(Helen Jewett - upscale New York City prostitute – Photoshopped by Joe)

Who would have ever guessed that a temple to Aphrodite was on the corner of Bridge and Nassau streets. I thought the three of us were headed into the bowling saloon next door, where through the nearly closed blinds of a third floor window I could feel the whore’s gaze…

February 1854 – Brooklyn, NY

I had a few pints of ale that afternoon and thirsted for another as I sauntered toward the whitewashed saloon. Above the driftwood door and four narrow windows was a large black sign lit by a Drummond light. Gold letters on the sign read, “King’s Saloon.” They were capped by a depiction of a bowling ball knocking bejeweled pins into a crown shape. I gazed up past the sign. A prostitute peered down from a third-floor window. I missed the red muslin globe advertising an oyster cellar that hung a foot over the sidewalk. I also didn’t see the handful of basement brick steps and tripped. Arms flailing, on my way down, I reached for the iron bar from which the globe hung. Jack snatched me by the back of the coat with one hand and caught my tumbling Brooks Brothers top hat with the other. He hoisted me back up to the sidewalk.

“Can’t believe I missed that,” I said.

Nostrils flaring, Jack’s brown eyes grew fiery. He slapped the hat, brim first into my gut. He hadn’t been too happy when he found me at O’Henry’s bar that afternoon. He had told me then that we had serious work ahead. I began to think he was having second thoughts about initiating me into his demon hunter corps.

“Thanks,” I said, and wiped the hat, before replacing it on my head.

“You should have let him fall!” Gabe the gorilla cried laughingly from the corner of Bridge and Nassau streets.

It was a mild winter evening. There had been a rainstorm in the afternoon. The pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk was fairly heavy. On the muddy streets were horse-drawn carts, trucks, and an omnibus that made its way east along Nassau Street.

(Southern Broadway Omnibus – uncredited)

“This business is of a most serious order,” Jack said, as we rejoined the gorilla. He looked about to see that no one would hear him. “Now is the time for sober preparation, as it is highly possible that within the next few days, we will face a wicked creature named Dido. Our man in Rotterdam has sent word that she is on a steamer coming from the waters of Constantinople. He says that Dido is what’s known as a siren, and her mere gaze has sent men to their death. Her speaking voice he says is a deadly lure, and if one hears her sing, it will be their requiem. She is said to be the demonic embodiment of the first queen of Carthage, who set herself on fire when her lover left her. So let the name Dido sit in your conscious for a time and see what ghastly images haunt you.”

“Why are we at a brothel?” the gorilla asked.

“You’ve heard of the Empress,” Jack said. “Her and her girls are legendary in the art of seduction.”

“Jesus, this is her place,” the gorilla said in an effeminate huff and lowered his eyes accusingly at Jack. He pointed to me. “You trust this souse to meet her, and yet only now do you bring me here.”

“Never heard of her,” I said.

“I asked you weeks ago to come here,” Jack said, tightening the muscles of his face. A look passed between the men. ”But be certain, Gabriel, tonight is not about pleasure; it is about preparation. The Empress is skilled in the art of seduction and knows the secret workings of the netherworld world. She will teach us how to avoid the trappings of this female demon of the siren order, as it is much different than the solicitations of masculine fiends.”

We entered “the temple” which was a modern-built brick mansion with green-curtained windows. There was a small hallway served by lustrous Venetian doors, flecked with specs of gold. The doors seemingly opened by the sweet breath of Aphrodite, and we were met by music and the hum of voices. Fine tobacco smoke clouded the air. The walls were darkly paneled and lit by magnificent chandeliers. There was a bar on one side and a small orchestra on the other. Upper crust, blue bloods, and sporting men populated the place. They were all dressed in fine suits. They played at roulette and card tables, and moved between a handful of ladies arrayed in what the gorilla said were the latest Parisian styles.

We went up a curving staircase and into a room where more beautifully painted and fashionable ladies lounged in plush-velvet ottomans, sofas, and divans. Most seemed delightfully occupied with male companions. At a piano was a young woman, who was as fresh and pretty as a child. She played the tune, “When I Saw Sweet Nellie Home.” The gorilla took up by her side and began to sing in an alto voice.

“Closer to my bosom come
Tell me do’st thou still remember
When I saw sweet Nelly home.
In the sky the bright stars glittered
On the grass the moonlight shone
From an august evening party
I was seeing Nelly home…”

A pear-shaped woman filled a glass with red wine for me, which I greatly appreciated, and which I saw Jack had also accepted a glass of. I spoke with her for a time. She said her name Evelyn and that she was from Ohio. I told her I had a wicked past and was currently employed to do unmentionable things. Evelyn then took it upon herself to tell me a tale of an artless though unchaste romance with her cousin. While we spoke, couples peeled off and retired to rooms in the back or upstairs. Such was the prostitute’s skill, I began to believe that she was looking for more than just money, that she believed I might be interested in courting her.

When a lady no older than twenty-five entered, she drew the attention of everyone in the room. She wore a long, white silk dress, which seemed to elongate her figure. She had a carefree gaze and a child’s smile. She might be the Empress, I thought, yet imagined such a sobriquet would have to be earned over the course of many libertine and debauched years.

Jack confirmed my suspicion as we were introduced. She welcomed the three of us to her house and had us sit in front of her.

“Seduction is the art of bringing one closer to God,” the Empress said in a measured tone. “It is normal and natural, though can be used for evil purposes. But be certain, here you are safe. My girls and myself help people learn their truest nature. This nature is one’s truth and can be found in the bodiless self; one that the good Lord may choose to someday to welcome into His Kingdom. Given that understanding, one should know that while they employ our services, they have the chance to glimpse everlasting life in our hands. Now you must remember that the siren Dido will tempt your mind and body, but she cannot bridge the gap to your soul. To prepare to face her, we must address the faults of mind and body. Both of those human institutions must be able to not only deny false pleasure, but the genuine article, too. So what I will have the three of you do is practice.”

“How?” the gorilla asked sweetly.

“You will spend the night trying to say ‘no’ to my girls.”

I looked across the room to catch Evelyn’s green-eyed gaze. She winked coquettishly. A chuckle escaped my lips. The night would be a strange game of resisting the charms of this woman, I thought. I was cheerfully confident–that just like the first light of a glorious morning sun, I would emerge triumphant.

When I turned back, I found the Empress stood before me. I climbed to my feet. A peculiar fruit scent went straight to my brain. It seemed to make my limbs grow weak. The Empress cupped my hand. The white silk dress she wore swept against the carpet as she led me alone to her boudoir…

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Nine

Delicious pizza, ice cold beer, a cap from the 1850s & Staten Island

The Empress

The Siren (Coming this week…)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

The four of us sallied to the edge of the known universe last Friday night, which for New Yorkers is the borough of Staten Island. It’s a strange and indescribable place, where the fruit of its bounty populate TV shows such as Mob Wives and Jersey Shore. Though I won’t motor on about SI in this post, I did enough bloviating about it in “Episode Seven,” which is about the mayhem that happened at a barbecue we went to in Arden Heights.

So why would we go back, you ask? For some of the best pizza and pitchers of beer on the map! (Btw, I love maps. I just bought a supersized road atlas at Walmart. I love to thumb through and take flights of fancy all over the US.)

Our destination in SI was Lee’s Tavern. Me, lady friend(LF), and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) had gone there to meet a bunch of friends, some of whom could have been from outer space, it was that close; because they live all the way up in Toronto!

Under blue skies, we departed Manhattan with rush hour commuters and crossed a five-mile stretch of NY Bay on the Staten Island Ferry. At the SI ferry terminal, the four of us hopped on the only train line, which runs the length of the island to Tottenville. We got off at the Dongan Hills station, set on an elevated platform. Around the station are small shops and homes. To the west, the homes rise up a hill, where the full sun was on the descent.

There came a series of beeps and the train doors started to close. A big man hopped out of the rear car with a spry step. The train pulled away, leaving us in bright sunlight. Yet it was impossible to see the big man clearly; his body had a stygian aura. Given the condition, he was either possessed or otherworldly. I grabbed LF by the hand and led her down the stairs, hoping my night wasn’t going to be ruined by some infernal creature, especially as pizza and beer signals monopolized my synapses.

Chirps and squawks sounded up on the train platform, seeming as if a large nest of birds had been startled. It was only num and nuts, who had paused–thinking we did too–to get a better look at what could have been an unearthly being. The two of them came flapping down the steps in their designer shirts and jeans. The bastards both have great hair, which was slicked back and perfect. And even though flustered, they still played with it-like girls as they tried to match our calm.

(Dongan Hills train station)

I marched on through the station’s parking lot. Lee’s was in my sights–on the corner across from the lot. The sun’s reflection in the windows made it difficult to see inside. The tavern looked closed and unwelcoming. Yet mostly because, in typical NYC fashion that started with the Yankees not putting player names on uniforms–as they are so popular that everyone knows the players’ names, Lee’s has no exterior signage.

We had to wait for a table to clear and for the others to arrive. The friendly crowd was three-people-deep at the bar. One of the patrons eyed me. He was perched on a corner stool by the front window. So strong was his gaze, I was near certain it was someone I’d known since high school or longer. When I finally glanced over, I couldn’t place the bloated face of the man, though he gave a friendly smile.

Our friends came in a moment after we were seated in a room away from the bar. Our party of ten ordered plates of scungilli and calamari, two plain pizzas, one pie with fresh mozzarella and basil, another with broccoli, onions and mushrooms, and a white clam pie.

When the pizza pies started to hit the table, I thought about taking a photo for you. Overwhelmed by the look and aroma, I dug right in. And each slice, bite after bite, right down to the crust was scrumptious. I like to dip! So I had a cup of red sauce, to dip the crust that was crunchy with just the hint of a burn on the edge. Mmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm! Also, the red sauce is all-tomato-taste and no spice, just the way red sauce should be.

I guess if you’re daring enough to brave the known and unknown forces, and go to SI, Lee’s is a must stop. If I lived in the apartments above Lee’s, some days I would roll out of bed and have pizza for breakfast.

(Lee’s fresh mozzarella pie - Photo courtesy the Bridge and Tunnel Club)

For probably most of the evening, I was on auto-pilot when it came to conversation and overall perception, but it wasn’t my fault. The fare at Lee’s was the perfect escape after a miserable work week at my *crumby demolition job.

On my way into the small bathroom, a big man came out and brushed past me. I thoughtlessly glanced up at his face and closed the door. He was the man from the bar, and I began to think he might have been the umbral figure who had gotten off the train with us. I came out searching the bar area and back tables for him. But he had vanished.

I sat back at the table with my friends to find LF raking me with her eyes. She does that sometimes, because I can be a bit lazy when it comes to my appearance.

I reached into my coat pocket for gum. To my surprise, I found an old leather skull cap. I suspected the big man had slipped it in my pocket outside the bathroom.

The leather cap was smooth from wear and showed no signs of drying or cracking. I turned it inside out and saw a familiar nickname scratched into it in black ink. If my dreams and visions of a past life are correct, it was my nickname in the 1850s. Back then, I wore such a cap when I volunteered as a fireman in Brooklyn’s 6th Ward…

*Holden Caulfield spelling of crummy.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Nine

Delicious pizza, ice cold beer, a cap from the 1850s & Staten Island

The Empress

The Siren (Coming this week…)

-

Related photos and videos

Photos of Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges

Dinner and a Video on the Staten Island Ferry

Walk with Bald Punk up Broadway to Canal Street

R Train pulling into South Ferry Station

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Brooklyn Heights – 1854, Cropped/Photoshopped by Joe)

The three of us ruffians sailed across the moonlit bay in a breathless huff. The two-masted brig suspected of transporting an Irish vampire gained rapidly on our sloop. We weren’t so much afraid as we were amazed. The craft’s arrival into NY Harbor seemed to trigger distant cries that we could not place and strange shadows off in the hills of Brooklyn. While on the brig’s aft deck was an uncanny, smoldering fire that sent a rosy plume against the wind, in the direction of the moon.

It was near three in the morning as we hastily pulled into Miller’s Landing, splitting thin ice and pushing aside chunks of ice. Waves splashed up the icy pilings, over the planking of the dock. The wind was gusting more and more. The brig was now east of Governors Island, seeming to fly up the East River toward our location near Fulton Ferry.

Twelve bearded men in long coats roused from an office upon our arrival. They straggled out to meet us on the slip that had been scorched by a fire, the scent of which hung in the air. Each had a bayonet fitted musket. A few men also brought along axes. Some exchanged waves or nods with Jack. None came too close or acknowledged the gorilla or myself.

Jack was leaving us, and sailing across the East River to Manhattan, in case the brig made a try for the South Street wharves. More armed men waited there for his command.

The gorilla stepped onto the slip ahead of me. In his right hand was a bludgeon with two-inch nails that protruded from the fat of the barrel. Jack made a half-hearted attempt to pluck the Colt revolver holstered on my hip. “I always wanted one of these,” I lied, wincing, my cheeks burning from the cold. In my right hand was a long stave. One end was fitted with a razor sharp brand to mark the demon; a thin blade was affixed on the other end.

“Those men are paid to take care of the crew,” Jack said. “You go straight for the vampire or whatever demon you may find. It probably will look like a corpse, and may not even move. In any case, mark the skull; then if it puts up no fight, plunge the blade of the stave as many times as you can into the heart. If I’m not there by then, Gabe,” he said, referring to the gorilla, “will help you hack it into pieces.”

Jack headed across the river, aided by an upstream breeze. Gabe waved for the men to get down behind a row of upright barrels. All looked over six feet tall and very able-bodied. “The gun stays in the holster,” he said to me with a high-pitched shrill and lifted his bludgeon to my chest.

I raised the point of my stave near the bigger man’s throat. He tapped the nails of the bludgeon against my chest.

“If something happens to Jack, who’s gonna pay me?” I said. “You? Probably can’t count past ten–”

The gorilla, who had a limited attention span, lowered his weapon and looked to the brig. It was less than one thousand yards away.

“–I can get almost 25 dollars for the gun and holster. And with me craving a nice heavy porter.”

We both kneeled behind the barrels. Gabe saw I was carefully regarding the men. ”They all are firemen, who’ll do their business well,” he said, his voice sounding very much like that of a woman. “Keep their mouths shut, too. We’ll do the important work.”

“Why do you suspect the ship will dock at this very slip?”

“This place has been cursed by demon acolytes. They set it afire, and then were able to cast a spell. Now Miller’s is like a window or welcoming place for evil souls to enter NY, and they do have to be welcomed. You’ll also learn that most demons are firebugs. They take great pleasure from the smell, as well as the heat. And if cornered, they love to start fires.”

“After such a long ocean voyage, will the demon be vicious?”

“They always are, though tonight, the one coming our way will only have safety and shelter on its mind. If it’s a vampire, it might be weak from the journey, though of that you can’t be certain, but be sure, it’s has fed. They rarely miss a meal.”

“They drink blood.”

“Vampires love warm human blood the best, but will also feed on the flesh of both man and beast.”

“Oh dear God,” I said, seeing the brig started to loom large, just a few hundred yards away.

Gabe pointed out that the brig flew a red flag with a blue cross outlined in white. We agreed it was the flag of Norway.

The brig started to turn as it came with 100 feet as if the captain had just seen the dock. Gabe held out a hand for us to steady. He grabbed my arm just as the ship careened broadside into the slip, pushing up through rows of charred planking, sending the barrels over some of the men and into the water.

One of our men clambered up a rope and went over the side of the brig. He unrolled a rope ladder that was quickly tied to the slip. There came the clattering of horse hooves on cobbles. Two large trucks came through Miller’s open iron gates. Each was fronted by four dray horses. They had most likely arrived to pick up the brig’s cargo.

The gorilla was first up, and I went next. Over the side, we saw only one man, who must have been piloting the craft as he was near the wheel of the helm. He staggered at us. His nose and cheeks were black with frostbite. There was no light of concern in his eyes, though more closely, he seemed entirely consumed. The man began to mutter. I bent closer to hear him.

“Just mark him!” Gabe cried, then yelled it louder as I hesitated.

I whipped my arms and planted the razor sharp brand square in the man’s forehead. There was hardly a trickle of blood from the wound that had surely gone straight through the bone into the brain. He dropped flat on his back.

“He’s not our demon,” Gabe said, taking a deep whiff. There was a rancid odor coming from below deck. “Whatever carcasses we find, they’ll all have to be marked.”

The gorilla lit a torch and handed it to one of the firemen, but followed close behind with his bludgeon cocked at the ready. We stepped down into the ship. It reeked of rotting flesh and blood, almost as bad as a slaughterhouse. The first level we came to was stripped down to the support beams, leaving the whole gloomy space exposed for sight. There were fifteen-to-twenty long wooden crates.

I held the collar of my coat over my nose. The gorilla yanked my hand. “Smell it, smell it good. Soon it won’t bother you.”

The tops of the crates were mostly laid in place. Of the few that were nailed shut, our men pried them open with the bayonets. As suspected, most had coffins inside that held human remains. Colored grey and sallow, the dead were all gaunt. Gouges of flesh had been torn from many faces and other exposed areas. One man said they must have been famine victims, dead for at least a month or two. In one of the coffins were three children. A boy’s skeletal hand clung to the stringy hair of a girl’s. His face was almost entirely “eaten” away.

I gripped the stave. My eyes shifted about in search of the creature that had feasted on these people.

“Poor shits,” Gabe said. “All were probably dead before the journey. Stinking thing must be a vampire.”

The man with the light walked beyond the coffins. He illuminated a mound of dirt. Arms and legs pushed out of the soil.

“There are our sailors,” Gabe said and turned to me. ”Ok, let’s get to work. Mark the forehead of every single person and stab ‘em once through the heart. Kids too. And be ready, one may be our vampire, or have gotten a dose of the demon blood, to keep it alive for the vampire’s sick pleasure. In that case, they will squirm or motion after you strike.”

First I went to the coffins with adult remains. For each one, I stamped the razored brand against the forehead, flipped the stave, and then sunk the blade into the heart. One fireman stayed by my side. He held an axe in both hands. He used it to point out where I should stab to get to the heart. I made myself look at the faces of the children as I did the deed.

Gabe carefully watched me. ”Believe me, I never liked doing kids,” he said, his voice almost kind, “but if that demon blood wakes them, you’re doing the work of the Lord.”

Our men dragged the bodies of the sailors out of the dirt for me to mark. Then they hefted the bodies out of the coffins. They used axes to hack off the heads. It was mostly bloodless work, even the sailors who’d been killed over the course of the journey hardly bled when beheaded. Gabe culled a few men and lead the way to a lower deck.

“Knockout drops!” someone cried.

“The air is fowl!” another cried. “Laudanum and whale oil!”

It was then I noticed a bitter taste in my mouth of what could have been laudanum; and mixed in with the scent of death was the rancid odor of whale oil.

“Watch for fire!” one man said, pointing to the floorboards overhead. Handfuls of hay were strung above, around the entire room. Before another word could be said, there came the sound of mass combustion.

(Fire – uncredited)

Whaaach!

Fire spread out in every direction overhead. The entire ceiling was ablaze in seconds. Balls of fire began to fall. The coffins and parts of the floor were burning. The firemen ran for the stairs. The gorilla and myself held back.

Eyes filled will fire, I thought of the dead children missing chunks of flesh. I suddenly had a singular purpose: to kill the demon. It had set the fire and had to be near. I clenched my stave in anger. It was as if I was alive for the first time in ages, reclaiming the life forced that had been corrupted by alcoholism.

The fire was too hot. I ran for the stairs behind the gorilla. Gasping for air, once I set foot onto the open deck, I almost knew I was about to come face to face with the demon. I began to whip my arms and strike at the thin air. Sure enough, a half-second later a figure seemed to jump up from below. I plunged the brand with all my might into the person’s brow, driving the razored end in so deep, the stave snapped when I tried to yank it free.

My target was an emaciated woman with emerald-green eyes. Jet black hair fell over her shoulders. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow. She wore a gown soiled by dirt and dried blood. I flipped the stave and drove the blade deep, just below her left breast bone. I stabbed her two more times in the heart, before the gorilla bounded past me, swinging the spiked bludgeon. He cracked the vampire in the head, then jerked the weapon back, having to wiggle and pry it free. He laughed as he performed the task, which sent the vampire spinning. She stumbled back and went over the side of the brig. She splashed into the water.

Half mad, I jumped after her. Yet Gabe clamped onto my forearm. He was still laughing, seeming happy as a lark. “That’s enough boy,” he said, eyes brilliantly alight as we watched the vampire sink. “You did real good. Real good.”

(Brooklyn Heights drawing, 1854)

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Eight

American Horror Story

Hello, Hello…

Demon Hunting

Born to Kill

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(“Dredging for Oysters” Prince’s Bay, NY, 1855 - Ballou’s Pictorial/Photoshopped by Joe)

Jack steered the oyster sloop away from the South Brooklyn wharves where ice had begun to form, bearing to the Narrows strait that flowed between Brooklyn and Staten Island. In an effort to masquerade as river pirates, and because Jack liked fine clothes, the three of us were dressed as dandies, though we were all about killing that frigid January night. On top of nets and coils of rope in the sloop’s cabin, we had loaded an assortment of bowie knives, bludgeons, pistols, a mace, and two staves, of which Jack had said one would be mine for the marking of the demon.

I had one knee on the cabin’s roof to brace against the gentle sway of the boat. My hands were shoved in the pockets of a new Brooks Brothers overcoat that Jack had spent 18 dollars on, but I was shivering, partly because I needed the drink. But it was cold. I felt like a wedge of ice, packed in ice. I also wore a new Brooks Brothers suit and white shirt with a high collar that cut into my neck. I hadn’t been so clean and scrubbed since I was a child. But at twenty-five-years of age, I was characterized by a dark, sullen nature. There was no way a bath and shave could change that.

We sailed past warehouses and factories set along the Brooklyn shore, then smaller offices, pubs, and counting houses and then rows of detached homes that rose up a hilly landscape. The only boats in the bay that January night were moored. There sounded the creak of the rigging and the sometimes flutter of the sails. I didn’t see a soul and my gaze went to the curl of chimney smoke, back to the small waves, and then to the moon and stars. When I could take it no more, I slipped down into the dark cabin that smelled of fish and went for the gin.

Jack kicked open the cabin door from the deck. “Best to forget about the drink for now,” he said, as he reached down with his foot to hold open the door.

“O, come on now, Jack! Tis’ cold.”

“If you can’t say no to the drink, you won’t survive long with us.”

“Tis’ cold!” I cried again, and leaned back on my knees, caressing the bottle of gin between my thighs. The door knocked shut. Without taking a drink, I wrapped the bottle up in rags, placed it between layers of netting, then went back on deck.

At the helm, Jack gazed off into the heavens. The gorilla eyed me from the starboard side of the cabin. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. He had white teeth and smiled often. The day before at the bar I had learned his name was Gabriel Burgh. Soon after, I had lifted my drink and said I thought “the gorilla” was a fine nickname for him. “I have many nicknames,” he replied with a wink and a smile, “and have killed a man who called me one I didn’t like.”

The two others searched the head waters. Lights were visible all the way out on the Staten Island shores. The gorilla leaned closer to Jack and cried, “Too soon to say we’ll have business tonight, but I think they’re very close.” He pointed with an unlit pipe in his hand, out to the Narrows entrance to NY Bay. From there all sea faring traffic first set their eyes on the island of Manhattan and its magnificent waterways.

“What do you see?” I asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the gorilla said.

I gave a blank stare, before I turned to Jack. “Before he died,” I said, speaking about the man whose place I had taken, “I heard Tom Bickers say what you do isn’t worth all the money in the world.”

“I will tell you about Tom Bickers,” the gorilla said in shrill voice, eyes flickering with a maniacal twinkle. “He was afraid of his own shadow!”

“We’re searching for a ship,” Jack said calmly. “We believe it will enter the harbor this very night. On it is a blood-sucking demon, a vampire. We’ll follow the ship to port. Kill as many on board as we can, and mark the demon.”

“Why mark the demons and not just kill them?” I asked.

“They don’t die easily, so we brand the demons in order to identify them in the day as well as the night. Though after a long voyage, unable to satiate their blood lust, most are easier to combat. They can’t switch shapes and forms as easily. But we take no chances. It’s best just to mark them, then the others can track and kill them in time.”

“The others,” I said to myself, thinking there was so much I didn’t know. But there was something more pressing I needed to know. “What do you see in me?”

“As we like to say, ‘you have a bit of the demon blood in you,’” Jack said, and looked at the gorilla who frowned. “You have just enough to let you see into their world. It will help you to become one of us. You also have a good size.”

I was a big man, but Jack and the gorilla were both massive, each about six feet six inches tall. Jack was wiry, while the gorilla had a notably bigger frame. He was mad in the head, too. And as made evident by our first proper meeting, the gorilla clearly loved to kill.

“How do you know a demon is coming?” I asked.

“If you truly have the sight, you can see the thin trail of blood smoke,” the gorilla said in a musky voice and pointed high into the sky. “At night, you can see it from Manhattan.”

I scrunched my eyes and picked up a thin red vapor. It was in the sky, just east of the Narrows.

“We think this one coming in, which looks more and more like it will be tonight, might be a 500-year-old Irish vampire. We know this through our contact in Rotterdam. He has gotten word from a watcher in southern Ireland, that nearly two months ago a ship bound for NY was loaded with boxes of turf, soil, and boxes that could hold coffins.”

“Why come to NY?” I wondered.

“It has become too dangerous where they live,” Jack said. “They’ve murdered and possessed far too many, and have been found out. America, offers new promise, more places to hide. And what better place than New York. If the vampire gets by us unmarked, there’s a vast wilderness in and around this city to seek shelter, while there is a large population to prey upon.”

“It’ll be tonight,” the gorilla said, focused on the Narrows.

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Eight

American Horror Story

Hello, Hello…

Demon Hunting

Born to Kill

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Cartoon by Seth – “Bald Punk’s apartment” – The New York Times, 10/30/09)

Hello!

It’s me, Joe aka Bald Punk.

I’m here in my apartment, chatting with my lady friend(LF) and the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts). Scrappy Doodles is nestled snugly in my arms.

LF keeps asking me what I was doing in that past life circa the 1850s. She wants me to say something glamorous, like I was a demon hunter. But that would be a half-truth.

As I sit here, I like to bury my nose in Scrappy D’s neck. He’s an awesome doggie with a palpable life force. Plus he might be a little guy, but he has a muscular frame. When he’s tight in my arms, I really feel like I can drink in his goodness.

(Photo by Joe, Scrappy Doodles)

Num and nuts like to look at me like I don’t exist, then stare at me like I’m a bug, soaring by their faces. They are totally whacked.

The three of them are drinking red wine, and don’t get mad at me, but I am too. I don’t always drink beer.

Anyway, as to what I was doing in that past life, it was anything but glamorous. And we weren’t necessarily demon hunters. But you have to give me a few days. It’s all kinda coming back to me.

I think the next post will be titled “River Pirates.” I’ll post it next week.

Bye for now.

BP

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Eight

American Horror Story

Hello, Hello…

Demon Hunting

Born to Kill

-

Related posts:

Episode Twenty-Four – December 2009/January 2010

Search for Scrappy D!

Barnum in Central Park

The Elephant and the Looking Glass

Photos and videos of Scrappy Doodles:

Scrappy D Photos

Scrappy D and Shoelaces

My Nutty Pug Scrappy Doodles Running In Circles

My Dog Scrappy D Running Like A Nut

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Legendary Bowery Gang Leader, Mose Humphrey)

“The deaths are three each day. This is in the parish of Tuosist. The people are buried without coffins, frequently in the next field. (There is) no noise or sign of grief for the dead; every thought is selfish and unfeeling…” – Irish official during potato famine, 1847.

-

The jagged mountain peaks and lush green hills of Kenmare surrounded me. Hunger was a distant memory. A silky-smooth sensation coursed through my soul. A chuisle, a chroí. My pulse, my heart. I was in heaven, and then I woke on the floor of a bar that in my state, could have been anywhere across the seven seas. Someone had me by the arm and up I went. Soot clogged my nose and coated my mouth. I heard somber voices, the clink of glasses, and the crackle of damp wood in a fire. Through bleary eyes, I picked up the glow of gas lights and fading afternoon light in patched up windows. Men were hunched over drinks at the bar and playing stuss at the tables. A barman in a white shirt and leather skullcap was busy filling glasses from barrels stacked at torso height. Whores in dirty manhandled dresses were about, plying their trade.

The place was an all too familiar bar on Dock Street in Brooklyn. Filth and misery permeated my being. I needed a drink. I searched my damp undergarments and found three hidden dollars.

The same strong hand that had lifted me, grasped my shoulder. My joints were too stiff and my mind was too muddled for a proper response. All I could do was turn. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. It took a moment to realize he was the local ward boss, Jack Jefferies. It had been days since that first raid at Miller’s Landing, and in that time, he had grown a mustache that looked like the wings of a small black bird.

“I’m here to conduct a bit of business,” Jack said politely. “And it’s a funny thing that I almost stepped on you, because I could use a man with your certain ability.” He scanned the faces near us, then came back to me. ”It was meant to be I’d say. But we shall talk after I’m done.”

I gave a blank stare. Jack was not a normal man, of that I was certain. But it wasn’t something I cared to mull over. The money he paid me had been enough to forget about that nasty business at Miller’s. And I would soon need more, and Jack paid very well. “I want a drink,” I said. “I need it.” My hunger had long ceased to be a daily concern, but I could not sate my thirst for gin and ale. So no matter what his plans entailed, I was his man.

“Sure, but not here,” Jack said, his brown eyes aware of an encroaching figure.

Someone had peeled away from the bar and was stomping at us. He was a few inches shorter than myself with broad shoulders. “Well now, a crimp come to shanghai one of our boys,” he said with a Kerry brogue.

The Irish chap was talking about Jack, who wore a stove pipe hat and a long, black frock coat that was buttoned to his chin. He looked like a Bowery b’hoy brawler. It was best to dress like that only when you were with your gang.

“Do ya’ hear me crimp?” said the Irish fellow to Jack. “What’s your kind doing here with men that work for a living?”

“He’s gonna shanghai one of Erin’s finest!” cried another man, who also had a brogue. “Oh ho! We was goin’ to do it ourselves, an’ sell the tinker to the men of science.”

A glass mug soared by our heads and smashed into the plank wall. Not a second later, the front door opened and a man breezed in wearing a fine coat and top hat. He also wore a shirt that had a high upstanding collar and a square, four-in-hand necktie. He flashed a smile at Jack. He had a wild light in his eyes and long, thin teeth that made for a cheerily, psychotic grin. I recognized him as one of the gorillas from Miller’s Landing. It seemed certain there would be trouble.

(Section of 6th Ward, 1855 Brooklyn Fire Insurance Map)

“We don’t want a muss,” Jack said, removing two arm-length poles from his jacket. He snapped them together to make a wooden stave. He looked up like an owl. From his coat pocket, he removed a metal wedge that held interlocking razors, similar to the one he had used at Miller’s Landing. He looked back down as he attached the wedge to one end of the stave.

The Irish fellow raised his bare knuckles and stepped forward. Jack flipped the stave to me, then took a quick step and swung with abandon, cracking the Irishman’s jaw with a hammer-heavy blow. The man hit the floor as if he was thrown down. Then another man jumped into the fray, wielding a hatchet. Of all the patrons, he had previously caught my eye. A penetrating look of evil set him apart.

“That’s the one, Jack!” the gorilla cried with an exuberant grin, pointing to the man with the hatchet.

In a seamless motion, Jack plucked the stave from my hands and popped the assailant in the forehead with the wedge. Blood running down his face, the man dropped the hatchet as he went wheeling back into the crowd, only to be pushed back at us. The gorilla, who was tall as Jack, though as thick as a barrel, was already swinging a bludgeon at him. Whoosh! Wump! The fat of the barrel sunk into the side of the man’s head and he went crashing to the floor.

The gorilla turned to me with a joyously sick smile. “I got him good, eh’ sailor boy!” he said in a high-pitched voice.

I nodded with a wide-open mouth.

“You think you can come into our place and get away with this,” said a burly man with a bushy mustache. He raised a bowie knife. Others came forward pressed shoulder to shoulder, brandishing knives, shivs, and brickbats. They seemed ready to devour us.

“We’re done here, and be leaving if you like,” Jack said, and pointed to the dead man. “That bastard’s a firebug, and a flighty one at that.” He lowered his voice, turning to me. “He started a fire at Miller’s, when his ship came in. It’s how he got away. Did the same thing on Fulton by Hicks Street the other night.”

“What’s this about a fire on Fulton and Hicks?” the man with the bowie knife asked.

“It was last Tuesday night.”

“That’s my fire company’s territory. There was no fire there that night.”

“It was the devil’s fire, and if you don’t know what I mean, you best stay out of it,” Jack said, leaning forward, meeting the man’s gaze. ”Stay out of it.”

Something seemed to register in the fireman’s eyes, and he backed into the crowd.

Then someone at the bar cried, “Send them both into the street, flat on their backs!” Jeers of agreement followed.

“That’s fine,” Jack said. “We’ll take on the whole lot of ya’. There’s no one here who doesn’t have it coming, except maybe…” He took in the many faces, and he pointed to a girl no older than twelve, who sat on a card player’s lap. “The child can get out. She don’t deserve to die with this lot.”

The gorilla turned to me. “Now who else should live?” he asked with a feverish look.

I wiped me eyes. There was another young whore, and also a plain-faced serving girl. With pretty much ease I could pick out the evil ones, but spotting purity in a person was difficult.

The “dead man” who had wielded the hatchet, miraculously started to stir. It seemed impossible that he was still alive.

The gorilla gave a fey laugh. “Plain as day who should die but won’t.”

Someone yowled as one of the card players stood and reached out with a pistol. But quick as lightning, Jack pulled a knife from his boot and launched it with deadly accuracy. The blade sunk deep in the man’s chest. The gun fired and a bullet whizzed by us. Then four men lunged forward with knives in hand, while others flung brickbats. Jack jabbed at them with the pointed, opposite end of the stave, while the gorilla swung so often and hard, I froze in dreaded fear that I would get hit by the barrel.

In the melee, the man with the bashed-in head, deftly scurried on all fours like a rat. He was out the door in seconds.

When they stopped fighting, six men lay in pools of blood, and the remaining patrons had all backed off. Both Jack and the gorilla retrieved their hats, which had fallen from their heads. There had been a whore in a nearby chair, who had buried her face in her hands. She looked up. The top of her head and the pleats of her dress were swathed in blood.

“Now let’s see you put her out of this misery,” the gorilla said to me with a smile of pure glee. He held out his blood-soaked bludgeon.

The whore met my gaze with fearful blue eyes, then she looked at Jack and the gorilla. She had pretty blonde curls. I darted to the bar. Jack and the gorilla laughed.

“We was just joking,” the gorilla said to the girl.

I found the barman, standing stiffly in the shadows. “Gin, gin, gin,” I cried. The barman hesitated, until Jack spoke.

“A round for the house,” he said and pulled out a roll of bills.

The door banged shut as the whore fled into the street. The gorilla lifted his glass of gin, looked at me, and then to Jack. “This man needs work, lots of work.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Eight

American Horror Story

Hello, Hello…

Demon Hunting

Born to Kill

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(My grammar school photo)

“Just hit the fecking thing,” Jack Jefferies had said. “But you have to break the bone. Skull’s the best spot. That’s all a man has to do and he’s golden.”

I looked down at the diabolical weapon in my grasp that Jack had been showing me how to use. It was a wooden stave with interlocking razors on one end. Then I looked at Jack and shrugged. “Okay,” I said, as if it was all just clean fun. Little did I know, that what I was entering into would haunt my childhood 120 years later . . .

-

I would get this pain as a kid in the 1970s. It would shoot up my throat to my tongue. It didn’t hurt all that much, though each time it came on a shock of white terror left me breathlessly screaming. I feared the unknown cause more than anything. Thankfully, the pain ceased to occur by the time I reached ten or eleven.

It was all but forgotten over time, until weeks ago the pain roused me from sleep. It was the same night Benny, “the cigar store Indian” had told me what I pretty much knew: I had lived past lives. In the dark, I had seen a long fingernail, pressed deep into my neck. I knew the pain all-too well. When I couldn’t move, I realized it was a dream, though my terror grew as the face of a devilish creature hovered close. It had pupils of orange-fire, skin as coarse as rough sandpaper, cheekbones that protruded like tiny fists, and lips that reminded me of blood-sated leeches. It opened its mouth to speak, and there came the low roar of a fire. From off in the distance, I heard Jack Jefferies’ voice:

“Blink and you’re back in the world of the dead.”

I blinked hard and woke. The first thing I remembered was how Jack Jefferies had taken me under his wing in the mid-1850s. In today’s terms, we could be described as demon hunters, though we were really just ”tools.” We made a bloody mess of things and rarely killed. Plus we had no clue who we truly worked for. I doubt even the men we answered to, who also ran a shipping company out of an office on Brooklyn’s Water Street, knew the full truth. Yet the memories of that past life are cloudy at best. But with each day things are coming back to me.

One thing I wish Jack would have told me straight away was that you can’t kill a demon. At first, all we had to do was brand them with the stave; each time it was a different razor-shaped mark on the end of the weapon. From our perspective, all that did was get them real fu-kin’ angry. They were after us night after night. Good thing we were paid well, we did whatever dirty work we had to do, then hid away in the bars and got regally soused for days and weeks on end.

It’s funny, but even now I’m still mad at Jack. He shouldn’t have lied to me in the beginning. If I knew the truth, I still probably would have gotten on with him and his business. But just hitting “the fecking thing!” with the stave wasn’t all a man had to do. That strike, branding the recipient, was just the first step. By the time I learned the rest, I was in too deep, just like Jack . . .

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (View of Brooklyn Heights, 1849 – from digital New York Public Library)

You had to be there before nightfall. These ships always came in the middle of the night, and they wanted you there earlier to wait. They wanted to watch you and the others…

-

Miller’s Landing was a rickety old wharf on the Brooklyn side of the East River, part of which had been scorched by a recent fire. Inside on a burned-over slip were a half-dozen ruined looking men armed with staves and huge bludgeons. The men grew silent as I approached. They sat on barrels and boxes branded with the name of one of the waterfront warehouses, which populated Furman Street behind me.

It was a misty, overcast day, though felt cold enough to snow. I flipped the collar up on my thick woolen coat. None of the men looked at me, and I thought I was in for a row, until a pimply faced giant who said his name was Jack Jefferies, said I had come to the right place. Since I was unarmed, except for a shiv in my coat pocket that I was remiss to mention, Jack gave me a brickbat and welcomed me to sup with the men. They had a pot of pork and bean soup, and bottles of gin and rye whiskey.

I had a few mouthfuls of the soup, and took a tin cup of gin, but was very suspicious about the goings-on. I noticed a few professional gorillas over at the gloomy entrance to the landing. Jack told me they were there to make sure no one left, and to see that it was a private affair. After that, I kept to the drink, but my intrigue was not forgotten.

It was Christmas Day, 1853. Little did I know that my descent into darkness had just begun.

A short while before in a saloon up on Dock Street, where I’d been boozing all day, a big man in a fine black suit had waltzed in and started pumping hands and buying drinks. Someone said he was the local Sixth Ward boss. He also kept smiling and bending back on his toes with his thumbs in his britches, seeming like he was the richest man in town. When a drink came my way, I lifted the cup, grinned, and cursed him under my breath.

On my way out back to piss, the ward boss followed me into the cold and rain. He grabbed my shoulder. “I have an opportunity I would like to offer to you,” he said and seemed to force a smile. He was nearly a head taller than me. “There is nothing illegal to it, and you will earn twenty dollars for just a few hours work.”

Red-faced and wincing, I looked at his hand on my shoulder. He took it away.

“Right this moment, over at Miller’s Landing, we need another big man like yourself,” he said. “You’ll be back at the bar in a wink of time.”

Big or not, it made little sense to ask a person in my condition. Yet drunk and looking to stay that way, I acquiesced. All I had left was a few cents. It was barely enough for an all nations, which was a mixture of drinks from unfinished bottles.

-

When two more sullen Johnny Newcombes joined our motley group, one of the gorillas came over and spoke in a high-pitched tone. It sounded like someone was squeezing his nuts. “A ship is coming to dock here this very evening. You men will see to it that the crew is waylaid, as we would like to have a word with the Captain, who is a wanted man. He scarpered on bail, after being arrested for fitting his ship for the slave trade.” That speech got the blood going in our hideous bunch. We hated the Negroes, and didn’t want any more of them in our midst. They took our jobs and our women. We drank to busting up the captain proper.

Jack Jefferies and another man named Tom Bickers, did not drink alcohol, and they both had staves fitted with what looked like razor-sharp branding irons. “This is my last night,” Tom told Jack a few times. ”I’ve had enough,” he said, and I could tell Jack wasn’t happy with decision. ”It’s a terrible thing, and all the money in the world can’t make me stay.”

At some point, I blacked out and slept like a babe, until a pock-faced scamp with a mouth full of cracked teeth kicked me awake. He was pointing to the river and shaking his rear end. “Sh-t, sh-t, sh-t,” he said, and I thought he was crapping in his pants.

Everything was a blur. I wiped my face with a damp coat sleeve. Clouds hung just above the river. I heard the ringing of bells from passing ships, and the clop of hooves on a cobbled Furman Street. Not a single shape or light was visible across the water in Manhattan. I slowly discerned the broad sheets of a three-masted barque, headed straight at us. The rest of the ship was cloaked until it was nearly upon the quay.

Our gang climbed over the side of the vessel just as it knocked into the slip. Some sailors were high up on the rigging, going about the business of tying up the sails. Sight was so dismal, Tom Bickers had to whistle to get their attention. Even then, they were slow to take us in, so we started hooting and waving our weapons.

“The captain is all we want, and no trouble,” Tom cried, shoving the sharp end of his stave up at a sailor. “He is a wanted man!”

A man in a soldier’s uniform came down from the quarter deck. He reached out with a Colt revolver in hand, and aimed at Tom, who lowered his stave.

“We have no trouble with you!” Tom said. “We’re here for the captain. He is a wanted–”

The soldier shot Tom the chest, and then fired at the scamp who had the broken teeth, hitting him in the back of the head. The soldier came at us, firing four more shots. We hid as best we could, while the sailors ran off the ship. Luckily, only one shot caught our chap in the arm. When the soldier began to reload, two of our men pounced on him, running the points of their staves through his belly. When he fell, the man who had been shot in the arm, clubbed the soldier’s head with a bludgeon, which he held in his bloodied arm. He also took turns kicking him with his boot that was studded with hobnails.

There came a cry to search the lower deck for the captain. I happened to be standing by an open door, where out bolted a fair-haired man. He pushed me aside with a powerful forearm blow and sprinted for the dockside of the ship. His long black coat billowed in his wake. I slung my brickbat, which cracked him square in the head. His feet stomped as he tried to regain his balance.

Jack Jefferies, who I hadn’t seen on deck since we boarded, sprung up from between a row of sacks and barrels, and poked the fair-haired man in the forehead with his stave. Blood sputtered down the man’s face. He recoiled and swung wildly, though Jack pulled back his stave and moved away as if his work was done. Through the blood, I could see the outline of a mark left on the fair-haired man’s forehead. He wiped the blood from his eyes, then jumped over the side of the boat, onto to the slip. It was the last we saw of the fair-haired man that night.

Jack immediately went about paying us twenty dollars apiece. One of the men said we should split up the money meant for the two dead men, and Jack said that was fine, but told us to throw them in the water.

I went straight to Tom, wanting to search his pockets for money. But Jack beat me to it, yet was good enough to give me the few bills and coins he found. Then I reached for Tom’s stave, but Jack snatched it from me.

So close, I took my first good look at Jack’s face. To my stunned disbelief, I realized he was the ward boss. But there was something more, there was a blood-colored nimbus about Jack’s head. It was the mark of evil.

His eyes lit up and he touched his chin, seeming to read my thoughts. “I know that look,” Jack said and laughed, staring into my eyes.

I clenched the dull end of the shiv in my pocket.

“I thought you were just a drunk, a useless sot for the soldier to shoot down, if so be it, but you’ve got ‘the sight.’ You can see things few others can.”

No one had ever said anything like that to me before. One of the reasons I drank so much, was to dull my senses. I was terrified of the things I saw at night, though most of it seemed just shadows of shadows.

“I could use a man like you,” Jack said. “Sober up and if things go right, you could take Tom’s place. Though if you do, you too would suffer the same fate if you tried to run off on me.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

-

(View of Brooklyn Heights, 1849 – Original lithograph)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (Greek Salad – food photos uncreditted)

No one goes to a diner in NYC unless you live in Staten Island and don’t know any better. I know Seinfeld did, but he went with a TV crew and George Costanza, and then made comic history. All I can think is because of that awesome show, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, the people from Jersey made a trend of diner fare and the insanity somehow seeped into Manhattan. Good for Jersey.

The other night we wound up at a diner in Midtown Manhattan. I was starving like marvin and the place we went to has a menu that’s like nine pages. I ordered a Greek salad, fries with cheese, extra white sauce on the side, and a Diet Pepsi. Also, one of the first things I did after we sat in a corner booth, was pour a dollop of catsup on my finger, just to make sure it was Heinz and that they weren’t filling the bottle up with something lesser–

Oh, I also ordered a side of falafel, which I plopped on top of my Greek salad. Do you care? Yes you dooooo!!!

(Falafel)

Now don’t ask me what everyone else ordered. The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) don’t speak a language I can understand. Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” is small and unassuming as was his meal, and though lady friend(LF) was right across from me, my food was piled so high and I was so hungry, I ate like a nut and hardly lifted my eyes.

The walls were mirrored, which is so cheesy. Though each booth had its own jukebox, but we just talked. No music. Oh, I’m wandering, or at least there was a point to this post.

(Tzatziki aka Greek white sauce)

We went to the diner to meet someone. Benny set the thing up. He didn’t say if it was a guy or a girl, just that they had insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets, and that they would enlighten me in ways he couldn’t.

But the food was awesome. I floated away on a garlicky cloud replete with Greek salad and white sauce. Oh!!! I ordered a side of half sour pickles, too. I like to dip them in the white sauce, just like I do the cheese fries. Though after I dip the fries into the white sauce, I dunk ‘em in the catsup. It’s delish! It would be great if somehow I could keep the cheese gooey the whole time. I wouldn’t mind a heat lamp hanging over the table while we ate. Nothing is more exciting than gooey-cheese fries, because once the cheese goes hard, the excitement goes away.

(Cheese fries)

Oh, sorry, I was there to meet someone. Benny, who is an old homeless man and seer, said this person lived a bunch of past lives and crap.

Over the meal we had this long conversation and I was making like I was paying attention, and was talking, but have no clue what the heck we talked about. I was so into the food; *my body sang electric yums! Thumb cocked, I kept pointing at my food. I don’t know why. Well, actually I do, ’cause it was sooooo guuuud!

After I finished, there wasn’t a crumb or bit of lettuce left on any of my plates, just wads of crumbled up napkins. In the mirror I saw my face was blotched.

(The bigger pickles in pic are the half sours I like)

When LF went to the ladies room, num and nuts followed, because that’s what they do–follow, follow, follow. I was left at the table with Benny sitting next to me. I caught him in the mirror looking at me expectantly.

“Where is this person I’m supposed to meet?” I asked, turning to give a sweeping glance at the diners. Heads bent over meals, drinks, and conversation, no returned my gaze. “Are they coming or not?”

The cigar store Indian met my gaze in the mirror with a smile, and continued to smile when the waitress handed me the bill, which I paid. On a side note, the one positive thing I’ll say about num and nuts, they will pay the bill next time, no questions.

“Let’s get out of here. That guy’s not coming,” I said to Benny, and slid heavily out of the booth.

“Here’s here,” Benny said.

I stood tall and looked around once more. No one seemed uncanny. Just as I caught my own reflection, Benny tapped my chest.”Here’s in here,” the old man said with a gap-toothed grin.

I wasn’t impressed. Sorry. Or at least I couldn’t process all Benny had told me. I ate too much and all the blood went to my stomach. I’m gonna have to digest this knowledge and get back to you.

(Mr Creosote – still from Monty Python’s movie “The Meaning of Life”)

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

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*”I Sing the Body Electric” by Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Brooklyn Bridge – historic Tobacco Warehouse – Photo and Photoshopped by Joe)

Okay, I’m back after a hiatus from posting. Who cares, right? No one. I sure as heck don’t.

Anyway, things haven’t been going so well on my side of the fence. I’ve been living at my boss Nick’s house, yet not going to work (though I do drag my butt out for job estimates). You’d think after weeks of not showing up at the job sites, Nick would say something, but to him I’m as inanimate as the couch or the table or the chairs. I don’t know who or what he cares about other than gambling, it sure ain’t me. I did ask him one college-football-Saturday if he wanted me to move out, and he just waved for me to move away from the TV. The man’s a stone. Whatever.

Most days I’ve been sleeping into the afternoon, and in the evenings I usually head over to this seaport dive on the Brooklyn side of the East River. I won’t say where the bar is exactly, except that it’s just outside the glitzy(to me it’s glitzy!) Brooklyn Bridge Park area, while the door to the place is three steps from one of my favorite views of the bridge. It’s a bar where you can really immerse yourself in the moment. The patrons tend to be euphoric and unbridled, particularly after midnight when rough-hewn characters begin to slip in among the crowd of slick-heeled wannabes. The dregs make a game of leering at the ladies, who don’t seem to mind much, though some give dagger-eyed looks. These men also love to violently cry out, sing, and yowl. I can hardly tell a word apart, or if they are truly singing or yelling at one another. Most peculiar is that although everyone sees and hears the dregs, they appear ghost-like, as they breeze in and out of the bar as if on jets of air. It’s no wonder that in looking back the day after, the night spent in the place always seems like a dream.

After one especially long night there, Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” popped up on me as I plodded to the subway. I can’t remember much of what he said, something about me having to change my ways, that I was on the path to becoming irrevocably nocturnal. It was all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Oh, he also said that I was messing with the type of forces that lure in the mind, only to consume the body. Whatever. I haven’t talked to him about it since. Though the next day he did orchestrate a meeting between me and my estranged lady friend(LF). I was dying to see her, and didn’t want her mad at me anymore. Benny even came along and did a lot of the talking. He really helped smooth things over between us.

-

In the week or so since LF and I have been back together, I haven’t gone to that seaport dive. Plus I’ve been working everyday and even going to the gym. She is my everything. I know that, and so do my readers. I won’t go into our reunion, though you can read about our breakup. It wasn’t my fault. A trickle of demon blood made me sick. Read Episode Thirty-Four and Episode Thirty-Five, if you want to know all about it.

Otherwise, because of the dose of demon blood from that runt of a kid I met at the “House on the River’s Edge“, I do get sick now and again. When it happens, besides the fact that I get a little nutty, my extrasensory perception sharpens. Though you’d be surprised, things get very clouded, and I usually have to search the streets really hard to see a ghost or true spirit matter. As far as the nuttiness, I won’t go on about it, except to say that no one should fear me. I don’t want to bite anyone. And I don’t get that crazy, so long as LF is with me. I trust in her, and know after a few hours, I’ll be fine.

Unfortunately, Since LF’s in my life again, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are back stepping on my tail. Not having seen them in two months, they appear more primitive and bizarre than ever. They seem thrust from a TV commercial, or sprung from the pages of a fashion magazine. They both work hard to evoke fashion-conscious personas; whether they’re on a street corner, at a bar, or at the dinner table waiting for a helping of garlic mashed potatoes, corn, cranberries, stuffing, and gravy, those two love to pose with pouty mouths and affected gestures. They are whacked, plain and simple.

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Today is my first day back living in the old apartment with LF and num and nuts. In a little while the four of us plus Benny are going out to dinner. Afterwards, Benny wants me to meet someone who can offer some insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets. It’s partly because I’ve been toying with writing a book on the subject. The old man thinks that’s a great idea, especially because he’s always telling me that I need to learn more about the supernatural to help myself. Benny says this person is someone who has lived many past lives, yada, yada. I don’t care. And as far as the book, I’ll be upfront and honest with you like I always am, I want to write it so I can make a few extra greenbacks. E-books are easy to do.

So, whatever, I’m really hungry and can’t wait to stuff my pie hole.

But I will say that I owe Benny one for bringing LF back into my life. I know I complain about the old man, and always say how I don’t trust him because he’s doesn’t tell me all he knows, but now I’m truly indebted to the bastard, that is, at least until I pay for his dinner tonight.

Thanks for reading.

Your friend,

Bald Punk aka Joe

P.S. I’m happy to be back blogging with you.

P.P.S.S. To that person from the Bronx with the demon problem, sorry I couldn’t help you directly, but let me know if my suggestions were of any help?

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels