From "Dreamlife of Dogs"

A very appropriate line, given my issues with "The Waltham Phantom" (the Cadmus/Flint short) and Flint himself. He is pretty well pissing me right off with his insubordination to Cadmus, along with his overly-active sense of irreverence.  And now the bastard is writing himself.  The only character who has ever done that has been Cadmus Pariah.  Having two autonomous creations in my head is pretty much a recipe for utter madness.  Anyway...the line.

"There the insolent rat is subdued and is stricken and shaken."

Yeah, that. That all over the damned place. Why? This is why...

 “You and I,” Cadmus said, his voice one of dead silence scattered amongst the lilies and dry leaves. “We are cut from the same cloth in many ways.”

“How...do you figure?”

Cadmus moved his head away from Flint, and averted his eyes back, giving Flint a sidewise glance that had the perfectly desired effect. Flint could not stop looking at him, so enthralled he was with the beatific Pariah.

“Well, Flint, it seems that you and I are the only Vampires to walk this Vale of Tears, who can mask our passing from others of our tribe. Only the very special can do this and, apparently, I am not the only one, when all this time, I thought that I was. This is a monumental discovery, my Absinthe-eyed friend.”

Flint smiled widely. “That was what he called me, the Vampire who brought me over.”

“Absinthe?”

“Yeah.”

“And you did not keep the name.  Why is this?”

Flint shrugged. “I preferred my own.”

“Flint.”

“Well, Simon Flynt, to be honest. But it just morphed into Flint in these contemporary times.”

Cadmus could not wrap his mind around this ridiculous Vampire. He tried very hard to mask the emotions that spilled over when he least expected them.

“So, you are telling me that you have not truly changed your name in over six...hundred...years...? And you abandoned a perfectly good name aligning yourself with a perfectly wondrous drug for this common little cognomen with which you were born into mortality?”

Cadmus felt his grasp of his Glamour slip a little, and saw Flint lean away from him, unsure as to what the Plenipotentiary was going to do. The hint of anger in the Pariah's voice disconcerted him enough to shake the unquestioning desire stabbing at his heart, if only for a few seconds. This was a dangerous creature, Flint surmised, and he must be very careful indeed.

But it was only a brief moment of hesitance before Flint was back in the throes of desire, sitting on this tree branch with the greatest of all the Darklings who still walked the Earth.

Cadmus had returned to his regal state of imperviousness, exuding every shred of Glamour he could muster on Flint without killing him with the enormity of it all. Flint seemed drunk from the effect...until he reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out an almost broken cigarette, popped it between his lips, and lit it with an equally bent match.

Cadmus did not know what to think of this. Flint should have been nigh to paralysed by Cadmus' magickal attentions. He knitted his brow and pursed his lips, watching the younger Vampire take a long drag off the scraggly fag. Flint cut his eyes back to Cadmus, full-on love shining in their strange greenness, and he said, “One of the great things about being a Vampire is you can abuse your body all you want and nothing ever affects it. You can smoke ten packs a day, and your lungs will remain like two pretty pink roses in your ribcage!”

The Dark Chylde of Night closed his endless eyes and pulled a deep breath, taking in the secondhand smoke along with the long gulps of oxygen he craved to calm his fury. What madman had turned this person to the night? Cadmus danced on the edge of desperation to know, so he could go murder him, if he were in fact still alive.

Filthy Looks

A few years ago in a random survey among friends on the general ‘appeal’ of Tim Roth, one ventured the following theory: “He looks like he’d be really filthy in bed.”

“Ho, ho,” we hooted and added absolutely nothing at all, because we just knew that Tim Roth, in his films, is a Bad Man with pervy eyes and the steadiest hand on the warmest gun; a charismatic man’s man who definitely Does It in lifts and in your mother’s kitchen while she’s trying to talk to you about your grandmother’s sheltered housing plans through the serving hatch. In real life he’s a small man with a big nose and we all know what that means, don’t we?

Later, in an interview, I put my friend’s theories concerning filth in general, and his filth in particular, to tiny Tim Roth. He looked up from his hotel sofa (he really is that small) and said, “Tell your friend she might be right about that one. Eheheheheheh”.

Whoa.

I just realised that, every time I see certain souls on Facebook, I leave. Like Laurence Fishburne in Event Horizon. I just click close and wait for the storm to pass.

I'm such a phobic idiot.

**EDIT** And I just did it again. But why the HELL is he up at 4 in the blasted morning? ... wait... O_O

Video Blog Time

God help us all. Here, I get my rant on about my hairdresser, to the heavenly strains of Electronic ("Feel the Beat") and Shriekback ("Despite Dense Weed"). Damn you iPod shuffle! Damn you all to hell!

Bald Barbie...REALLY?

This just really pisses me off.

I'm no fan of Barbie. Never have been. In fact, I would put my cousin's Barbies through my own version of the Auto da Fe. And that's never a good thing. But that was my idea of playing with dolls as a kid, so there you go.

As I got older and started really taking notice of Barbie, I found myself appalled at her buxom blonde persona, replete with dinky waist and feet suited only for high heels or Chinese binding.

Now Barbie has a "new friend." BALD BARBIE! She's just as wee-waisted, and probably still has godawful human hooves, but she's bald this time, in honour of all the little cancer babies out there.

And that just sets me into a whole other orbit of fury. It is just assumed by popular culture that you pretty much have to be dying if you're bald. Excuse me? Wait, what?! Just because you're bald doesn't mean you're going through some sort of chemo regimen. Just because you're bald doesn't mean you have to be pitied by the toy industry, or honoured by them, or what-the-hell-ever.

When they start calling Barbie Anorexia Barbie, then they might have leave to make a doll representing terminally ill bald people. In the meantime, stop harshing on people with no hair or people with a waistline that might be a bit more than negative 30...or people with fucking feet.

Assholes.

Is It Safe?

I figured to check to see if it was safe to go back to Facebook after being frightened away yet again. And I also figured I'd leave a humourous picture asking if it was safe. No one would get it, but it's my in-joke, so I don't care. Instead I found this. Even though it's hilarious, it really didn't help with my phobic inclinations. Now, I doubt it will ever be safe.