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Gosh! It’s the start of summer. I enjoyed a pleasant sun rise after an unproductive night. And the daytime was very unproductive as well (I mostly slept). You would think I would remain bored, but I found something to get into, and something to…do.

I now ponder a saddened sunset because I had to say good night to a squirming mortal, incarcerated by my granite arms; the one that pushes against the force of oppression.

His fingernails scratched at the hard surface of my skin and not leaving a mark, his fingers and open palms pushing at them, and not so much as a fingerprint was recorded, for my skin was too magnificent for human comprehension.

Without further ado, as the arrogant ones say these days, I cautiously sink my fangs into his thick neck, filled with eye-popping veins, this Mortal, a coward, if ye asked me, a few minutes away from meeting his Maker, or seeing if there really was one.

While he fights for his life, trying with all he could muster to twist his body, spitting at me, and cursing, writing his own crucifixion and execution with the dirty words formed from a banned-from-Heaven tongue, I had the power to turn him into an Immortal, if I so choose to.

But decisions and the basis for them don’t mean much of anything, when ye set thy mind to do something. Now was not the time to determine if a mortal should cross over to the other side.

In a contest where ye can only pick 4 winners, the other 100 hath to go home heartbroken, shattered and destroyed. And in this instance the price was wrong, so the game show ends. I just do it, if I wanted someone to join my ranks. I didn’t talk about it.

I closed myself off to emotion, toying with them to fit my needs, and using them to my benefit when dealing with my friends, a very small amount of them, vampires such as myself, and they always give me what I want.

If they reject my request they become ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

My powers (and not the gist of it, the most important element of that power, the element that binds me to the supernatural realm) cloned my bodily elements, linking magic with my most secret thoughts.

My self-talk was the mediator and the security of it all as well, encoded was my DNA, laced with strains that only the Ancients have ever been granted.

Did the Ancients actually exist? Whatabout UFO’s?

Rumor has it that the Ancients were only visible when one individual vampire became too powerful, such as I, and they haven’t made themselves known yet; so I guess I wasn’t powerful enough. I was the most powerful of them all. Ђe Zeus of vampires, to give it a description, was what I sometimes called myself.

Immortality reincarnated my cells, membrane, and living organisms deep inside me, all over me, and was veiled like a bride and laced like a groom along the fine lines of everything I wasn’t as a mortal, but what I surely became as a vampire.

And that brings me to my meal, this feast of saints, if ye will, my powers wanted to make him what I am, but he was a passing fancy, a bump in the road, the latest trend, something to do, and hoping to get something from it, or did I know exactly who he was, and my presence was a clear and present danger to him, a reminder that his sins of the past, the darkest ones, hasn’t been accounted for, atoned for, or dealt with.

Repentance took ye a long way, if ye believed God truly forgives ye for thy sins.

Ђe voices of the wind say yes, but I felt so forsaken for so long, especially when I became a vampire (and he didn’t interfere or stop it.

Just watched the evil take over me) that I didn’t know what was real, and what wasn’t.

Ђose waiting to forgive ye never will unless ye forgive yourself first, doesn’t he understand this, my food, with a magnificent face, a bushy mustache and moist breath that fogged my eyes as he glared, hating me, into my soul.

My blood, the giver and taker of immortality, begin the slow burn in my victim’s hungry vein, and it moved me to orgasmic bliss.

I shook with abandon; my inner walls were wet with lust, drinking while releasing a vagina’s whisper to the atmosphere, still tasting the rush of blood spilling into my mouth.

Ђe pulsating red of liquid Life splashed on my inner jaws in a way that blood, when I initially bit into him, hadn’t splattered on his living room walls, of a $500,000 home in foreclosure because he couldn’t afford it any longer.

Neither could his wife, a whore sleeping with his brother and carrying her husband’s father’s child, a secret that burns her up day and night while smoking crack from a million dollar bathroom high above the ghetto and poverty one thousand feet below it, looking down on peasants, people beneath her, yet she took a piss on a golden toilet as a crack head, dope fiend that had to have a hit, despite the innocent child growing in her womb, her HIV infected womb, but she was a woman with millions of dollars, yet bums wouldn’t want to switch places with her, with or without a heartbeat.

§he selfishly saves her money and spends his money, and steals his money as well, thousands of dollars at a time, he suspects foul play, but hath no way to prove it and refuses to hire investigators because he was afraid of the truth, but I know he couldn’t handle the truth, a truth in itself.

He’s excited about being a father, he tried with his cold hearted wife for five years with no luck to go half on a baby, two seeds become One, (she was taking birth control pills behind his back). He hath blanks in his sperm, they didn’t know of it, and now he is dying, his life in the balance in my arms.

He screamed in fear, but his thoughts told me otherwise, and his heart contradicted his fear, hands down.

He even asked for death, suddenly. Was it because he was going to die anyway?

When he found me in the dark corner of his office when he was packing his things, after being forced by his powerful siblings to turn in his Letter of Resignation, he dropped the box just as he was leaving, and stared at me for a long time.

He looked down on poor folk from the mountain top when he took a dump, they glared up at his fortress, above the ghetto and the projects, high in the sky with the white folks and the Anglo-§axons and the Mediterranean’s, doing interviews on TV and in newspapers and magazines bashing his family, and they never wronged or hurt him, ever, in life, but that ended when his siblings banned together, and they plotted and planned to trick him into hiring them into the company.

Now they were angry and bitter, and wanted payback.

“It can be a family business,” they said they would tell him, inevitably winning him over, as they had. Ђey earned his trust, and they turned on him in an instant. When he left the meeting, they finished what they wanted to say.

“But it’ll be our business when we ax him out. All we have to do is replace his Board of Directors, and vote him out.”

Ђey agreed.

Ђe Press Conference was memorable, and filled with propaganda.

It was a turning point in his life, marking the era when he became a ghostwriter of his own company, and no longer the founder and owner; and having to stand before the world handing his company over to his siblings, had to be embarrassing, but he kept his head high, and vowed to get revenge.

Ђe towering buildings behind him, of all kinds, of the Downtown area, provided an amazing backdrop.

§even microphones of all kinds extended from a simple looking podium, peaking 6 inches under his chin, and boyishly, drop-dead handsome face.

He was clad in winter clothes, the most expensive kind, bought by his siblings as a parting gift and a Bon Voyage.

Yes, he wanted to die, instead of think of the memories, as his life flashes before his eyes, with my teeth in his neck, and his blood washing down the back of my tongue, and I will make sure of it, that he dies

In light of his latest scandal, they were accused of illegally killing elephants and selling their tusks and brains to the highest bidder in a foreign country, outside of the United §tates of America.

It was all scripted and staged, a Hoax, if ye will, and this scripted Press Conference I attended dressed as one of the reporters (in guise form) entertained even I, this fake animal activist.

I was there on account of my alliance with the animals, and being their Protector, though I couldn’t always protect them all.

He had to read what his siblings wrote from a Teleprompter.

Hesitantly, and reluctantly (though they wanted to embarrass him, but had enough heart and respect for him, still, to do it the amicable way), they gave him credit and dignity in a carefully-written speech (passed off as his own words on the Teleprompter), but wanted the public to know he was resigning because he loved elephants, and animals, and he would never harm them, so he was doing the right thing by stepping down, and letting his siblings, animal activists, take the company past the scandal, and to new heights.

He avoided the homosexual controversy, snubbed it all together, even though it was written in the speech.

He picked up where he left off when he seen the words.

“I was honored to build a company that advocated for animals, and gave back to hundreds of communities worldwide, and our animal products have raked in more than $800 million dollars last year, so I know we art a brand the world knows and trust, we even train police and Fed K-9 dogs, and participate in all animal pageants.

Drinking his blood, refusing to rush, taking my time, like one sips good bourbon, I think of how he misleads the public and swayed their loyalty as well, they loved him as never before, angering his siblings. The world was supposed to despise him, his siblings thought. Instead it did the opposite.

Ђe images dances on closed eyelids, and I slurp, biting his neck in another area, for a different sensation.

“I trust that my siblings will do a great job,” he said, looking like a younger version of President Obama, but more dashing, and a tad bit darker. “Ђey have my full support,” he passionately concluded, speaking into the microphones from the bitter cold.

A cloudy mist snakes from his luscious lips, the result of his hot breath, and the cold air around him interacting together.

His siblings, nobodies, were now somebodies, and he wasn’t anything.

Ђey were powerful inside his company policy, a policy he wrote, created and published when he built his empire, and made the error of placing bitter siblings in the highest seats, tricked by their fake generosity and reneged on their forgiveness.

Because of them, and his wife, he had to write that Letter of Resignation.

His siblings were pressuring him, and his wife was working with them to defame his good name, he was fighting a losing battle.

When his wife’s lawyer threatened to release video tapes of him sleeping with a few political men, straight men that lived a lie, he waved the white flag.

Ђe rumors leaked anyway, and brought his multi-million dollar company to its knees, and then another scandal, and that’s why I was there in his home to claim his life on his last day working at a company he built from the ground up, just as he was turning off the lights in an office he had for years, with a huge box in his hand filled with cherished memories and photos and souvenirs.

He killed over 40,000 elephants, illegally.

On live TV, tears ran down his face, and unmasked his feminine qualities, this girly man everyone grew wary of, using sex as a weapon, and to get what he wanted.

Failing himself, he was reduced to suicidal thoughts, and thoughts of going postal (killing his siblings).

He cleared his office after the press conference, and I was waiting to kill him then.

§hould he stay and fight for a tanking company, the company was bankrupt, or should he keep his dignity, and walk away and do something else, having done it meant more than never doing it, but for him that wasn’t enough.

Being reduced from CΣO to a mere payroll employee, having to take orders from his superiors, his siblings, when he was the superior they used to take dictation and direction from, devastated him.

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