crumpled page from a notebook found in the subway
It is my belief that the origin myth of the vampires was tarnished from the very beginning. Think about it.
People from Prussia claiming the dead were rising, deceased they’d known, stealing their life force? Poor on poor murder?
It’s really no wonder the legend spread so fast over Europe. People will talk, people will tell that, in a mischievous way, the vampire epidemic and its resolution signaled the end of obscurantism.
A queen ordering her own personal physician to inquire on the matter. Allegedly one of the brightest minds of this era.
As is still often the case nowadays, rich people send other peeps to do their dirty work. And based solely on the accounts those two trustworthy accomplices, declared that no vampires had ever existed.
Sounds like Epstein to me. Sounds like rich white people innocenting one another.
I mean, if you think about it, the whole ordeal about them needing blood stemmed from the time. What ith excavation revealing pristine bodies with blood froth in their mouth.
Am pretty sure Stoker was onto something. Just like Polidori. Just like Le Fanu. Do you believe it a coincidence that every fiction released right after the fact centered around rich newcomers?
The aristocracy fearing the oligarchy. As if the noble of the time had finally learned from their skewed logic and were trying to warn the public at large.
A new organism, born from the slums. And it engulfed and engulfed until it could rise skywards. I feel the sheltered rotten fear those remnants of a corroded system exhaled while they shivered.
Do you really believe it wasn’t with an aim that vampires were dismissed so easily?
Think about it. Given enough time, vampire would become a comedy, a farce, with stories always taking place in the past.
They turned ’em into pornographic fetishes for god’s sake!
Did you ever wonder why every story presents them as irresistible? As fucking love interests. Fucking cadavers in maraud.
To me, there is really no question as to why their bestial nature only showed when they were adapted by down to earth filmmakers. Think Del Toro. Think Carpenter.
The trend depicting the vampire for the shitty rigid thing that it is ended quickly though.
But when a movie studio invests in a flick where the plot was devised behind closed doors by rich white people, soon the dead malethings turn bloody romantic?
I was eighteen when I got my first job. It was a dirty bloody one. Folding metal structures. The ones they put concrete over when rising buildings.
T’was a bloody job.
The pieces would burn our hands right through the gloves and the sharp edges would draw insane figures and freshest blood from the wounds of me and my brother.
We’d never see the bosses. We knew they were three brothers and our alcoholic colleagues often rejoiced when thinking of the inheritance war that would one day befell.
It used to make us laugh too.
Used to make me laugh.
That’s until Georges got hit. Right through the cranium. No one shall witness the wide eyes of their brothers when an iron spike impales his skull, when metal and bones and teeth are sprouting from his cheek.