it is a monotonous chore. Just a suggestion.)

I have on my desk a long drawn out novel by an American author of the last century. I can sense the amount of labour, love and whiskey that went into this steaming turd of a saga. (Haha I love the "...labour, love and whiskey" bit. Brilliant!)

Literary writers attempt to draw from human experience. They want to live and breathe with their characters. Be one with their subjects. Now, let it be known that I draw from human experience every fucking night. (Wow! In your face, I like it!) Literally. When the bloods (blood?) flows from her veins to mine I see the pattern of her life. I sense her emotional state just before I ended (end - if your speaking in present tense as you have been for the duration of the story) the pathetic opera that was her short existence. I can judge her education (usually minimal). Taste her last meal. Sense her love. What was hers is now mine. That is to say; she is now part of me. (I love this last piece, it's worded and fragmented brilliantly.)

I like to eat hookers. (Would he (I assume it's a he) refer to them as hookers? Or would he call them something else, depending on the century he was born in?) Hookers are nocturnal and easy to find. Sometimes I bite into one that is full of methamphetamine. The rush is unbelievable. In the trade we call it a Hot Shot. Some are soaked with whiskey, others barbiturates. Sucking hookers is like drinking a surprise cocktail. No two are the same. Each can be delicious. Some leave a bad taste in the mouth. Some leave one wanting more. Pick and mix, baby.

Where am I? The continent is Europe. The country England and the city is London. Shoreditch, to be exact. The East End. Jack the Ripper country. Many hookers work the streets where I hunt. My small room is in an abandoned tower block. There are several squatters below bringing down the tone of the establishment. I would never consider feeding on one of those malnourished, vegan deadheads. New-age gypsies arenít my bag, baby. Let the rats finish them off. I would rather eat their flea ridden mongrel dogs. (Hahahaha!)

I also tend to avoid bulimics: too bland. Tasteless. A whore with an eating disorder spells a bad meal. Iíve made that mistake a few times. Itís like sucking a squeezed lemon. No juice. No life.

My first taste of blood was like my first taste of good French wine. The warmth. The pleasure. The texture, and, well - the body. She had a good body. The first one. Firm and supple, good tits and arse. Nice figure. She was new to the game it seemed. Easy to pick up with a little charm. The stories are true. Us blood suckers simply ooze charm. We cultivate it over the years. We are a literate bunch with a witty social presence.

She was young, almost twenty with all her life ahead of her. But, my life came first. She wore a pair of large sunglasses and a mini-skirt. We were not really that different. She was a creature of the night who befriended men and sucked them off for money. I am a creature of the night who befriends women and sucks them of their Life. Same meat, different gravy.

She was good. Real tasty. I can almost taste her now. She had eaten fruit and had drank a little vodka. I sucked her dry. The Vodka made one giddy as she shriveled underneath me. I took her to a church. Fucked her first in the graveyard and then sucked her, real horror show, for those that have read Burgess. She was a good suck. (LOL! I like this bit. "A good suck" - classic!)

The first taste of blood is like the first drink, the first shot of heroin or the first snort of cocaine. You can never, however hard you try, experience that first rush again. Itís impossible. Sucking is more than an addiction. It is a way of life. Or to be more exact, a way of prolonging the undead.

\
This is an excellent story with much potential, in my opinion. I find it hard to imagine where it's going to go because as you said, it is an introduction of the main character. If you go from here and dive straight into the direction and 'point' of the story, I think you'll do well with it.

I have put a few suggestions in, but that's all they are. Suggestions based on my own opinion and writing style. I'm sure you have your own, so please don't feel like I'm trying to be negative or nasty because I really enjoyed this little look into the main characters life. I'm a sucker (haha) for Vampire stories!

One thing I want to stress though, that may be vital to your story, is that the MC is a little all over the place with what era he actually comes from. Some things he says don't sound like he's centuries old. Like "hooker" and "baby". Maybe he picked those things up as the times changed but I think consistancy is good for the reader. I was getting a little confused and stopping to think "Would I say that if I was born hundreds of years ago?" It detracted from the story.

Any way, excellent job, I hope I helped more than hindered lol. Keep it up, I can't wait to read more!

- Tiff
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Old 06-21-2009, 03:49 AM
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Passion,

Thanks so much for taking the time to read through and provide me these sugestions. I agree with most if not all of the suggestions.
I have read precious little in the way of Vamp lit. So your input is great.
The reason I thought about the use of contempory terms, is partly laziness on my part. And also if we consider that this vampire has lived a few hundred years but has picked up on current terminolgy. The same way someone born 60 years ago may adapt their vocab to current trends. Have to find a balance with his terms.
But I think you are right. Old age terms would lend the story more of a punch. There are some great Victorian terms for hookers, for example - 'Strumpets', 'bed-fellows', 'punchable nuns' etc..
I will push on. I plan to have the Vampire carry out a number of feedings in the same places that jack the ripper murdered his victims. If you have read into the Ripper myth then it is suggested that the locations of the killings when drawn together on a map produce the pentangle sign. A pagan sign used in black magic.
Anyway it's all idead up in the air and I think I will try and finish a first draft.

Thanks again,

Jim.
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Old 06-21-2009, 07:41 AM
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I've made some changes thanks to tiff's suggestions and a little research into Victorian English slang. Is it better? Please let me know. I feel it is going in a clockwork orange direction


The room is on the seventh floor. It is a small drum with a bed, a sink and a small boarded up window. I have a desk where I write my thoughts and hold a candle to the devil each night. I read books everyday. Some I read and devour and others I throw away like a frustrated literary agent tossing offending manuscripts into the curse of the circular filing cabinet. The bin completes the inventory of my possessions. I try to choose my books carefully, but sometimes the submissions chose me. Such is the way of death and literature in the modern world. I work as a literary review journalist. Even the undead have to work the graveyard shift.

The human condition at once both disgusts and intrigues me. After all, I was one once. A human, that is. The fear of death is a constant enigma for a lonely artiste who desires to immortalize himself with his manuscripts, his music, poetry, mutterings and spunk. Little does he know of the true hindrance of immortality. Living forever is not all it is cracked up to be. Believe me. Lifetime landmarks such as reaching ones 21st birthday become somewhat tiresome after the 21st feigned celebration.

I have on my desk a long drawn out novel by an American author of the last century. I can sense the amount of labour, love and whiskey that went into this steaming turd of a modern age saga. This be a book too starved for my sword. I will send it back to the Times where a young hack writer can cut his ill nourished teeth.

Literary writers attempt to draw from human experience. They want to live and breathe with their characters. Be one with their subjects. Now, let it be known that I draw from human experience every fucking night. Literally, that is. When that blood flows from her veins to mine I see the pattern of her life. I sense her emotional state just before I end the pathetic opera that was her short existence. I can judge her education (usually minimal). Taste her last meal. Sense her love. What was hers is now mine. That is to say; she is now part of me.

I Apologise. My thoughts have turned from reading to feeding. The clock has turned to midnight. Time to think about the night ahead.

I like to eat hookers, strumpets, dollymops, tails and toffers. The modern day term is prostitute. I prefer the word hooker. Hookers are nocturnal and easy to find. Sometimes I bite into one that is full of methamphetamine, a modern drug. The rush is unbelievable. In the trade we call it a Hot Shot. Some ladybirds are soaked with whiskey, others barbiturates. Sucking wenches is like drinking a surprise cocktail. No two are the same. Each can be delicious. Some leave a bad taste in the mouth. Some leave one wanting more. The flavour changes as the centuries move on.

Where am I? The continent is Europe. The country England and the city is London. Shoreditch, to be exact. The East End. Jack the Ripper country. Many hookers work the streets where I hunt. My small room is in an abandoned tower block. There are several squatters below bringing down the tone of the concrete establishment. I would never consider feeding on one of those malnourished, vegan deadheads. New-age didikkos are not my personal preference. Let the rats finish them off. I would rather eat their flea ridden mongrel dogs.

I also tend to avoid bulimics: too bland. Tasteless. A ladybird with an eating disorder spells a bad meal. I’ve made that mistake a few times. It’s like sucking a squeezed lemon. No juice. No life.

My first taste of blood was like my first taste of good French wine. The warmth. The pleasure. The texture, and, well, the body. She had a good body. The first one. Firm and supple, a good looking muck snipe straight out of the work house. Nice figure. She was new to the game it seemed. Easy to pick up with a little charm. The stories are true. Us blood suckers simply ooze charm. We cultivate it over the years. We are a literate bunch with a witty social presence.

She was a young Judy, almost twenty and gulpy with all her life ahead of her. Fresh out of the lump hotel with nothing more than a deuce hog to her name. A sweet Ladybird if ever I saw one. But, my life came first. She wore filthy dunnage and a curious smile. We were not really that different. She was a creature of the night who befriended bed fellows and sucked them off for a chink or a tuppany piece. I am a creature of the night who befriends ladybirds and suck them of their Life. Same meat, different gravy.

She was good. Real tasty. I can almost taste her now. She had eaten fruit and had drank a little gin. I sucked her dry. The gin made one giddy as she shriveled underneath me. I took her to a church. Fucked her first in the graveyard, my Nebuchadnezzar put to her grass and then sucked her, real horror show, for those that have read Burgess. She was a good suck.

The first taste of blood is like the first drink, the first shot of heroin or the first snort of cocaine. You can never, however hard you try, experience that first rush again. It is impossible. Sucking is more than an addiction. It is a way of life. Or to be more exact, a way of prolonging the undead.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go feed.

Glossary:

Drum: A building house, room or lodging
Candle to the devil: To be evil
Hookers, Strumpets, dollymops, tails, toffers, ladybirds, wenches, judy: Prostitutes
Didikkos: Gypsies; half breed gypsies
Muck snipe: A person who is 'down and out'
Lump hotel: Work house.
Deuce hog: 2 shillings
Dunnage: Clothing
Chink: Money
Nebuchadnezzar: Male sexual organ
Nebuchadnezzar put to the grass: To make love
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Old 06-21-2009, 11:22 AM
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The room is on the seventh floor. It is a small drum with a bed, a sink and a small boarded up window. <--must admit, I have never heard of the word drum. A small room in a tower block would be a bedsit or a room.. I have a desk where I write my thoughts and hold a candle to the devil each night. I read books everyday. Some I read and devour <--if you mean devour as in read, you don't need to say read as well and others I throw away like a frustrated literary agent tossing offending manuscripts into the curse of the circular filing cabinet. The bin completes the inventory of my possessions. I try to choose my books carefully, but sometimes the submissions choose me. Such is the way of death and literature in the modern world. I work as a literary review journalist. Even the undead have to work the graveyard shift.

The human condition at once both disgusts and intrigues me. After all, I was one once. A human, that is. The fear of death is a constant enigma for <-- not sure but I think it should be enigma to a lonely artiste a lonely artiste who desires to immortalize himself with his manuscripts, his music, poetry, mutterings and spunk. Little does he know of the true hindrance of immortality. Living forever is not all it is cracked up to be. Believe me. Lifetime landmarks such as reaching ones 21st birthday become somewhat tiresome after the 21st feigned celebration.

I have on my desk a long drawn out novel by an American author of the last century. I can sense the amount of labour, love and whiskey that went into this steaming turd of a modern age saga. This be is a book too starved for my sword. I will send it back to the Times where a young hack writer can cut his ill nourished teeth.

Literary writers attempt to draw from human experience. They want to live and breathe with their characters. Be one with their subjects. Now, let it be known that I draw from human experience every fucking night. Literally, that is. When that blood flows from her veins to mine I see the pattern of her life. I sense her emotional state just before I end the pathetic opera that was her short existence. I can judge her education (usually minimal). Taste her last meal. Sense her love. <--commas rather than full stops What was hers is now mine. That is to say; she is now part of me.

I Apologise. My thoughts have turned from reading to feeding. The clock has turned to <--you could say chimed or struck instead of repeating turned midnight. Time to think about the night ahead.

I like to eat hookers, strumpets, dollymops, tails and toffers.<--not sure about your research. Never heard of toffers. Toffs is the name given to rich people in Victorian times. Why not just say he likes prostitutes or whores Hooker is more a US term than British. The modern day term is prostitute. I prefer the word hooker. Hookers are nocturnal and easy to find. Sometimes I bite into one that is full of methamphetamine, a modern drug. The rush is unbelievable. In the trade we call it a Hot Shot. Some ladybirds are soaked with whiskey, <--whisky is the British spelling, whiskey US others barbiturates. Sucking wenches is like drinking a surprise cocktail. No two are the same. Each can be delicious. Some leave a bad taste in the mouth. Some leave one wanting more. The flavour changes as the centuries move on.

Where am I? The continent is Europe. The country England and the city is London. Shoreditch, to be exact. The East End. Jack the Ripper country. Many hookers work the streets where I hunt. My small room is in an abandoned <--maybe condemmed instead of abandoned tower block. There are several squatters below bringing down the tone of the concrete establishment. I would never consider feeding on one of those malnourished, vegan deadheads. New-age didikkos are not my personal preference. Let the rats finish them off. I would rather eat their flea ridden mongrel dogs.

I also tend to avoid bulimics: too bland. Tasteless. A ladybird with an eating disorder spells a bad meal. Iíve made that mistake a few times. Itís like sucking a squeezed lemon. No juice. No life. <--I like this paragraph, quite humorous

My first taste of blood was like my first taste of good French wine. The warmth. The pleasure. The texture, and, well, the body.<--commas not full stops She had a good body. The first one. Firm and supple, a good looking muck snipe <--muck snipe? do you mean guttersnipe? straight out of the work house. Nice figure. She was new to the game it seemed. Easy to pick up with a little charm. The stories are true. Us blood suckers simply ooze charm. We cultivate it over the years. We are a literate bunch with a witty social presence.

She was a young Judy, almost twenty and gulpy <--gulpy?? with all her life ahead of her. Fresh out of the lump hotel <--never heard of lump hotel with nothing more than a deuce hog <--more common would be to say two bob(never heard of deuce hog) to her name. A sweet Ladybird if ever I saw one. But, my life came first. She wore filthy dunnage <--another term I've never heard of. More common slang would be clobber and a curious smile. We were not really that different. She was a creature of the night who befriended bed fellows and sucked them off for a chink <--chink tends to be slang for chinese and it is twopenny bit or thruppenny bit or a tuppany piece. I am a creature of the night who befriends ladybirds and suck them of their Life. Same meat, different gravy.

She was good. Real tasty. I can almost taste her now. She had eaten fruit and had drank a little gin. I sucked her dry. The gin made one me <--one is used instead of you when talking in general giddy as she shriveled underneath me. I took her to a church. Fucked her first in the graveyard, my Nebuchadnezzar put to her grass <--love the expression, never heard of it though and then sucked her, real horror show, for those that have read Burgess. She was a good suck.

The first taste of blood is like the first drink, the first shot of heroin or the first snort of cocaine. You can never, however hard you try, experience that first rush again. It is impossible. Sucking is more than an addiction. It is a way of life. Or to be more exact, a way of prolonging the undead.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go feed.
If you want to use English slang or colloquialisms, I suggest looking here:
http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang/

hope something helps
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Old 06-21-2009, 11:41 AM
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You may have noticed I provided a glossary at the end of the story

My reference was underworld Victorian slang glossary - www.tlucretius.net/sophie/castle/victorian_slang.html

It's based on Victorian underground criminal slang. Not current English slang. The idea being that the prog has devloped langauge from a past criminal life a century or so ago.

Thanks for offering to help with the slang. But I am well aware of all current English slang. I use it daily.

I am guessing you are not from London?
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Old 06-21-2009, 12:19 PM
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I am actually a Londoner, lived most of my life in London, not the East End, though my grandfather was born there (not part of the Victorian criminal underworld, I hasten to add, lol). I saw your glossary at the end. I didn't say the slang wasn't genuine, just that I'd never heard of it. I couldn't view that dictionary as it is forbidden by my server.
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Old 06-21-2009, 05:37 PM
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Real interesting idea! You could use the fact that the vampire was born so long ago to compare to the changes he has seen over the years. Also you may want to try developing a few ongoing characters in the book. I imagine that with a vampire around, no one he meets will be interacting with him for very long. It might be good to try and develop a few characters he doesn't kill, so we aren't stuck with the one character the whole story. Just an idea though. Interesting as of far, looking forward to reading more!
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Old 06-21-2009, 06:10 PM
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Haha! I love it! And yes I have read up on Jack the Ripper, though I had not heard about the Pentagram (which I also know about, having been addicted to Charmed for some time lol)

Keep it up, I can't wait to read more!

- Tiff =D
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Old 06-22-2009, 05:40 AM
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I am very excited about developing this one.

Starwarsfan; - You are correct. The book needs to have ongoing auxilliary characters. All genre novels should have a hero, a hero's helper and an antagonist. That's the way it works.

We have worked out already from the first chapter that the hero only feeds on ladies of the night. So male characters can be extended. I'm thinking of a policeman antagonist and a heros helper perhaps a collegue journalist from the newspaper where he works writing lit reviews.

I plan to have the Vamp copycat Jack the ripper murders. Same place. Same times.

I have no frim idea where to go with it. But I have a good few markers on the map.

Next chapter tomorrow.

Cheers, guys.
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Old 06-22-2009, 03:41 PM
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Hmmm, I read Chapter Two first because I didn't see Chapter One--sorry about that. My only crit is that I wasn't that interested in the literary stuff at the beginning. Other than that, I really enjoyed it. I like your ideas for auxiliary characters and plots--I look forward to reading more.
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Old 06-24-2009, 08:40 PM
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ha. i felt the opposite of unlikely44. I thought you could have gotten a LOT more literary. I like how you describe the American author and the work and whiskey that went into the book, but there is never any mention of any famous author's names (human or vampire) or much else about the kind of literature the vamp likes. Though I do love your descriptions of the human condition in writing and the detial you go into with the hookers and how they taste. That's the kind of detail I'd like to see on the literary side of things, but I am just a book nerd.

It held my interest. Needs a bit more development and i'd love to see him interact with a meal that he DOESN'T kill for some reason or other. i will be checking out your next chapter!
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Old 06-25-2009, 10:46 AM
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Default Suck -3rd chapter

Chapter 3

Next day summoned to the City Times office in cannery wharf. I walk along Fenchurch sunlight discomfort shielded by the highest fashion of UV light protection sunglasses, purchased in Saint Maritz. Us Suck merchants dislike sunlight, but it is bearable with adequate protection.

The office is busy. A chitter chatter of interest in last nights disturbance in the Whitechapel area. Speculation audible throughout the building. Who, what, when, why?

Apparently the body was found shriveled like a dried fruit. A real messy love death. Lord knows which rampant trasseno might have committed such a scene in the middle of the night. The crime journalists gather in groups muttering clueless speculation. One young newspaper man has word from a copper that the location is the same that our old friend Jack used on Polly. He may be onto something, there.

No matter what, this little story will make for good morning reading and afternoon pattering for the nine to five amateur detectives. I can see them now, opening their broadsheets whilst dipping their toasted soldiers into battery farmed boiled eggs. 'Look dear, there’s been a murder', he says unaware of the travesty of ending life before it has begun.

My editor, Malcolm wants to see me in his office. Normally I do not grace the good offices. Instead they have a junior boy deliver the review books to a post office in Shoreditch, where I pick up the latest literary dross.

Today I step into his office. And take a chair using a shivcane to balance myself. Anticipation of his excuse for this impolite summons clouds my mind. He sits their smiling like the Persian feline that got the Danish Blue.
‘Francis. Could we do lunch?’

‘I suppose we could,’ I say surveying his working space. A neat pile of paper and a framed photograph of his insolent daughter on his desk. She looks tasty in a pubescent way. I met her once at a company function. I was hungry and she was willing. I considered the contingency of feeding on her. She had bright blue eyes and a touch of red in each cheek. As if she had just washed her face. I toyed with the idea of taking her outside into the parking lot and sucking her dry before coming to the obvious conclusion. Bad form to mix business and pleasure. I do have some morals, after all. And the work keeps my mind occupied. She will have to wait.

‘There’s a French bistro just opened on the Stand. What are your thoughts on French food?’

‘French food is like French literature.’ I respond. ‘Innovative, experimental yet ultimately nourishing. The Olympia press can not be underestimated. Giroudias published, Beckett, Miller, Donleavy, Burroughs and Nobokov whilst the rest of the world turned a blind eye. ’ Malcolm likes it when I talk in this style. I think he reads the occasional book. Malcolm knows his station. I have more decorum in my left incisor then he has in his foreskin. Malcolm is a circumcised jew.

Sunken cheeks above a camp smile. He be a closet homosexual who dabbles with the Picadilly dally boys of a weekend, I would wager. He has a wife and child who no nothing of hsi other life.

‘Good.’ He checks his watch. ‘Let’s make it an early one.’

I follow his lead through the chaos of journos screaming blue murder in the newsrooms. I walk past unperturbed, safe in the knowledge that the killer will never be caught.

‘Nasty business last night.’ Malcolm comments as we enter a black hackney carriage.

‘Gruesome,’ I concur.

We reach a small dive and I take a look at the menu. I chose escargot followed by a rare steak and a bottle of Medoc 1986. Malcolm opts for goose liver pate and a duck marinated in strawberry. The wine goes well with both.

‘The paper is struggling. We need to get involved, brainstorm and increase circulation.’

I hate the way Malcolm uses buzz words. ‘involved’, ‘brainstorm’ and ‘circulation’. The only circulation I can think of is that of his daughter’s blood coursing through my veins. Circulation. Hers and mine. My hunger increases.

“What do you suggest?’ I ask.

“You.” He says.

“Me?”

“Yes you. I want you to cover some of the mainstream news. Starting with this Whitechapel mystery. Do you know how much our circulation would increase if we found the killer.”

“Hmmm.” I certainly knew who much my own circulation would cease if they found the killer. But then again, I could steer the bizzies in a bizzare direction if I handled the reporting the right way. It’s an idea.

“I am a reviewer of books. That is all I do. That is all I wish to do. There is enough death in the books I review.”

“That is the point.” Malcolm explains over a mouthful of wine, “you know about life.”

And death I thought.

“Will you do this for me? I need someone that understands the man on the street.”

“I know not of the man on the street.” I tell him. My preference being ladies of the street.

“Your writing would suggest otherwise.”

“Perhaps, but I only deal with fiction. Fact seems too final.”

“Don’t you want to have this beast caught?”

“Not particularly. I was thinking on a new article. One on style.”

“Style?”

“Yes. Style in the last century. Who had style? We can do art, music,

"iterature.”

“Explain”

“Well, Burroughs had style. Keith Richards had style. Lou Reed had style. Luke Haines has style.”

“Luke Haines?”

“Songwriter. Wrote unsolved child murder. It will be seen as a classic in years to come.”

“Who else had this style?”

“Johnny Depp. Jack Nicholson. Stanley Kubrick.”

“An awful lot of Americans.”

“Yes. It sucks doesn’t it?”

“What would the point of this article be?”

“To excuse myself from the whitechapel murder.”

“You don’t want to cover it.”

“No. I fear my pen is geared towards the arts. Not towards the crime.”

“I guess it was too much to ask.”

“You guessed right. Death is such a tiresome subject. I prefer to work with the arts. Death is the final conclusion. Art is the suffering that preludes death. This is my interest.”

The snails arrive and I eat greedily. Let us put to rest another myth. We blood suckers like to eat garlic. The French escargots rich in butter sauce washed down with a good bottle of vin rouge. We can put that myth to bed. Where it came from who knows? Who can resist garlic?

There are many French suckers of snails and blood.
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Old 06-25-2009, 11:50 AM
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Good story, brings a smirk to my face. Like most pointed out, the first part is rough and seems to smooth out towards the end.

Circular filing cabinet seems drawn out. I'm sure it means a round garbage can and I don't have a suggestion for a better term, but this stuck in my craw for a bit.

Human condition being repeated twice in a row broke up the flow, to me.

The transition from literary agent to vamp attacking whores is a bit sudden. It kind of left me wondering where the literary bit came into it. I realize that the two are being compared, but it wasn't enough. Maybe a one liner tying the two ideas together would help.

Anyway, I hope this helps some. I don't like to actually tamper with people's writing via editing. Its like going to a painting with a special style and then painting over small sections. I'd rather just point out the rough spots.
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Old 06-25-2009, 12:45 PM
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Thanks cinders,

Very good comments/suggestions. I will use them.

To be honest this story has come to me almost like dictation. The writing has been so much fun.

I come home from work, have a few minutes spare and knock out the next chapter. Within 15 mins I have the next chapter. No revisions. I have submitted it here a it came out.

I've never gone through a first draft so quickly. And that's what it is. A very, very rough first draft.

Some of the creative beat members quite like it. I have had interest from one publisher on the strength of the first chapter. If I keep knocking out a chapter a day then mybe I'll have the first draft in a month. Really good fun to write this kind of genre.

I agree with your last paragraph. Some people can edit. Some people can write. Few can do both.
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Old 06-26-2009, 12:30 AM
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Didn't catch part 3 before. Here's some thoughts on chapter 3:

"A real messy love death." -Awkward. I realize its good grammatically, but it stands out as a lot of adjectives and the noun is mixed in.

"
One young newspaper man has word from a copper" - copper... Again, stopped me dead for a sec while I processed what it meant and then wondered if that is how its spelled. I still don't know, but this broke up the flow for me.

"
photograph of his insolent estranged daughter" - Comma needed? Not feeling the two descriptions going together well. Like a spoiled brat who doesn't see daddy?

"
before coming to the obvious conclusion that was there all along" -Seems drawn out.

"
His has sunken cheeks" -Typo

"
goose liver pate" -Idea: use ascii code alt + 130 for "ť" in patť.

"
Fact seems too, well. Too final.Ē -Comma instead of period?

Pretty damn interesting, good read
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Old 06-26-2009, 11:34 PM
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Thaks Cinders.

You picked out all the errors that leaped out at myself on the second read.

Apart from one.

'A real messy love death.' - Is I think a nice Hammett / Chandler type sentence. We have to consier that the prog is using many styles of writing as he is a reader and a feader.

With some of the misunderstaning of words. It is intentional. Burgess managed it with a Clockword Orange. I might be making up a few of my own words and throwing them in. I am trying to be brave with this one.

I just finished a course learning how to teach english as a foreign language. I know some of the rules. I also know that the rules can be broken.

Its trying to find the balance with the use of experimental language and keeping the readers interest.

thanks,

will try and knock out another chapter today.
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Old 07-06-2009, 10:44 PM
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Where's the next part? I'll have to speak to your supervisor about this...
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Old 07-07-2009, 01:04 AM
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Hey Cinders,

Thanks, I will submit the next chapter once I've knocked it out (tonight?).

I've been in editing mode for the first three chapters. Expanded and corrected into about 4k words.

I have to write the spittalfields murder next, hopefully tonight. The great thing for me with this one is that I have a plot. First time I wrote something with a clear direction.

Watch this space,,

Jim.
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Old 07-07-2009, 07:12 AM
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Chapter Four.

Three days later found me sitting in the olde Axe 69 Hackney Road. This be a public house where wenches take off their dry goods and dance naked for a fifty pence coin per punter. The coins are collected in a glass beer jug passed around before the wench in question performs her show. There be no stage, nor a pole. They simply dance naked on the filthy rat-bitten carpeted floor. Business men and perverts and straggling lushman stand around and watch the spectacle evolve. The current wench is dancing to ‘Venus in furs’ by the Velvet Underground and making a nice job of it. She have pierced nipples and a pot belly and some growth of her hair emerging from beneath her armpits. Paradoxically her pubic region be shaven. She strikes me as a worn out gutter snipe hoping to improve her life by the shameful art of making it worse. But my friends, what’s good for the goose be good for the gander or some such muck. She approaches me slowly and runs a seductive finger along my lapel. Alas, tonight I am not biting.

I am here to meet a friend.

Edward is an expert on Jack the Ripper. He is what Ripologist’s refer to as a Ripologist. He hath a theory on who Jack was and why he did what he did. His knowledge is the reason for my quest. Edward may be my saviour He enters the olde Axe and takes a table near the front window. I take the seat next to him, carrying with me two pints of frothing ale. London Pride.

Edward hath the map and spreads it on the table. It is a map of old London town marked with lines, crosses that make a sinister pattern.

‘I am certain.’ He says, taking a swig from his vessel. ‘The evidence is overwhelming. Look at the map. What can you see.’

I can see it all. It be the Vesica Piscis.

Edward wears glasses and a sweatshirt with reindeers on the front. Some sad joke of a Christmas present from a relative who dislikes him with a passion. There is not much to like about Edward. He has a stutter, wears glasses and his ears jut out at embarrassing angles. I would be surprised if he ever put his Nebuchadnezzar to the grass in his puff. He seams disinterested in the woman dancing naked in the public house. Perhaps Edward be a brown hatter, a gardener of upwards persuasion. A queer, fag, homosexual.

‘I see the sign of the Vesica Piscis.’ I tell him in all seriousness. His lamps blink back at me knowingly.

And I do understand. The Whitechapel murders numbered five. The map in front of us shows where each murder took place. Edward has drawn a line between each site. He has then connected the lines to show the sign of the Vesica Piscis. When we join the lines we hath the reverse pentagram, the sign of the occult. A black magic spell.

‘ Would you venture to suggest Jack had carried out these murders to dispel a curse by the use of the black arts.’ I ask Edward.

‘It can work both ways,’ he tells me, ‘Maybe he wished to create a curse or perhaps he wished to banish a curse. Both theories are probable. But mathematically speaking there is no doubt that these murders were performed – I use the word performed – because they were were performed much like a surgeon performs an operation. They were performed swiftly in locations that could never be considered random. I have an idea who Jack was. I know that he studied the occult and even wrote articles on his findings’

‘Tell me?’

‘Not yet. There is more research to be done. When will you be publishing this information in the times?’

‘All in good time,’ I tell the pathetic virgin. ‘In the meantime could I borrow your map.’

‘I have a copy.’

‘Good.’ Edward hands me the map. I fold it carefully and place it within the inner breast pocket of my black suit jacket.

I will be needing it.
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Old 07-10-2009, 08:38 AM
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Icon14 Memoir of a vampire

Hi
I really loved and was extremely compelled by your first chapter. Eye catching and very well-written! I would name the first chapter "memoirs of a vampire"...i think that sound a bit corny!!!!:smile:
I think chapter 3 and 4 are fine... not as good as chapter 1, but still makes me wanna read!
I really don't like the name Edaward in chapter 4....it reminds me of the NAME Edward in Stephenie Meyer book, though your character is different here. I would really suggest a change...:wink:, if you dont mind!!!!
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Old 07-10-2009, 10:21 AM
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"He seams disinterested" - Typo

"
She have pierced" - Typo

I'm not understanding why he suddenly talks with "there be" and "hath"...?

Good vivid descriptions. You draw a quick image without using a lot of words.
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Old 07-11-2009, 03:24 AM
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“Well, I’ve got syphilitic heterosexual friends in every part of town. I don’t hate them but I know them and I don’t want them hanging around. I won’t roll my bones for every little girl who gets on down. I got space and space got me, I should be selling it by the pound. If I wake up dead, I’ll wake up dead just like any other day. Ever since I heard the voice, I thought I had no choice…

And then I kissed her.”

Copyright – The Jesus and Mary Chain. Snakedriver.













Sorry. I don't really know how to edit the original submiited story.

Below is the first few chapters as they stand now.

I would love some feedback.. Feedback on content would be better than feedback on typos and grammar. I SUCK in both departments, I know.

But as a story, does it work?>

Thanks,















Chapter 1

30th August 1988


The room is on the seventh floor. It be a small drum with a bed, a sink, a wardrobe, mirror and a small boarded up window. I hath a desk where I write my thoughts whilst burning a candle to the devil each night. I read books everyday. Some I read and devour and others I read and toss away to the curse of the circular filing cabinet. The rubbish bin depletes the unwanted inventory of my possessions. The bin is emptied out the window onto the Hackney slums below. Let the dirty little gutter snipes read the dross that I care not to cast a review for.

I try to choose my books carefully, but sometimes the submissions choose me. My editor, Malcolm, likes to send some works of text indicating that a favourable review is required. My reviews are based on the work in front of my nebular, not what is expected by nose picky agents and houses of the frilly fancy printing press. I have been around a long time, over four hundred years. All these years harbouring no desire to do anything apart from that which I wish to do. There is no other moral than that. To do as one wishes to do, dear reader. What I need to do, every night and day is to read lit and feed on clit.

Some books are simple literary abortions and deserve the fatal blow of a reviewer’s pen. Some are passable and survive the might of my sword. Some, but not many, are great. The great ones I keep in leather bound editions in my concrete dive. Let us take a look; we have Burgess, Burroughs, Conrad, Dosteovsky, Genet, Greene, Maugham and Shelly amongst others populating my shelves. All received reviews. Favourable reviews from my pen upon their original publication.

Some last and some do not. Such is the way of death and literature in the modern world. Some survive. Some wither and die on the vine. It is a Darwinian truth. Quality lasts, failures fail. This is the way it is. A good book outlasts a good person. A good book is immortal. As am I. I am not a good person, yet I be immortal through a trespass in my past. More about my little accident later. Right now my mind be on the books on my desk not the blood in my veins.

Every artist I would wager strives towards creating that one work that will make them who they feel they ought to be. That one book shrouded by this golden fleece that the mortals will call immortal. That one work that will make their name carved in granite. Thst one book that will make them able to look in the mirror and relook their fragile little egos. It is I who have the power to reward these writers, if the mood takes me. And crucify them if the mood does not.

Work as a literary review journalist is an ideal occupation for a one literary buff such as myself. It allows one something to do during the day before working the graveyard shift. Pouring through the rubbish heaps of modern literature again and again one recognises the dead rattius stench of a flop.

Some books do not have a smell at all. It is preferable to stink than to not even have a smell, in my honest opinion. At least a stench gets noticed.The human condition at once both disgusts and intrigues me. After all, I was one once. A human, that is.

The fear of death is a constant enigma for a lonely artiste who desires to immortalize himself with his manuscripts, his music, poetry, mutterings and spunk. Little does he know of the true hindrance of immortality. Living forever is not all it is perceived to be. Believe me. Lifetime landmarks such as reaching ones 21st birthday become somewhat tiresome after the 21st feigned celebration. It becomes a bore.

I have on my desk a long drawn out novel by an American author born of the last century. I can sense the amount of labour, love and whiskey that went into this steaming turd of a modern age saga. Tis be a book too starved for my sword. I will send it back to the Times where a young hack writer can cut his ill nourished teeth with it.

Whaltman, Wolfe, DH, spare me. You greats can go back to your dead meat reprints. Two much meat on the bones. Too many details spilled onto the page for little or no reason. A quill artist of merit should go beyond the flesh. And further negotiate the territory beyond the bones to the marrow of the bones where writers such as Bukowski and Hemmingway dwell.

Literary writers attempt to draw from human experience. They want to live and breathe with their characters. Be one with their subjects. This is their quest.

Now, let it be known that I draw from human experience every fucking night.

Literally, that is. When that blood flows from her veins to mine I see the pattern of her life. I sense her emotional state just before I end that pathetic operatic slug that spelt her short existence. I can judge her education (usually minimal). Taste her last meal. Sense her love. What was hers is now mine. That is to say; she is now part of me. I Apologise. My thoughts have turned from reading to feeding. The clock chimes midnight. Time to think about the night ahead and the food that awaits.

I like to eat hookers, strumpets, dollymops, tails and toffers. The modern day term is prostitute. I prefer the word hooker, a generalised American term. Hookers are nocturnal and easy to find. Sometimes I bite into one that is brim full of methamphetamine, a modern street drug used by hookers and students. The rush is unbelievable. In the trade we call it a Hot Shot. Some ladybirds are soaked with whiskey, others barbiturates. Sucking wenches is like drinking a surprise cocktail. No two are the same. Each can be delicious. Some leave a bad taste in the mouth. Some leave one wanting more. The flavour changes as the centuries move on.

Where am I? The continent is Europe. The country England and the city is London. Shoreditch, to be exact. The East End. Jack the Ripper territory. Many strumpets work the streets where I hunt.

My small room is in an abandoned tower block. There are several squatters below bringing down the tone of the concrete establishment. I would never consider feeding on one of those malnourished, vegan deadheads. New-age didikkos are not my personal preference. Let the rats finish them off. I would rather eat their flea ridden mongrel dogs.

I also tend to avoid bulimics: too bland. Tasteless. A ladybird with an eating disorder spells a bad meal. I’ve made that mistake a few times. It’s like sucking a squeezed lemon. No juice. No life. No satisfaction, as Sir Mick would say.

My first taste of blood was like my first taste of good French wine. The warmth. The pleasure. The texture, and, well, the body. She had a good body. The first one. Firm and supple, a good looking muck snipe straight out of the work house. Nice figure. She was new to the game it seemed. Easy to pick up with a little charm. The stories are true. Us blood suckers simply ooze charm. We cultivate it over the years. We are a literate bunch with a witty social presence. She was a young Judy, almost twenty gulpy with all her life ahead of her. Fresh out of the lump hotel with nothing more than a deuce hog to her name. A sweet Ladybird if ever I saw one. But, my friends, my life came first. It is a question of the Darwin equation. She wore filthy dunnage and a curious smile. We were not really that different. She was a creature of the night who befriended bed fellows and sucked them off for a chink or a tuppany piece. I am a creature of the night who befriends ladybirds and suck them of their Life. Same meat, different gravy. Equally wholesme. She was good. Real tasty. I can almost taste her now. She had eaten fruit and had drank a little gin. I sucked her dry. The gin made one giddy as she shrivelled underneath me. I took her to a church. Fucked her first in the graveyard, my Nebuchadnezzar put to her grass and then sucked her, real horror show, for those that have read Burgess. She was a good suck. You only really remember two sucks. The first and the last.

The first taste of blood is like the first drink, the first shot of heroin or the first snort of cocaine. You can never, however hard you try, experience that first rush again. It is impossible. Sucking is more than an addiction. It is a way of life. Or to be more exact, a way of prolonging the undead.Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go feed







Chapter two

31st August 1988

I decide on a red velvet smoking jacket and a pair of dark maroon kecks. Clichť, admittedly, but consider the fashion alternatives. If I were wearing a white tuxedo and sucking the blood of a young wench and the rozzers happened to be in the general vicinity then I would be liable to stick out like a hardworking ladybird perched on a pew in church on Sunday morning. If I were to wear all white imagine, my friends, all that kennetsseno rouge splashing out on those virginal pussycat white togs after a jolly good night’s folly. Dark red burgundy be the colours, the camouflage, of us bloody suckers.

I also carry a man bag. A Gladstone alligator skin hold-all. The contents of my bag are similar to that of an alcoholic’s kit. Mints, mouthwash, a bottle of gin and a packet of Fisherman’s friends. Last thing one needs is the long arm of the law appearing just after ones performance and said officer getting a whiff of the old kennetsseno blood. General practice is to walk away from the scene after a swig of Gin and a couple of mints down the old cake hole. Just a harmless alcoholic as far as the long arm be concerned.

My set-up is complete with a pair of shiny black Carnaby crabshells and a black kingsman handkerchief. I check my image in the mirror. Who could resist the figure that looks back at me. Let us look through the looking glass? Not many could resist this beast. At least, none yet so far have gibbed out upon my advances. Do not believe the folk stories. Us suckers do have reflections. Our reflections are that of beautiful creatures. The type you would like to take home to your parents, if that is you be unaware of our dinning habits. There are three reasons why women find me irresistible: The way I look. What I do. And what I say.

I leave my dwellings.

The night is a cold pea-souper over Hackney road. My clothing swell and dandy. The gothic look is making a come-back for the fourth time. My hair is slicked back black. My lamps lit up in the London particular. I am hunting. Dressed to kill. But not ready for the kill. I have a plan. I have my directions. Whitechapel is where I must start this dirty little ditty. The same place Jack began his quest.

I avoid the passing Growlers and head on foot to the Chapel. Past the muck snipes and the ladybirds, beyond Liverpool Street station where the beggars gather outside the booze gatherings wandering in circles hoping for some juice. These nobodies be desperate for the comfort of despair. The wish to forget ones trespasses, or wish at least to be forgotten as a person. Such wishes are seldom granted by the means of booze in this mean city.

I find myself at the chapel. The old Buck Row school where Jack murdered Mary Anne Nicholas or ‘Polly’ to her fellow ladybirds and cash carriers. The building is now converted into flats. The wall from the school to the old stable is still intact. It is here where I wait in the shadows for a passing wench.

Jack had to worry about coppers on the beat. No such problems for I. The bobbies now cruise around in patrol cars chasing lushingtons, snakesmen and negro druggists. The coppers are too scared to walk the London streets in this century. A truncheon no match for a long shivcane, a tazor or a gun.

The only problem was that of technology. The close circuit cameras. I soon put that problem to rest with two large stones and a fishing catapult purchased from a tackle shop in Essex. Two stones, carefully aimed break the lens. Nothing will be on record tonight. It is just a case of waiting. And waiting some more.

I soon saw her. An old punchable nun edging towards the age of forty or forty-five. She was obviously a whore from the wrong side of the tracks. I approached her slowly. Calm and casual like.

‘Sister, why you walk the streets at this hour?’

‘I walk the streets every night. And I think you know the reason why.’ She replied as a dry smile danced across her lips.

‘What is it you do?’

‘Whatever. I do what I do for money? Do you understand?’

I told her I did.

She unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a large area of mammary glands. A plump maze of mild curiosity. She had large breasts and a strong frame cultivated through hard work both on and off her back. She will do. The time is right. The same time as Jack.

‘What are your terms?’ I asked her politely.

‘My terms?’

‘Yes your terms?’

‘Well what do you suggest?’ She asked. I noticed for the first time that her teeth were awful. Broken black tombstones randomly scattered in a derelict graveyard. It matters not. I will be the one sucking. Her breath smelt of bad wine and onions. She was worthy of a good suck. But I will not be hanging around for any pillow talk.

‘How do you feel about sucking?’ I asked her.
She nodded in acceptance.

I smiled slowly and placed a finger upon the nape of her neck. I moved the finger up and down her neck
ascertaining the vein and then checked either side of the street. There were no people around. It was pleasantly quiet. Now was the time.

And then I did it.

I rushed her furiously as she fell back against the wall. My teeth sank easily into to her flabby neck. She made little noise as I began to suck slowly at first and then increased the speed of my suck. Then I slowed it down and found a rhythm. Like fucking with sucking you have to find the pace that the wench desires. She seemed to suddenly understand what was happening to her and then her arms and legs kicked out. It was too late. I simply sucked harder. Her vocal cords had already been sucked dry and they were useless. She could not make a sound other than that of faint spasms. It was too late. She was finished. Complete. Dead. Done. The date 31st August 1988, the time 3.30am.

The taste was bad.

I know not what she had eaten that day but what ever it was it was foul. I almost vomited onto the Chapel street. She had drank some cheap bitter red Spanish wine. A typical ladybird tipple. The taste did help to counteract the horrible kennetsseno of the suck. She was a bad one. But I was now fed.

I was on the fly way homeward before she hit the ground. Through Woods Dwellings the stench of rat piss the small as Jack would have smelt through the passageway. Two lush suits arguing across the road. But no matter, they had not seen me pass. I took the gin from my Gladstone and had a long swig, followed by a couple of mints. The deed had been done. I had marked the first one off the map of London town. Whitechapal is done. Jack would be proud. Same place. Same time. One hundred years later. Soon the curse shall be broken.

Nine days time will be Spitalfields, where Annie Sivvey met her fate.








Chapter 3

1st September 1988

Next day I was summoned to the City Times office in cannery wharf. I walk along Fenchurch sunlight discomfort shielded by the highest fashion of UV light protection sunglasses, purchased in Saint Maritz. Us Suck merchants dislike sunlight, but it is bearable with adequate protection. Don’t believe all the oxymonoric stories about sunlight killing the undead. How can you kill what is not living?

I enter the underground at Monument and head towards the City Times.The office is busy. A chitter chatter of interest in last nights disturbance in the Whitechapel area. Speculation audible throughout the building. Who, what, when, why? Apparently the body was found shrivelled like a dried fruit. A real messy love death. Lord knows which rampant trasseno might have committed such a scene in the middle of the night. The crime journalists gather in groups muttering clueless speculation. One young newspaper man has word from a copper that the location is the same that our old friend Jack used on Polly. He may be onto something, there.

No matter what, this little story will make for good morning reading and afternoon pattering for the nine to five amateur detectives. I can see them now, opening their broadsheets at the kitchen table whilst dipping their toasted soldiers into battery farmed boiled eggs. 'Look dear, there’s been a murder', he says unaware of the travesty of the abortive yellow juice dripping from his toast.

My editor, Malcolm, wants to see me in his office. Normally I do not grace the good offices. Instead they have a junior newspaper Joe deliver the review books to a post office in Shoreditch, where I pick up the latest literary dross.

Today is different.

Today I step into his office. And take a chair using a shivcane to balance myself. Anticipation of his excuse for this impolite summons clouds my mind. He sits there smiling like the Persian that got the Danish Blue.

‘Francis. Could we do lunch?’

‘I suppose we could,’ I say surveying his working space. A neat pile of paper and a framed photograph of his insolent daughter on his desk. She looks tasty in a pubescent way. I met her once at a company function. I was hungry and she was willing. I considered the contingency of feeding on her. She had bright blue eyes and a touch of red in each cheek. As if she had just washed her face. I toyed with the idea of taking her outside into the parking lot and sucking her dry before coming to the obvious conclusion. Bad form to mix business and pleasure. I do have some morals, after all. And the work keeps my mind occupied. She will have to wait.

‘There’s a French bistro just opened on the Stand. What are your thoughts on French food?’

‘French food is like French literature.’ I respond, ‘innovative, experimental, yet ultimately nourishing. The Olympia press can not be underestimated. Maurice took a gamble on Beckett, Miller, Donleavy, Burroughs and Nobokov whilst the rest of the world turned a blind eye.’

Malcolm likes it when I talk in this style. I think he reads the occasional book. Malcolm knows his station. I have more decorum in my left incisor then he has in his foreskin. Malcolm is a circumcised jew and well aware of his short-comings. He hath sunken cheeks above a camp smile. He be a closet homosexual who dabbles with the Piccadilly dally boys of a weekend. He has a wife and child who know nothing of his other, more colourfull side to his life. To be fair, many of us lead double lives.

‘Good.’ He checks his watch. ‘Let’s make it an early one.’
I follow his lead through the chaos of journos screaming blue murder in the newsrooms. I walk past unperturbed, safe in the knowledge that the killer will never be caught.

‘Nasty business last night.’ Malcolm comments as we enter a black hackney carriage.

‘Gruesome,’ I concur.

We reach a small bistro dive on the Strand with a French theme and menu. I permit a cursory glance at the menu before choosing the escargots followed by a rare fillet steak quenched with a bottle of Medoc 1986. A good year. Malcolm opts for the goose liver pate followed by a duckling marinated in a strawberry sauce. The wine goes well with both steak and duck. It matters not what colour wine one drinks with ones food. The importance is on the quality of wine juxtaposed with the quality of food. A bad wine spoils a good meal and vice versa.

‘The paper is struggling. We need to get involved, brainstorm, and increase circulation.’

I hate the way Malcolm uses buzz words. ‘involved’, ‘brainstorm’ and ‘circulation’. The only circulation I can think of is that of his daughter’s blood coursing through my veins. The only brainstorm I can recall is that of the old wench I became involved with in an intimate way last night. My thoughts turn again to his daughter. Her young unpolluted Circulation joining mine as one involvement. My hunger increases as I glance across at my colleague.

’What do you suggest?’ I ask.

’You.’ He says.

Me?’

Yes you. I want you to cover some of the mainstream news. Starting with this Whitechapel mystery. Do you know how much our circulation would increase if we found the killer.’

’Hmmm.’ I certainly knew how much my own circulation would cease if they found the killer. But then again, I could steer the bizzies in a bizzare direction if I handled the reporting the right way. It’s an idea. But not a good one.

’I am a reviewer of books. That is all I do. That is all I wish to do. There is enough death in the books I review.’

That is the point.’ Malcolm explains over a mouthful of wine, ‘you know about life.’ And death.’Will you do this for me? I need someone that understands the man on the street.’

’I know not of the man on the street.’ I tell him. My preference being ladies of the street.

’Your writing would suggest otherwise.’

’Perhaps, but I only deal with fiction. Fact seems too final.’

’Don’t you want to have this beast caught?’

’Not particularly. I was thinking on a new article. One on style.’
’Style?’

Yes. Style in the last century. Who had style? We can do art, music,’
’Lterature?’

‘Yes’

’Explain’

’Well, Burroughs had style. Keith Richards had style. Lou Reed had style. Luke Haines has style.’

’Luke Haines?’

’Songwriter. Wrote unsolved child murder. It will be seen as a classic for you in years to come.’ My thoughts kept turning to his daughter.’Who else had this style?’

’Johnny Depp. Jack Nicholson. Stanley Kubrick.’

’An awful lot of Americans.’

’Yes. It sucks doesn’t it?’

’What would the point of this article be?’

’To excuse myself from the whitechapel murder.’

’You don’t want to cover it.’

’No. I fear my pen is geared towards the arts. Not towards the crime.’

’I guess it was too much to ask.’

’You guessed right. Death is such a tiresome subject. I prefer to work with the arts. Death is the final conclusion. Art is the suffering that preludes death. This is my interest.’

The snails arrive and I eat greedily. Let us put to rest another myth. We blood suckers like to eat garlic. The French escargots rich garlic butter sauce washed down with a good bottle of vin rouge. We can put that myth to bed. Where it came from who knows? Who can resist garlic? There are many French suckers of snails and blood.








Chapter Four.

4th September 1988

Three days later found me sitting in the olde Axe 69 Hackney Road. This be a public house where wenches take off their dry goods and dance naked for a fifty pence coin per punter. The coins are collected in a glass beer jug passed around before the wench in question performs her show. There be no stage, nor a pole. They simply dance naked on the filthy rat-bitten carpeted floor. Business men and perverts and straggling lushman stand around and watch the spectacle evolve. The current wench is dancing to ‘Venus in furs’ by the Velvet Underground and making a nice job of it. She hath pierced nipples and a pot belly and some growth of her hair emerging from beneath her armpits. Paradoxically her pubic region be shaven. She strikes me as a worn out gutter snipe hoping to improve her life by the shameful art of making it worse. But my friends, what’s good for the goose be good for the gander or some such muck. She approaches me slowly and runs a seductive finger along my lapel. Alas, tonight I am not biting.

I am here to meet a friend.

Edward be a expert on Jack the Ripper. He is what Ripologist’s refer to as a Ripologist. He hath a theory on who Jack was and why he did what he did. His knowledge is the reason for my quest. Edward may be my saviour He enters the olde Axe and takes a table near the front window. I take the seat next to him, carrying with me two pints of frothing ale. London Pride.

Edward hath the map and spreads it on the table. It is a map of old London town marked with lines, crosses that make a sinister pattern.

‘I am certain.’ He says, taking a swig from his vessel. ‘The evidence is overwhelming. Look at the map. What can you see.’

I can see it all. It be the Vesica Piscis.

Edward wears glasses and a sweatshirt with reindeers on the front. Some sad joke of a Christmas present from a relative who dislikes him with a passion. There is not much to like about Edward. He has a stutter, wears glasses and his ears jut out at embarrassing angles. I would be surprised if he ever put his Nebuchadnezzar to the grass in his puff. He seams disinterested in the woman dancing naked in the public house. Perhaps Edward be a brown hatter, a gardener of upwards persuasion. A queer, fag, homosexual.

‘I see the sign of the Vesica Piscis.’ I tell him in all seriousness. His lamps blink back at me knowingly.

And I do understand. The Whitechapel murders numbered five. The map in front of us shows where each murder took place. Edward has drawn a line between each site. He has then connected the lines to show the sign of the Vesica Piscis. When we join the lines we hath the reverse pentagram, the sign of the occult. A black magic spell.

‘ Would you venture to suggest Jack had carried out these murders to dispel a curse by the use of the black arts.’ I ask Edward.

‘It can work both ways,’ he tells me, ‘Maybe he wished to create a curse or perhaps he wished to banish a curse. Both theories are probable. But mathematically speaking there is no doubt that these murders were performed – I use the word performed – because they were were performed much like a surgeon performs an operation. They were performed swiftly in locations that could never be considered random. I have an idea who Jack was. I know that he studied the occult and even wrote articles on his findings’

‘Tell me?’

‘Not yet. There is more research to be done. When will you be publishing this information in the times?’

‘All in good time,’ I tell the pathetic virgin. ‘In the meantime could I borrow your map.’

‘I have a copy.’

‘Good.’ Edward hands me the map. I fold it carefully and place it within the inner breast pocket of my black suit jacket.

I will be needing it.





Chapter 5
8th September 1988

So it is off to spitalfields I stroll. I choose to take Houndsditch, past the office lushman teeming with life, enshrouded by impenetrable egos alive with the promise of another nights drinking and more merry money making in the morning. An office wench walks past, her face bloated with booze and intercourse with the cultured and the privileged in the bars that line the city offices. These office men sell insurance, guarantees, invisible imports and exports exchanged through a vast drunken hub that is the square city mile. These office men drive sports cars back to the Sevenoaks Weald where they raise little families and admire the rolling hills. It was a different little set up in Jack the Trippers day. I use the word Tripper deliberately. Jack walked along slums and dark alleyways where gutter snipes actually lived. These days the streets are lit, but all offices, bars, restaurants. Still the same stench of booze and whore perfume exisits as it did when Jack was on his jolly.

I reach the end of Houndsditch and look right once towards Mitre Square. ‘Later’, I think to myself and head in the opposite direction, towards Brick Lane.
The Lane is now home to those of Asian decent. The smell of curry and josh sticks replaces one of booze and perfume and human cattle. Hanbury Street is within walking distance now. The time be 4am, 8th September 1988, one hundred years to the dot as our friend Jack did his little deed.

The only problem would be of finding a wench in this part of town. The ladybirds are not as common as they were back when Mr R was working and the clock is a ticking. Not a ladybird in sight.

I have little option. An Indian woman walks past and I move towards her from the shadows.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I ask her. ‘But do you have the time.’

Her expression indicates that she is of another foreign tongue somewhere between Bombay and Calcutta. Perhaps she has just arrived in country without abode or the proper travel documents. The circle keeps repeating. She is probably around thirty in age and has dark, almost black skin. Her movements are that of a frightened little creature in an unknown world. I raise my hand slowly towards the ground and then point at my wrist where one might imagine a wristwatch to be. If I had one. She seemed to understand and looked into her bag for what I assume to be a time piece of some description. I will never know.

I rushed her.

My arms pinned against the wall. Nobody around. I felt her tense within my grip she was terrified but it would be over very soon. But I had to work quick. My teeth sank unto her and she was away in less then minutes. She tasted nice, clean. Vegetables and tea. Spinach and lemon. Sweet and sour.

Next the less wholesome task of removing the uterus. The upper part of her vagina had to be removed. I struggled with her eastern dunnage. The sari proved to be like unwrapping an Egyptian mummy. I eventually had her open and removed it with four clean slices of my bowie knife. I pocketed the item and left her there with a mess of intestines on the outside, just like Jack had. I almost gagged at the inhumanity of it all, but then remembered what this was all for.

I was nourished from the vegetarian blood and took a swig from the old gin bottle before heading on back up towards my drum. Walking at a pace that would be suspicious in any other metropolis. Everyone walks fast in London.
The deed had been done.
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Old 07-11-2009, 07:25 AM
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i'd like to meet the man that can remove a uterus in four slices. i'm pretty handy with a knife and i doubt i can do it.

you go back and forth between tenses a few times

you ask her the time

you rushed her....

just little things like that. sometimes the description loses the story, i was so busy looking around that the character when on ahead. sometime to look out for in writing or any edits.

it didn't seem to have an emotional impact on me though. I didn't sense malice/hatred/love but it wasn't emotionless, for sometimes that in itself is an emotion, but just a bit unpurposeful, could be just me.

everyone walks fast in every city i've been in.

an tale told, good luck with its continuation

CoS
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Old 07-12-2009, 10:53 PM
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What the hell? There is a big black box in the middle of your story for some reason... is it just me?
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Old 07-13-2009, 08:31 AM
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I can't see no big black box, Cinders. Doesn't mean it's not there though?
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Old 07-13-2009, 09:12 AM
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Hi,

I really like this,it's an interesting concept and I like the inherent contradictions in your vampire (anti)hero. I also like the idea that our vampire is somehow more 'human' than the Ripper- killing for food rather than just pleasure. There were just a few ideas that popped into my head while I was reading:

- The interest in words and literature is a great dimension to the character, it might be fun to play with words a bit more, explore their double meanings and historical origins. Your vampire strikes me as a man who enjoys a good pun. Might also help make your inventive language a bit more accessible.

- Could be interesting to have your narrator look over the archive collection of Jack the Ripper's letters, I'm sure he'd appreciate the shifts in language they contain. He might also be able to tell us if some were really written in blood, he can probably smell it.

- It might be interesting/fun to start the chapters with epigraphs - these could be quite ironic in relation to the content. It also links up to the 19th century and the vampire's literary interests.

Good luck with it, there's a hell of a lot of potential here so I hope you finish it and keep us updated.
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Old 07-13-2009, 03:38 PM
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Old 07-13-2009, 08:57 PM
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I see what you mean Cinders, quite spooky. A black box in the shape of a coffin. I didn't put it there.

I'm going to post this story again.
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