Yesterday was a long day at work. No business makes for a very boring night. We did have on exciting highlight, although “highlight” is probably not the right word for the situation.
A guy came in to the restaurant, walking with that rolling stagger that generally means the guy is drunk. I recognized him almost immediately, even though I don’t think I’ve seen him in eight years. The guy’s name is Joe — he used to be a cook at the Restaurant Where I Used to Work^(TM). I never actually worked with him — he went to jail just before I started there, but I know who he is. He’s a drunk. He makes his way over to a booth on the wall, and my girl Candi goes over to wait on him. I warn her that he’s probably drunk, and she duly reports back that he reeks of alcohol, grimacing. She’s not a drinker, and she, like myself, hates the smell.
I’m standing behind the wait line, wrapping pieces of pie to go up in the pie case. Candi heads back out, gets Joe’s order, and gets his food out.
A minute or two later, she comes dashing back into the wait line, wide-eyed, white-faced. “Java! You need to go talk to that guy out there. He wants you to call 911. His chest hurts!”
Well, crap, I think mildly, striding out to the table. I want to see Joe for myself, first, because Candi panics easily. I want to make sure it really is an emergency. I find Joe, slumping in his booth seat, food untouched, red-faced, and rubbing his chest. “Are you okay?” I ask. He looks at me, clearly doesn’t recognize me. He shakes his head “no”. “You need me to call 911?”
“Yeah.” He says, voice strained. “Chest hurts.”
I turn on my heel and stride to the phone, snapping my fingers and gesturing for Bryan, our stand-in waiter, to come with me. Bryan used to do my job about six years ago, worked for us for five or six years back then. He recently came back as a part-time cook, as a second job, but he knows every job in the joint, including mine. He’s filling in as a waiter since we’re so short handed, having just fired Jamie and Misery. More importantly, I know I can trust him to keep cool and level-headed. He joins me next to the phone as I dial 911, and tell the nice operator who I am, and all our information.
A moment later, I’ve got Bryan jogging back and forth across the restaurant, asking Joe questions and reporting the answers back to me so I can tell the 911 operator. Age, symptoms, medical history, etc. Joe is slumping further and further down in the booth. I hope he doesn’t pass out or anything, I think. I wasn’t looking forward to the idea of trying CPR or mouth-to-mouth on Joe. Yeah, yeah, saving his life, etc, etc, but still. Eew. I’d have tried it if I had to, but fortunately, Fire Rescue showed up about 30 seconds later, shortly followed by an ambulance full of paramedics.
In came the paramedics with the stretcher. They quickly and neatly scooped Joe up, put him on the stretcher, and wheeled him away. Bryan and I watched from our spots, standing next to table one, the “break table”, where we sit to smoke when the restaurant’s empty. Candi is already sitting there, smoking frantically with big, nervous eyes. “He’s going to be okay, right? I can’t handle this if he dies in here. He’s gotta go out with his eyes open.”
“He’s fine,” I tell her, watching as they wheel Joe out the door. “His eyes are open, and he’s moving.” I report.
We had two customers in the restaurant for the whole show, good thing. I couldn’t imagine trying to deal with that on a busy night, getting the stretcher through crowded aisles, trying to talk to 911 in a loud restaurant full of people — glad it was slow.
After it was all done and over, I glanced at Bryan, and said, “Did I ever tell you about the time at the Restaurant Where I Used to Work^(TM), when I had to call the ambulance for my cook? His liver was hamburger, life-long drunk, and I found him gushing blood over the prep sink one night, puking blood, blood running from his eyes and ears and all that.”
“Fun. What happened?” Bryan asked.
“Same thing, called 911, had him taken away. Guess who was helping me answer the questions for the operator that time?”
“Who?”
I pointed at the booth where Joe had been. “That guy right there.” You see, that’s why I remember him so well, even though I never actually worked with him.
“No shit. That’s kind of weird.”
“Yep.” I said. And on that note, let’s do the Riddles and Tall Tales.

From Riddlenut:
A warrior amongst the flowers, he bears a thrusting sword. He uses it when’er he must to defend his golden hoard. What is he?
Highlight: A Bee.
There was a green house.
Inside the green house there was a white house
Inside the white house there was a red house.
Inside the red house there were lots of babies.
What is it?
Highlight: A Watermelon.
What kind of can never needs a can-opener?
Highlight: A Pelican.

Here’s some more of my original writing, from What Little Girls Are Made Of. After posting this, I’m going to have to get back to work on the story, so I can keep posting more. Heh. Don’t say I never did anything for you.

Chapter One
Miles Eisenlord sat hunched over his books and ledgers at his expansive mahogany desk. He was a short, barrel-chested man with thick arms and a swarthy, hatchet face. He had a lot of bushy black hair, graying at the temples, forcibly tamed into a ponytail at the nape of his nearly non-existent neck, and a full, black beard, sharply trimmed around his thin, severe mouth. His eyes were intense and colorless, only black rings around white irises, around black pupils. In public, he wore small mirrored sunglasses to hide them, but at home, he didn’t bother.
There was a knock at the door of his study, and Miles looked up. A thug in butler’s dress stood in the door way, knocking on the frame. “Mr. Miles – it’s ten to nine. You said –”
“Thank-you, Boris.” Miles waved a blunt-fingered hand. “Fetch the car around, would you?”
“Yeah, boss.” Boris turned and left, lumbering down the hallway.
Miles rose from his comfortable chair, straightening his suit jacket. He closed up his ledgers and books, pocketing a smaller one, and left the room, checking his watch. His lordship’s city meeting began at nine, but the lord himself wouldn’t be there until ten or so. It wouldn’t do to arrive on time for the meeting – bad form. It made one look anxious, and looking anxious in a room full of blood-thirsty predators was bad policy.
Miles took himself out to his car, a big black Cadillac, brand spanking new. His driver, Dmitri, sat in the driver’s seat, revving the monstrous engine with a big Christmas morning grin on his face. Miles stopped at the driver side window. “Like it?”
Dmitri turned his grin up at his boss. “Yeah, she’s sweet.”
“Try not to break this one, Dmitri.”
“Sure, boss.” Dmitri revved the engine some more as Miles got into the back seat. “Where to, Mr. Miles?”
“The Medieval Manor.”
Dmitri pulled out of the driveway, leaving behind the shambling old house, and aimed for the city, humming to himself. In the back, Miles leaned back in the plush seat, poured himself a cognac he couldn’t drink, and stared out the window, enjoying the smell of his wine. He wasn’t tense, but he was ready. The city meetings always required one to be on his toes. Certainly, the citizens got together regularly in various places, salons and parties, little soirées and so on, and there happened much of the moving and shaking in the undead Boston society. The city meetings, held by his lordship, only happened once a month or so, and the moving and shaking there happened on a far grander, and occasionally much more dangerous, scale.
His lordship had, as always, booked the Medieval Manor for the city meeting. The Lord of the Domain had a real fondness for the Medieval Manor, which was slightly amusing, because the lord was no where near old enough to have actually lived in Medieval times. Miles wondered how the Manor would look this month. Decorating for the city meeting was doled out as a reward to various citizens of the Domain – or punishment, depending on how one viewed it. The meeting’s decorations could make or break a vampire’s social status for the next month. This past summer some poor youngster had taken it upon himself to decorate for the Fourth of July, complete with garish red, white, and blue streamers and indoor pyrotechnics. If the decorating job hadn’t done the poor kid in, then having indoor fireworks in a building that wasn’t rated for them, in a room for of eminently flammable walking corpses would have. “Uncle Sam”, as the young one was now being called, was still bearing the brunt of snubs and laughter for that job.
Miles arrived at the Medieval Manor at about a quarter after nine, sufficiently late for his purposes. He got himself out of the car. When Dmitri had first become his driver, the big bear had always tried to come around and let Miles out of the car. Dmitri had seen that in movies, and figured it was the thing drivers did. Miles had finally broke him of that habit. Dmitri drove off, leaving Miles by the great doors to the Medieval Manor.
The main doors were not visibly guarded, but who knew what occult means and wards might have been laid across them for the night? It’s what Miles would have done if he’d been Lord of the Domain, but it was often difficult to discern what his Lordship might do. Inside the foyer, however, stood Carl Overs, a slender man, blonde and fair and blue-eyed, with a perpetually brooding expression. He was a deputy of his Lordship’s Wolf, and tonight tasked with guarding the city meeting. Carl was also Miles’ student. Carl had been sent to him by the Wolf, Aurik von Koenig, to learn the ways of the occult and the undead.
“Carl.” Miles inclined his head towards the young one. Carl was only four years dead, but had been nearly forty when he died.
“Sir.” Carl smiled briefly.
“What have you learned so far tonight?” Miles clasped his hands behind his back and stood at ease, surveying his pupil.
“I’ve learned that Clinton Argston is a weasel.” Carl looked left and right, peering intently at the corners and shadows of the foyer. Through the Wolf’s blood, Carl was gifted with the Sight, which the deputy used to good advantage.
“How so?” Miles had some of the Sight himself, and glanced at the corners, too. The trick could be learned without the blood, but being of the bloodline made learning the gift easier.
Carl shrugged. “I overheard him on the phone, talking to someone. In the past two hours he’s been here, he’s lied more than I have in the last year.” Carl grinned, baring his sharp fangs. The young always liked to show off their fangs. “All deals with live people, but he must have screwed over ten guys in twenty minutes. Not one to trust, that Clinton.”
“Anyone of import?” Clinton Argston was relatively new to the Domain. He’d presented himself three months ago, and found enough favor with his Lordship’s Mistress of Society to gain the dubious privilege of decorating this month. Miles knew that he had gained the favor by providing the Mistress with plenty of the arts and luxuries she was so enamored of. Argston was a fine arts dealer, and very good a procuring rarities. Too good, almost. Argston reeked of illegal activities, but so far, Miles had turned up no hard evidence of such.
“No one I recognized off hand, but it’s not my field. I could recite the names?”
“Not now. Write them down for me. Who has arrived, so far?”
“St. Micheal Bainbridge and some of his bunch, a few minutes ago. One of his guards gave me a bunch of shit about turning over their weapons, but finally gave them up. Which reminds me . . . “
Miles smiled, and handed over his side arm, sap, and knife. Carl took them over to the coat check and filled out a slip for them, stowing them behind the counter. He gave Miles the paper, winking at him.
“Anyhow,” Carl continued, “Dorna Mordaine’s in there, and the Mistress, of course. The Musicians were booked, and they’re all here – Raven, Tazz, Micah, Renfeild, you know the bunch. The Wolf’s around, and so are the rest of the deputies. Dogged Doug’s inside with Smoke, Thunder, and a couple of new dogs – little yappie buggers, Jack Russels, I think. I didn’t catch the names. A few people laughed at ‘em until they turned up the Stink hiding right at a table in plain sight, that we’d all missed, and fucking opened him up right to the knee.” The Stink was a vampire who was aptly named. He reeked of rotting fruit and garbage, due to living in one of Boston’s big dumps, and by his blood possessed the ability to Hide. The Hiding could be pierced sometimes by the Sight, and a few other means, but animals could see through it every time. Some had laughed at Dogged Doug in the beginning, but no one did now. Not only could his massive Rottweilers find anyone, but too many of them had seen the deputy sic his huge dogs on those undead who broke the Laws of the meeting. A prudent vampire only had to see a man or woman savaged by a 150-pound Rottweiler once before they started thinking that following the Laws of the city meeting was a good idea.
Carl had paused for a moment. “The little girl’s in there too, with her father.” Carl shuddered.
Miles’ lips tightened. Kissing children into death was considered a miserable crime, and the poor victims themselves were often killed outright. Somehow, the dead child called Annalisa had survived. His Lordship didn’t seem interested in challenging the little girl, either. “What’s on the schedule for tonight?”
“Nothing too special. Some new people presenting themselves. There’s a group calling themselves the Circle of Blood, and claim to be sorcerers. Five of them. Another new fellow is here to present himself, too – a Scott Ashton. The Councilors have some new hunting restrictions they want to discuss. Mad Jack wants to bitch about them already, and I don’t think he even knows what they are. If he does, he isn’t telling. Then his Lordship will hear new business, if anyone has the balls to bring some up.” Carl chuckled.
The door opened then, admitting Hector Drake, and Miles nodded to him. Hector was a tall, spare, and thin. He was balding, and still wore a set of little round spectacles, though undead eyes needed no such things. His skin was pasty white and wrinkled, and his dark eyes were sunken, underlined by purple streaks. His remaining hair was white, wispy, and receding. He’d died at forty-five, and looked ten years older. “Mr. Eisenlord, Mr. Overs.” He had a voice like spiders made of parchment crawling through dead leaves. “I have no weapons, Mr. Overs.”
Carl nodded, nonchalant. “Go on in, Heck.”
“I shall. Thank you.” He nodded again to them both, and went into the main hall. The old man moved with the strange grace of willow trees in the wind.
Carl watched him go. “That old guy gives me the creeps.”
It had been a long time since anything had given Miles “the creeps”, but if hard pressed, he might have consented to calling Hector Drake unsettling. Drake had been around for a couple of years, but no one, even Miles, who was in the business of knowing things, knew much about him.
Miles sighed. “Into the lion’s den.”
Carl barked a laugh. “Good luck.”
Miles turned and went through the double doors, and stepped into the sea. Or so it seemed. Clinton Argston had draped the huge hall in deep blue and green silks, floors, walls, and ceilings. The light was blue-greenish and dim, filtering through the silks which were fixed loosely, so that they flowed and rippled like waves. The room was sweltering hot, even to dead flesh, and thickly humid. The air in the room smelled of the ocean, briny, but not the clean, fresh sea air that Boston was accustomed to. This was the smell of a dead and stagnant tidal pool, with just the vague hint of dead fish wafting. Many small, round tables were arranged about the room, twenty or more at first glance, and all draped in blue silk and rippling as well. On each table sat a neatly-arranged circle of kelp and sea flowers, and ensconced within a small, flickering candle in a deep green glass holder. The chairs were glided gold, corroded, encrusted with barnacles. Miles didn’t relish the thought of sitting on one of them. The benches along the walls were no better. At the back of the room was the stage, also rippling with silks. At center stage stood an old stone fountain, spilling briny water down it’s chipped and cracked levels. At some point, the fountain had been grand, Miles could see. Whatever had decorated had long since worn away, and now it was only smooth and lumpy and misshappen, draped in seaweed and barnacles, discolored from the salt water. It was lit softly from within, and the water glowed. Floating candles shaped like flowers eddied in it’s basin.
To the right of the huge, old fountain were the Musicians. They were dressed in deep blue and green, their clothes made of disks of some reflective metal, making them seem scaled. They played as a string quartet tonight, and their music was strange and tidal, clearly some original work of either a genius or a lunatic. The music flowed and rippled, and Tazz’s big bass cello struck an underchord that put Miles in mind of the very beginning rumbles of the wave that would become the crashing tsunami. The whole piece seemed unending, and was full of minor chords. It was unsettling, tense like the whitecaps of a coming storm, rather than soothing. It put Miles’ on edge almost immediately.
To the left of the fountain was a monstrous dischord, the Bone Throne, the huge chair that his Lordship sat in while holding court. It was said it was built of the bones of his enemies. Certainly the arms of the chair were graced with two fanged skulls. Vampires left no remains when they died, but Miles knew the chair was built of real bone, and real fang. Probably real sorcery of some sort, too. He’d never been invited to examine it. No effort at all had been made to fit the Bone Throne to the theme of the room. It simply sat there, large and glistening white and out of place.
The undead drifted around the room, their movements, usually so purposeful struck purposeless by the odd rhythms of the rooms. Their gazes darted nervously, their words seemed stilted. Miles spotted St. Micheal Bainbridge and his entourage arrayed around a table, some of the only few seated, and some of the only few who seemed at ease. Miles sensed it was a forced ease, though. Even the usually rock-steady Bainbridge seemed tense. It showed in the way his strong hands gripped tightly to the head of his cane.
Bainbridge was an iron-gray man arrayed in the vestments of a Catholic priest. He was no more Catholic than Miles was, but he was certainly more religious. Bainbridge headed the local Sect of Damnation. The Sect was a new thing amongst vampires, rising only in the last fifty years or so. The cult struck Miles as a weird mix of Scientology and Catholicism, espousing punishment for sins of vampires, claiming to know the true origins of vampires, and promising true salvation for those cursed with the blood hunger. Miles was skeptical, to say the least. The Sect was outlawed in many Domains – which did not stop those Domains from having secret chapters – but had also found an alarming popularity in other Domains. Boston was one of those Domains where the Sect was doing well. St. Micheal was the Sect’s leader in Boston. Miles had tried to warn his Lordship about the Sect several years ago, but the Lord of the Domain wasn’t worried. “Let the stupid have their gods.” His Lordship had said. “It keeps them quiet. If they’re chasing salvation, they aren’t challenging me.”
Miles wasn’t so sure about that.

First Draft (Copyright, JavaElemental, 3-7-06)

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