Fit To Love - Part 3

 

This posting is a continuation of a novel, Fit To Love, that I am writing on Twitter.  It’s here, in case you are not a Twitterer.  Many are not.  On Twitter, each entry can be only 140 characters in length, including spaces.  This is a structure that requires a different kind of writing than any other.  Hmmm… 

As our last installment ended, our hero had been working out, developing himself into a man whose muscles called out to the softer parts of a woman and drew her to him like a magnet.  Or, so he thought.   So far, he has struck out at each encounter, but he is hopeful and determined.

The first three entries are in the Twitter format to give you a feel for this unique medium.

Heck, I didn’t want to be like that. I saw myself as debonair, suave, sophisticated, and a prince among men. Oh, who was I kidding? 7:36 AM Aug 15th, 2009 via twhirl

I WAS debonair, suave, sophisticated, and some kind of royalty. And, yet, just a guy. A guy who longed for a girl. I mean, woman. 7:59 AM Aug 16th, 2009 via twhirl

Exercise, for whatever purpose, is a noble thing. No matter your intentions, your heart will always benefit. Mine was pounding. 8:08 AM Aug 17th, 2009 via twhirl

It seemed everywhere I looked, each possibility was working out. At the treadmill. At the rowing machine. With the dumbbells.  

This was encouraging. Grandpa, a dumbbell himself, had always said, keeping everlastingly at it brought success.  He might not have had this in mind.

He would have thought I was crazy – he always did – but so what? This was wisdom in action.

I refined my search for love. I developed a set of principles. I decided I would not stand for failure. Love would conquer all. 

The next few times, at the club, I worked on myself, so to speak. In particular, my abs, which were more keg, than six-pack. 

Sure, I saw there were gorgeous women everywhere. But I was doing everything I could to prevent the kind of rejection I had gotten so far. 

I tried to keep my head down and my mind focused. One, two, three. One, two, three. That’s how elementary, it’s gonna be.

Simplicity was the key. Keep breathing. Don’t stop. Till you get enough. Ok, I wasn’t swearing, but these tunes were making me crazy. 

As I gazed at the mirror, I could see the progress I was making. I could also see a blond, with long legs, on the bike behind me.  

She was pedaling, but getting nowhere. Perhaps the time was right. I felt good. I would go over there and end her loneliness.

I walked nearer and gave a small wave. She looked at me and pedaled faster. Was I scary or something? What could I do? I smiled.

She skidded to a stop, leaned forward, and asked, ‘Was I going too fast?‘ Who was the flirt here? “No, but don’t let it happen again.” 

She tried not to smile. Wow, I was good! “Maybe we could ride together sometime? Or, get a cup of coffee?” Smooth devil. 

Our plan was to meet at Vic’s the next morning, before our workouts. I couldn’t sleep the night before. I had been practicing coffee.

I splashed on, “Eau de Love”, and pulled up my collar. I brushed my teeth and turned my eyebrows on extra cool. I headed out. 

The sun! Morning! I felt like a million bucks. Coffee was now as important to me as it was to normal people. Wow! Let the love begin. 

She was beautiful. She was a treat for sore eyes. No, a feast. Her complexion was creamy. Her hair was like frosting. I was hungry. 

Hungry for love. She smelled like coffee. No, that must have been what we ordered. That, and a couple of muffins.

The first thing she said was, Hi. It was like music. She kept talking and I was floating, like Pepe Le Pew, upon the sound of her voice.

I tried to tell her of my feelings. Of my endless, so far, search for love. She talked on, as if I wasn’t even there. She took a breath. 

I jumped in, but she blinked her eyes and asked for another muffin. I got it. She smiled and began again. I gazed at her, silent and sad.

I guess that, back at the gym, she had been exercising too hard to talk and now had returned to her regular M.O. OMG! Was she 4 real? 

After about 45 minutes, she looked at me, a little startled. Like I was someone she hadn’t yet been introduced to. Well, we did just meet.

 

House MD - Vampire Killer

 

 

“What’s House going to think of this?”

“His process is always going to be a mystery to me.  And, I really don’t care.”

Foreman went back to his reading.  It looked suspiciously like a comic book.

People had been dropping like flies all week, not that that was unusual.  To quote House, “There’re always more where they came from.”   

He was expected back any minute.  Dr. House had been on a forced vacation.  Orders from Cuddy.  No one knew where he was or how to get in touch with him, they only knew he wasn’t at the beach.  It was February and House hated the water.  “It’s wet,” he once famously explained.

“Did someone die in here?  I don’t recognize any signs of life.”  House stood in the door, leaning on his cane.  He had three additional days of beard and a scowl on his face. 

Foreman actually sat up – not a sign of respect, he was just reaching for a soda - and said facetiously, “Welcome back.”  He started to fill House in on the latest run of disease. 

“Just give me the good ones.”

Foreman looked over at Chase and began to relate how there had been four patients with unusual symptoms.  “Heavy loss of blood, puncture marks, and enlarged lymph nodes.”

House didn’t move.  “How enlarged?”

“Out of the ordinary.  Two of them died.”

“From node fat?  You guys are getting careless.”

Foreman took a deep breath, trying to control his temper.  He was already exasperated and House had just gotten back. 

Just then, Cuddy came up behind House, said “My office.” She turned and walked away.  House rolled his eyes and swung around, leaving the two doctors shaking their heads.

House closed the door to her office and said, ”I missed you, Sweetie.”

Cuddy ignored this and slapped a file down onto the desk for House to inspect.   He winked at her and leaned toward the file.  After a second, he sat down hard, in the chair.  He absently rubbed his bad leg.  He reached into his pocket, took out a small plastic pill bottle and emptied it into his mouth.

“Stop that!”

“Cuddy, this is serious.”

“Dead usually is.”

House shrugged.  “Maybe.” 

He turned and went to his office to think.

He closed the door and pulled the curtains.  He stared into the darkness.  He had hoped to never see a case like this.   But the file had said it all.  His mind traveled back to the scene of his accident.  The accident that was the cause of everything – his limp, his addiction, his attitude.  Well, maybe not his attitude, he had always been bent out of shape.

He had always said it was a motorcycle accident that had injured his leg, but there, in the darkness, he relived that moment the way it had really happened.  He was hiking in the Poconos, alone, the way he liked it.  It was getting dark and he was on his way back to his motorcycle (that part was true), when he heard a noise just off the trail.  He stopped and called out.  After a moment, he began walking again, and then two shadows appeared a few yards in front of him. 

One was man, he knew enough anatomy for that identification, and the other was a small dog.  The man was in black and the dog was a small mutt of some kind, also black.  He came closer and saw to his horror that both man and dog had eyes that were red and almost glowing and that they were breathing heavily.  On closer inspection, he saw that their mouths were stained with blood.

For a second, House considered the symptoms, but before he could reach any conclusion, the dog leapt for him and sunk his long incisors into House’s right leg.  Everything sped up then and all of them were screaming.

With a kick, House sent the dog flying and ran past the man toward his bike.  Luckily, it was pointed in the right direction and the engine started immediately.  House raced away, the blood gushing from his leg and covering the motorcycle. 

He rushed to the hospital, was treated, but never told anyone the real story.  He never had.  He tried to forget it and had almost convinced himself that he had actually been in an accident. 

Years passed, but now, faced with medical evidence that only he was crazy enough to recognize, he realized he had to do something to put an end to it.  He knew the truth and knew he couldn’t deny it any longer.  He had to stop this, before it grew into a deadly pandemic.  He was no longer just House MD, he must now become, House – Vampire Killer.

John Wayne - Demon Hunter

 

“I’ll tell you this, but don’t make too much of it.”

He cocked his head my way and, for a moment, squinted imposingly at me.  He turned then and looked away from the campfire, out into the darkness.  I had admired this man my entire life.  He was an icon.  A cowboy.  A soldier.  A hard-bitten, hard drinking, survivor of many battles and betrayals.  He always got his man and he always got even.

We had finished the interview that afternoon and I was going back to New York the next morning. 

 I assumed it was just a story.

“Well, kid, it sounds like one, but … “ He began coughing.  This went on for a while and I thought about the distance to the nearest town. 

He stopped at last and took a slug from the bottle we were passing back and forth.

He nodded his thanks. 

“We were in Europe filming The Longest Day.   It was wet as hell and wasn’t getting any better.  We couldn’t shoot and were just hanging around waiting.  At this point, we had been drunk for a couple of days.  This scrawny little kid came up and started pulling on my sleeve.  His English was terrible, but we got the idea that he needed our help. 

“He took me and Bob Mitchum to a little house.  A shack, really, and a woman, good looking, too, who spoke a little better than he did, told us a wild tale about some guy who lived in their village, a big shot.  Had a big house and all.

“The kid said his dad had gone to see this guy and never returned.  Bob and I rolled our eyes and told him he’d probably be back soon.  The kid and the woman were really worked up and convinced us to go see this guy.  What the hell, we thought.  We weren’t doing anything anyway.  Maybe we could help?

“By the time we got to the big house, it was dark and the weather had gotten worse, if that was possible.  We knocked at this huge door that looked as if it had been there forever.”

He started coughing again and I wondered if he was really sick or doing this for effect.  He took another swig.  He was quiet, immobile, as if he were looking into the past.

“And… “ I prompted.

“Well, we were kept waiting there, while the butler, or whatever he was, went to get the guy.  He finally appeared and looked like Halloween, only scarier.   Cape, black hair, the whole thing.  Bob started laughing and said, ‘Count, we’re very glad to meet you.’  He was a tall guy and bowed toward us and smiled.  His teeth looked huge and sharp.   His gums were blood red.  The boy and his mother hid behind us.

“Well, as I said, I was pretty looped, but this guy scared me plenty and I wanted to get the hell out of there.   I blurted out, ‘What about his dad?’

“The count, or whatever he was, drew himself up and his smile turned nasty.  He raised his arms and was holding the cape out at his sides, like he was going to take off or something.

“Bob, in that smooth manner and deep voice he had, slowly buttered him up and we made our apologies and left.  I felt like a little girl, but we almost ran back to the village.   That’s the way the whole thing started.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus is right.  Scared the hell out of me.  We talked about it all night and went back the next day, but the whole placed was closed up.  It was as if no one had ever been there. 

“Before we went back to the States, I promised both of them I’d try to find out what had happened.  That was the beginning of something that has been as important to me as my career and has been a part of my life ever since.  I’m not going to tell you anymore than that.  So, don’t even bother asking.”

“Are you kidding?  What a story!”

He looked at me, nailing me with his good eye. 

“Kid, it isn’t a story.  And, if anyone asks me about it, I’ll deny it.”

That’s the way we left it.  I thought about it all the way back to New York.   It was unbelievable and, maybe he was just putting me on, but it’s something I’ve never forgotten.  It’s haunted me ever since.

The Case of the Mysterious Kegger

The Hardy Boys - Teenage Demon Hunters

“Do you think that man looks a little strange?” whispered Joe Hardy, as he peeked from behind the curtain of the upstairs bedroom window.  “He looks disturbed.”

The man in question was walking away from their house and appeared hunched over, with the collar of his coat pulled high, near his face.

His brother suggested they go down and ask Aunt Gertrude, “She just talked with him.”

Joe took off and jumped down the stairs, two at a time.  He was blonde, seventeen, and impatient.  His brother, Frank, was a year older, dark-haired and much more mature, though Joe sometimes wanted to debate this point.  For the moment, they were both clueless. 

“Aunt Gertrude, what did that man want?”  Joe blurted out.

“That was no man, Joe.  That was your friend, Chet Morton, and I don’t mind saying he looked terrible.”

“Chet!?” the brothers asked in unison.

“From upstairs, I couldn’t even tell it was him.  He.  Him.  Whatever.”

“He did look strange.” Frank confirmed.

“Well, I didn’t let him in.  He was scaring me.  He was raving about something.  Something about blood and a lot of other disgusting stuff.”  Gertrude, a dark-haired woman, was the sister of Fenton Hardy, the boy’s father.  She lived with them and kept the house.  No one was sure what had happened to the boy’s mother and Fenton would never talk about it.

“Chet?  That doesn’t sound like him.”  Frank wore an expression of concern on his brow.

“I’m not sure it was.” said Aunt Gertrude.

“Gee, G, what do you mean?” Joe asked.

Gertrude just kept shaking her head and stared out the screen door.

The fellows packed a couple of sandwiches and headed out to Chet’s home, on the other side of town.  Bayport had been a quiet place, until the Hardy family moved in.   Had things just started happening or was it the fact that their father was a private detective and the boys had begun helping him, as amateur sleuths?

Chet’s parents were away for the weekend that had just started.  Chet must have been on the lookout for them and met them at the door.  The inside of the house was dark, with all the curtains pulled tight.  Chet didn’t open the screen door and was kind of hidden in the shadows.

Both Frank and Joe thought this was odd, but Chet had always been a little different.

“Hey, guys, come back after dark and let’s have a kegger.” He shut the door  quickly, without giving either of them a chance to speak.  The boys stared at each other.

Frank said, “What an odd thing for Chet to say.”

“Yeah, and he was acting really weird.  I wonder what’s gotten into him.  Aunt Gertrude was right.  He looks terrible.”

“Don’t tell Dad.  We’ll come back tonight and find out what’s wrong.”

The night was a blustery one.  Leaves were blowing by and Joe pulled his jacket closed.  There was barely a moon out and this put both the boys a bit on edge.  When they got to Chet’s, it looked deserted.  The whole house was dark. 

“This is creepy,” whined Joe.

“I guess he’s not home,” said Frank, with a note of relief in his voice.

Just then, the door opened a crack and they heard a voice like Chet’s say, “Come on in.”

They came closer to the darkened house.   They were going up the steps of the porch toward the open door, when they heard a moaning coming from the lilac bushes on the right.  Frank turned and rustled about, but couldn’t see anything.

Joe called, “Hey, Chet!”

It was silent for a moment and then they both heard a shout.  It sounded like Chet.  They rushed in and the door closed behind them, with a slam.  At the same time, in the darkness, a large shadow rushed at them and tackled Joe.  This wasn’t a practical joke on Chet’s part.  Something was really wrong.

Both boys struggled with the shadow and it seemed it was everywhere and possessed superhuman strength.  It was growling and breathing heavily, with breath that could have stopped a clock and them, except, at the moment, time was the least of their worries. 

They caught flashes of what looked like a monster, not Chet.  Whatever it was, it was stronger than both of them together and Frank made the sensible decision to leave.  He managed to trip the beast, grab Joe, and fled through the door.  They didn’t stop running until they got to Willow River road.

Trying to catch his breath, Joe gasped, “That was awful!  I hate Chet.  I’m never going back there.”

Frank, composed, even after the incident, said, “We have to go back.  Chet’s in trouble.”

“He tried to kill us!”

Frank looked Joe straight in the eyes, “He didn’t want to kill us.  He wanted to convert us.  He wanted to bite our necks. “

“You mean…”

Frank nodded somberly, “Yes, Chet is a vampire.  A demon.  A zombie.”

“Hey, I know you never liked him as much as I did, but …”

Without speaking, Frank continued to confront his brother.

Joe turned away and said, “Oh, no.  Not another one?”

Frank nodded again.  “We better get Aunt Gertrude to give us some garlic.”

 

The Site of the Bite

Ernest Hemingway, Demon Hunter

Ernest Hemingway was a humorless man.  But he was a clever one.  He wrote many stories.  Some were longer than others.  He liked to hunt and he killed what he liked.  This did not help his humor.  He was loved by many women, but could not love them back.  He romanticized many things and was a survivalist.  War was in his nature.  Truth was in his heart.  His beard was on his face.

Once, in Barcelona, he met a man.  They shared a few drinks.  They argued late into the night, which was a sure sign of Hemingway’s friendship.  In a haze of conviviality, the man leaned toward Hemingway, who thought he was about to be kissed.  Shocked, H stood up abruptly and upset the table with their drinks.  He didn’t see the sly smile on the man’s face, who went quickly out the door.

This incident, though treated as a joke by H’s buddies, bothered him more than it should have.  A sense of humor might have helped at this point.  But, as you know, that was like wishing for rain, in a dry country. 

Several days later, Hemingway saw this same man on the other side of a room, where he was attending a party.  Their eyes met and, this time, H saw that smile.  He confronted the man, who only said he wanted to get to know him better.  Hemingway said, “How much better?”  The man answered, “Let me show you a little trick.”

By this time, several partygoers were looking on.  The man moved his hands like a magician and following these, Hemingway was taken by surprise, as the man suddenly, but gently, leaned over and bit his neck.  H reflexively raised his hand to the site of the bite.  When he brought it down, everyone could see the blood.  He started to say something, in an immoderate tone, but the man had vanished.

H looked round, the victim of this urbane, but hideous creature.  H was red and furious.  He tried to make a joke to the people gathered there, but, of course, the joke fell flat.  He said, That Dracula son of a bitch! 

At the time, He didn’t know how close to the truth he was.  Though he gave no sign, he made a vow in that moment, to find and kill the man who had so completely scared and humiliated him.  This was how Hemingway, now haunted by this mysterious and, somehow, erotic encounter, became known not only as a celebrated writer, defined by his own ideas of masculinity, but also a dedicated and persistent Demon Hunter.  His nights would never be the same again.

Indeed, many years later, in Cuba, desperately tired of the campaign he had waged against the Demons for so long, and losing his will, he famously took his own life.  Hunters come and go, but the creatures of the night, eternally on the prowl and dashing, in their own way, continue to disturb and taunt mankind throughout the ages.

Lassie - Vampire Hunter

Timmy and Porky were out in the woods with Lassie in the lead.  She had been acting funny, lately.  They both had noticed it. 

Porky said, “Not funny, ha ha, but funny strange.”  Timmy nodded because he was Porky’s friend.

The last few days Lassie had been insistent about their rambling.  It was as if she were on a mission.  Strange, indeed.  Yesterday, after they broke for lunch, Lassie had frozen, paw up, pointing at something.  Timmy couldn’t figure it out.  She was a Collie. 

Today, the sun was beginning to set, but Lassie insisted they go a bit farther.  They weren’t familiar with this part of the woods and they were a little nervous.  To change the mood, Timmy told Porky the joke about the mechanic and the bus driver.  They cackled with abandon, even though they had both heard it before.  They knew it well and had even told it to each other over the last few days.   As Timmy said, if a joke is good, it’s good. 

This lighter moment didn’t last.  Lassie wasn’t laughing.  She was pointing again.  She was looking intently at the trees and sniffing the air.  It was growing darker and the boys were concerned that nothing seemed to look familiar.

“Timmy?”  Porky pointed at Lassie.  “She’s doing it again.  This is kind of creepy.”

“I know.  I don’t get it.” 

Timmy’s big eyes had a look of concern for his pal. 

Porky said, “We should go home.  I’m hungry.” 

But what he meant was that he was scared.

Timmy called to her.

“Lassie?  What’s going on?  Lassie…”

She gave him a look he couldn’t translate and turned quickly back to the woods.  She gave a low growl and then began to bark loudly.

“What is it girl?  A well?  A mine shaft?  Quicksand?”

Suddenly, they heard a scream.  It was in front of them, further up the trail.  Lassie bolted.

The boys ran toward it, trying to follow Lassie, even as the scream grew in desperation.  The hair on the back of their necks stood on end, like frightened soldiers.  They rounded a curve in the path that skirted a large boulder, and found a scene that would haunt them for the rest of their lives. 

A girl, not much older than they were, was in the rude grasp of a tall man in black.  He was shaking her and looked as if he was trying to kiss her.  With a shock, Timmy and Porky recognized her as Becky, the Olson girl, from the next farm over.  They thought kissing was gross, but obviously Becky was trying to get away from the tall stranger.  

Timmy drew himself up to his full height and yelled, “Let her go or I’ll…  I’ll…”

The stranger, without releasing the girl, turned toward the threesome and snarled at them.  Like an animal.  His eyes were glowing red and he had a scrawny beard.

“Or, what, you bean-sized blonde blob?  I‘ll deal with you two, after I’m done with her.  You look like tasty little morsels.” 

The man laughed and threw his head back, causing his top hat to fall off and into the bushes.  Timmy and Porky turned to each other and, at the same time, cried, “Abe!”

It was impossible, yet there he was.   No one else had ever had a face like that.   They were really scared now.

Lassie bared her teeth and did a little snarling of her own.  The man spat into the dust and, in the twilight, they saw him bend toward the girl.  As he did, his mouth opened unnaturally wide.  He looked like an animal with fangs extended, which dripped some kind of disgusting venom.  

That’s when they gasped with shock.  It wasn’t just Abe, strange as that was, but Abe was a vampire!  It was obvious. 

Porky said, “We just had President’s Day off.” 

They couldn’t move.

Lassie, who didn’t know much about history, but knew a lot of other things, leapt at this cruel and deranged man and sunk her own incisors into his arm. 

He let the girl go, as he fought for his life with the enraged Lassie.  Whorls of dust rose and all Timmy and Porky could see was the rolling bundle of dog and man. Every now and then, a raised paw appeared or a hairy fist or a big black boot.  The boys covered their ears, but it was no use.   They couldn’t block out the unearthly growling coming from this unnatural union.

At last, the dust settled and Lassie emerged victorious.  Not only had she subdued the man, who either was Abe Lincoln or a very talented re-enactor, but she had also tied him up with the tie he had previously worn around his neck. 

Becky was crying and Porky looked at Timmy, rolled his eyes, and mouthed the word, “Girls.”  But, truthfully, he felt like crying, too.  What would they have done without their best friend, who now stood over, well, stood next to, this tall creature of the night?

“Porky, you go on ahead and get Mom and have her call Mr. Olson.  Have her bring the gun and hurry.  I’ll walk with Becky and Lassie will take care of Abe.”

Porky said, “Why don’t you go and I’ll walk with Becky?”

“No, you.”

“No, you!”

Lassie looked back and forth at the boys and was about to bite one of them, herself, if they didn’t stop arguing, when Porky threw his hat to the ground and said, “Dog gone it, Timmy!”

He stopped himself and looked at Lassie. 

“Sorry, girl.  Okay, I’ll go.”

Timmy smiled and then said, “Thank God for Lassie.  What would we have done without you?”

Lassie turned back to Abe, pretending not to hear.  She knew she was just one of a larger brotherhood of Vampire Hunters, a brotherhood that had existed throughout time and throughout the world.  She couldn’t be sure, of course, but she thought she was probably the best-looking one of the whole bunch. 

Timmy interrupted her reverie, by saying, “Girl, it’s getting late.  We better get home for supper.”

Feedback, so far.

The PDF and the downloadable Ebook edition of Ringer's Secret School of Writing's, Learn To Write Creatively has been out about two weeks now and I would like to share some of the great feedback we've received.

Thanks to everyone who is a part of this.      Book available at www.secretschool.com

Now, I see how to do it.  – James Thurber

This guy cracks me up. – Humpty Dumpty

He’s got a beard, like me. – Ernest Hemingway

What’s a metaphor, anyway? – Herman Melville

So helpful, it’s scary.  – Edgar Allan Poe

I wish they’d translate this.  – Pablo Neruda

What the hell, try it.  - Raymond Chandler

Get a pencil, some paper, and a bottle.  – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Pretty dramatic, sometimes far-fetched, but quite entertaining. – Charles Dickens

I read this before I left home. – Thomas Wolfe

I certify that it is made in the USA. - #12

A hell of a book. – Dante

Now I get it. -  James Joyce

A complete fantasy. – J.R.R. Tolkien

He can spell. - Miss Swann

As Good As My Word

It’s not like me to say one thing and do another.  Sometimes, I want to and, sometimes, I try to, but there’s something going on that prohibits it.  It’s like a natural law – the law of gravity, the two poles of magnetism, or photosynthesis.  I can’t control it.

For example, I say I’m going to clean the garage.  It’s not like me to say that and not do it.  Of course, I take the long perspective on things and maybe I don’t clean the garage that afternoon.  It may be next week.  Or, it may be next year, but, by God, I’m going to do it.  I haven’t forgotten.

It works for me.  My wife, on the other hand, doesn’t see it like this.  She just sees the garage the way it’s always been.  She doesn’t understand the depth of my principles and the tenacity that is at the very core of my being.

I’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she has some kind of physical reaction to this kind of talk that makes her roll her eyes and turn away.  I try to reason with her and defend myself.  At least, I used to, in the beginning.

Now, I just let it go.  I think it’s an age thing.  At this point in my life, I’ve gotten to know myself fairly well and, at this point in my marriage, though I would never mention it, I have a pretty good idea of how my wife operates.

Nonetheless, I can maintain my equilibrium, because I know how I am.  That garage is in my sights.  It’s only a matter of time.  I am girding my loins, so to speak, to follow through on my promise.  I say promise, because my word is my bond. 

Fiends From Suburbia

“I want to bite your neck.”  I always thought that statement was funny and kind of endearing.  With his cape raised in his outstretched arms, in imitation of a bat, Bela Lugosi was intent on bloody fulfillment.  He was resigned to his nature, but when he wasn’t actually sucking blood, he appeared a little embarrassed by his condition. 

Things have come a long way since then.  Once a quaint addition to literature and Hollywood, this idea of sucking your blood seems to have become pervasive and a staple of modern life.  You can’t turn around, without someone wanting to bite you.  Teenagers are especially dangerous.  It appears that vampirism is part of that whole mess called, adolescence, and is unavoidable, if you want to graduate from high school. 

In the last quarter of the twentieth-century – I love to say that – the author, Ann Rice, revived vampire mania with her books.  It was exciting.  The Interview was maybe the only book I actually stayed up all night to finish.  (Unemployment makes for cultural possibility.)  But after two or three volumes, the obsession with blood became too much.  It was all these characters thought about.  All of us were potential donors.

I was relieved to leave them in the wake of Gravity’s Rainbow or George and Martha Go to the Zoo.  I thought of it, as just a phase in both my own development and our advancing culture.  Boy, was I naïve.

Things were pretty quiet, for a while, until Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt had to make their fangs known to all.  You can still see them on cable.  Hollywood B movies, once forgotten, were raised from the dead and are now all over the Web.  Everywhere, the Living Dead, vampires of various descriptions, and Zombies from Denmark, seem to have taken on a life of their own, so to speak.  Books, movies, apps.  The paranormal is now much more normal than you think.

Some of our children are possessed.  They wander the streets, Goth-garbed, in search of pale, low-energy, but deadly sensation.  I am, once more, afraid of the dark and suspicious of anyone with a certain glint in their eye.  It’s possible they’re not really my friends.  They might want to recruit me to their ranks. The ranks of the living dead - those who must live by night, complicating their lives with an endless search for an almost orgasmic kind of bloody sustenance.  Kind of creepy.

But that was okay by me; everyone has a right to pursue their dreams.  Sure, it was obsessive.  And, gross.  Not to mention, anti-social, which is probably the point, but you have to draw the line somewhere.  Despite the incredible boost to literacy that all this has provided, I knew I had to speak out when I encountered the book, Abraham Lincoln – Vampire Hunter.  That is going a little too far.

My memories of Abe have been informed by history, or somewhat factual anecdote, as it’s often called.  Of course, we don’t know everything he did, but I’m sure he had his hands full with the Civil War and his own domestic challenges.  The poor guy can’t defend against this kind of historical revisionism.  And, though it’s more complimentary than, Abraham Lincoln – Incompetent Chef, I can’t help but think this is just plain wrong.  What’s next?  George Washington – Wife Beater?

I’m a fan of imagination, but imagining weird stuff, just because it’s weird, seems weird to me.  If you actually have an imagination, wouldn’t it be more imaginative to think up something that moves the world (and us with it) forward to an ongoing, imaginative fulfillment of true love, cosmic exploration, and spiritual enlightenment?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Pollyanna.  I still howl, when the moon is full.  But, even Frankenstein wanted to be friends with that little girl and, by extension, the rest of us.

I’ve had it with blood.  And, guts.  And, scary stuff.  Discovery, possibility, and redemption seem to be much more in line with the spirit of everything that life’s about, rather than fear, possession, and darkness.

I’m all for donating blood, but not to these guys.

Fit To Love Part II

At this point, the sweat was pouring off me. I thought, I’m probably looking my best. I turned to a sweet-looking girl to my left. I smiled.

Right away, I could tell she was nervous, too. She felt my presence and barked, “What are you looking at?” I, silently, checked my pulse.

I hadn’t expected this reaction. Maybe, I wasn’t the prime specimen of manhood I thought I was. I returned to the mirror. Was, too!

The heck with that, I thought. I puffed up my chest, held my head high and strode to the water fountain. Love was all around me. Somewhere.

My next visit to the club was better. Or, so I thought at first. I was dressed to kill. Too violent? Let’s say, I was barely clothed.

Or, provocatively clothed. A wolf in sheep’s workout attire? A macho man in a sleeveless T? A dreamboat stripped for action?

A fiend, masked as a… Enough! I was ready for whatever came my way. I knew I was Born to be Wild. I had heard that on the way over.

I pretended to look at the clock, but I was surveying the battlefield. Violent? Again. War of the Sexes? Where was this imagery coming from?

What I really wanted was love. Does that sound sappy? I don’t care. It’s true. I hoped there was someone who agreed.

I was hearing music, sweet music, in my head, and trying to squeeze between the leg lift and the bicep machine, when I saw her.

Well, really, I only saw part of her. She was tying her shoes. At least, I thought so. When she straightened up, she held a huge barbell.

She was what Mom would call statuesque. What Dad would call an Amazon. She could have been an East German shot putter of old. Except…

She wasn’t old and she was probably from California. Not only that, she was the strongest woman I had ever seen. Heck, ever imagined.

She glowed with health. The light refracted off her sweat. Each muscle, no matter how small, was enunciating like a speech teacher.

Allow me to be carried away by love - Her teeth were like a dentist’s assistant’s. Her eyes, burning coals. Her arms like Jesse Ventura’s.

Her two, red lips were like a Burma Shave sign, saying, As you go, Along the way, Don’t forget, To stop and play.

She was like the Colossus of Rhodes. Or, she, at least, had long shapely legs about 50 feet high. With Nikes at the end of each.

With her eyes closed, it was safe to take a close look at her. No fantasy, she was real. The barbell above her head kept me at a distance.

I’m no Shakespeare, but I called out… "Juliet?" One eye opened and looked down at me. I knew, right then, that Juliet was not her name.

I gazed up at her, sweetly, but felt she wanted something else. So I smirked, “You gorgeous hunk.” The one eye closed. The moment passed.

Though possibility was everywhere, I was starting to believe that true love or even a good time, was going to be hard to come by.

I decided to settle down and begin my exercise in earnest. I’d become so ripped, I think they call it, that none of them could resist.

I huffed, I puffed, I lifted, I repeated. And, repeated. And, repeated. Would I ever be able to hold a conversation after this?

Maybe it was like manual labor, where your language skills devolved with each effort and, at the end of things, all you could do was swear.

Fit To Love Part I

I have another novel on Twitter that has been going for months.  There’s no end in sight.  It is the tale of a love-starved young man, who thinks there is a close relationship between fitness and romance. 

Just for info’s sake, Twitter is social media that allows postings of up to 140 characters.  That 140 character limit includes not only letters and punctuation, but also spaces.  This imposes a structure on the author that requires different skills and techniques than other sorts of composition.

I’m including the first two or three, in their Twitter format, and, then, I go narrative on you.

Fit To Love

I admit it. I was looking for love. And, if not love, something similar and, possibly, less complicated. I thought I was prepared for this. 8:32 PM Jul 22nd, 2009 from twhirl

I was romantic. At least, I looked it. Eyes - piercing. Eyebrows – devilishly wiggly. Teeth – lasered, a possible interrogation tool. 12:51 PM Jul 23rd, 2009 from twhirl

To some, I was hot. To myself, incandescent. I felt I looked best under effort. It could be working out, rocking out, or in the sack. 8:44 AM Jul 24th, 2009 from twhirl

In the sack. I know that’s kind of crude, but try to picture it.

Okay, don’t. But I joined this health club for a reason. And, it wasn’t to lose weight, improve my circulatory system, or the cheap dues.

That’s right. As I said, it was love. This was where the babes were. My sister told me so, though she called them ‘the cute girls.’

I am not a sexist pig. I’m not a pig, at all. I’m anxious. I talk like this when I’m nervous and who wouldn’t be? This was Babe Central.

They were everywhere. Athletes, models, girlfriends, wives. I just hoped they wanted love as much as I did.

They called it their routine, yet it was anything but routine, to me. I kept blinking and shaking the sweat out of my eyes. I was amazed.

Shortly, I began to get the looks. A girl in blue shorts and a tank top came over and asked if I was having a seizure. I couldn’t speak.

When I only stared, I thought she took it as a sign. But, she turned, muttering, “Creep.” Crushed, I mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”

I could have waited forever, but I didn’t. I had my own routine. I knew I needed practice. I grabbed a dumbbell and faced the mirror.

I was lop-sided. I grabbed the other dumbbell and brought it to my chin. A bit too enthusiastically. I recovered and wiggled my eyebrows.

My head tilted to one side, I practiced, “Hi, doll.” No. No. Calm down, Eddie, I told myself. “Ma’am, I like you.” Ma’am?

Okay, I was nervous. Here, in a heaven created by the changing ideals of a culture gone whacko, we were all supposed to be beautiful.

I’m not only romantic, I’m a philosopher. My philosophy is: we’re young, we’re in shape, let’s fall in love. Is that too esoteric?

I’m also practical and I knew that I needed to live up to the same standards I was holding other people to. I kept the elliptical churning.