Sonja Blue - Paint It Black Part 1

Paint It Black.

Sonja Blue.

By Nancy A. Collins.

PRELUDE.

Particularly.

When something like a dog is barking.

When something like a goose is born a freak.

When something like a fox is luminous.

When something like a tortoise crystallizes.

When something like a wolf slides by.

All these things are harmful to the health of man.

Hagiwara Sakataro, 'Harmful Animals'.

It's a beautiful world.

I look out across the predawn rooftops. Most of the buildings are still dark, except for scattered windows that mark early risers and insomniacs. The moon is down and the sun has yet to make its appearance, leaving the city to a darkness that is deeper than midnight. Now is the time for the changing of the guard.

I look down on the streets from my perch and watch the night things begin their retreat. I don't mean prost.i.tutes and drunkards and other so-called 'night owls'. I refer to creatures that are genuinely nocturnal. Things that shrink from the first touch of the sun's rays for fear of burning.

A succubus wearing the outer appearance of a crack wh.o.r.e is bartering with a drunken older man. The succubus lifts its head, nostrils flaring as it scents the coming dawn, and speeds up the transaction. The older man seems pleased that he is getting such a good deal on p.u.s.s.y as they stagger into a darkened alley. I doubt he'll think it's such a bargain when, in the middle of his five-dollar f.u.c.k, the wh.o.r.e's body starts revealing razored mouths in places he never dreamed of.

I spot a pack of vargr making their way down a connecting Street. The early hour and the accompanying darkness have made them bold, and they run in their skins. They are young, at least by werewolf standards, and still given to such acts of rebellion. They lope along, two abreast and three deep, almost on all fours. They snap and growl and bark at the shadows. Any human unlucky enough to encounter them might, at first glance, mistake them for a pack of feral dogs - household pets gone wild.

But once they stood up on their hind legs, baying to signal an attack, the illusion would be torn asunder and the truth revealed.

For all the good it would do their victim. The werewolves pa.s.s by quickly, headed in the direction of the abandoned warehouses lining the river front where they make their den.

Not long after the vargr run past a homeless man emerges from a p.i.s.s-soaked doorway. He is dressed in rags, his feet encased in busted-out boots stuffed full of newspaper. I study him more closely, thinking he might be a seraphim in disguise.

But no, he is a genuine vagrant. He is probably old, but it is hard to tell for sure because of the grime caking his hands and face. He might be black, maybe not. He is clutching an empty vodka bottle in one hand and muttering aloud to himself. He tilts back the bottle, tonguing the neck for one last drop. His brow furrows when he realizes it's empty and, in a sudden burst of rage, he shrieks an obscenity and hurls the bottle to the curb. The sound it makes as it breaks is impressively loud in the predawn silence.

The b.u.m seems to find a certain pleasure in making noise and continues to do so. He rants at the top of his voice, his ravings bouncing off the surrounding buildings like a handball. He finds a garbage can to knock over and kick A bottle or two to dash against the curb. Just as he seems to be losing steam, there is the sound of leathery wings and he is gone.

I look up in time to spot a large black shape silhouetted against the dark sky. It looks to be carrying something almost as large as itself in its talons. No doubt a diligent gargoyle matriarch out hunting for prey to feed her hungry chicks.

As the sky begins to slowly lighten, I spot my own prey. It moves swiftly, clinging to the shadows as it hurries to its nest. Its pallid features and blood-red eyes make me want to puke. I hate these creatures more than all the other Pretending races combined.

The very sight of them makes my palms itch and my gut tighten. All I want to do is drive my silver switchblade deep into their worm-fed hearts. f.u.c.king lousy bloodsuckers.

I do not want to lose the vampire's trail, so I abandon my perch.

I grin in antic.i.p.ation of the slaughter that is to follow, the morning breeze chill against my exposed fangs. Without further delay, I crawl headfirst down the side of the four-storey building I've been using as my observation tower and hurry after my victim.

It's a beautiful world.

From the diaries of Sonja Blue.

Part_1.

When the Dead Love.

I am the Vampire at my own veins one of the great lost horde doomed for the rest of time, and beyond, 'to laugh - but smile no more.'

Baudelaire, 'Heauton Timo Roumenos'.

Isee the world through ancient eyes.

They are not the eyes of an old man, dimmed by age and clouded by cataracts. And while my mind is filled with memories, unlike humans, I never find myself lost in the tangle of interconnecting a.s.sociation or the fog of recollection.

My time on earth has been tenfold that of the oldest human. I am ancient. But I am not old. I stand outside the time stream that ages mortal flesh, making bones brittle as gla.s.s, teeth crack like chalk. I need never fear that my world will telescope downward to what little light and sound can be strained through failing sensory apparatus.

I look upon some of the aged creatures I myself have personally known and sported with in years past and marvel at their irretrievable descent into decay. A breast that was once as succulent and firm as a fresh melon is now a withered dug, hanging flat and wrinkled. A p.e.n.i.s, once proud and full of the malt of life, is now only good for the elimination of waste.

This is mankind's heritage. Its destiny. All of humanity's triumphs and advances -- its art, science, technology, and philosophy -- reduced to a lump of sweating flesh, straining on a nameless bed. Being mortal as individuals, humans seek to embrace eternity as a species. And while I consider such attempts at 'immortality' laughable, through their relentless breeding they have succeeded in maintaining a certain continunity throughout the centuries.

I have kept a journal for seven hundred years.

There are literally thousands of volumes, stored in a hundred different hiding places scattered over three continents. I have no genuine memories of my life as a human, except for those preserved in faded ink on these crumbling pages.

The sentiments, dreams, and fears expressed in those earliest entries belong to a creature forever beyond my ken, thanks be to the forces that made me.

Still, humans have their uses. Of course they provide my kind with sustenance; that deep red vintage that is so much sweeter when stolen from its host. That much goes without saying. But there are other, more subtle, more . . . rarefied pleasures to be had at their expense.

Allow me to elaborate . . .

There are several nightclubs in this city that cater to those humans whose personal tastes, like those of my own kind, have nothing to do with procreation. There is one club in particular The Ossuary - I enjoy frequenting. It's located in the meat-packing district. In fact, I was there just last night. The exterior of The Ossuary is very unprepossessing, no different from the rest of the drab warehouses lining the street. But the interior is, by human standards, quite inspired.

The walls are painted matt black and festooned with the bones of the various beasts who have met their fate at the hands of the neighbors. The boiled, peeled, and bleached skulls of creatures bovine, porcine, caprine, and equine stare blankly at the prancing hairless primates responsible for their destruction, bearing mute witness to the rituals of orchestrated pain and degradation played out before their empty sockets.

Entry to The Ossuary's dank pleasure rooms is expensive - the cost of membership runs in the low four figures. One-time 'tickets of pa.s.sage' for curious visitors can cost upwards of fifty dollars apiece, and there's always a line to get in. The bouncer nods his head in recognition as I move to the head of the line, stepping aside to allow me pa.s.sage. They know me here, as I am known in dozens of similar establishments throughout the rest of the Americas, Europe, and Asia.

I breeze past the combination dressing-undressing room, where the club's regulars change into their preferred costumes for the evening' s entertainment.

I have no need for such theatrics. The thump of the disco and the smell of dry ice make me smile, ever so slightly, in antic.i.p.ation of the night' s hunt.

The cavernous main room is filled with people, both well dressed and naked, milling about under the strobe lights. Beautiful fashion models, made trim and perfect by strict diets and surgery, move amongst tattooed and creatively pierced grotesques.

A stylishly dressed businessman, looking like he's just vacated a wall street brokerage house, his power tie loosed slightly at the collar, leans against the bar, watching the ma.s.sive video screen suspended from the ceiling that shows vintage Times Square p.o.r.no loops, groping the tightly trussed rear of a transvest.i.te between sips of draft beer.

Studding the main room are several tableaux areas: a rack; a man-sized doghouse, complete with food bowl; a mirrored jail cell; manacles and stocks of every description. Some of the equipment is available for use by patrons, for a nominal fee.

The snap and crack of whigs, rods, and paddles on wriggling backsides fills the air.

I scan the a.s.semblage for potential prey. I spot a beautifully coiffured blonde sitting on a bar stool, staring imperiously into s.p.a.ce as a drudge licks her boots clean, a second slave kneeling before her so he can suck her fingers, one at a time.

I contemplate her for a moment, then pa.s.s on. While taking one such as herself would no doubt prove amusing, I seek a different diversion for my night's pleasure.

I watch dispa.s.sionately as a young girl dressed only in leather boots and a blindfold is strung up by her hands. As she balances precariously on tiptoe, her partner dribbles hot wax onto her exposed b.u.t.tocks. She whimpers and wiggles her bottom most becomingly. The master puts aside his candle and produces a whip, the head of which he inserts into his compliant slave, lifting her off her feet.

She shrieks and moans at this violation, her hips bucking to the beat of a Cure song.

A naked man with a junior executive's paunch stands off to the sidelines, watching the couple. He pulls on his semi-hard p.e.n.i.s with his right hand, but elevation remains elusive. Bored, he turns his voyeur's gaze -- as empty as those of the animals mounted on the walls - to a heavily tattooed fat man kneeling before a tiny Oriental woman armed with a cat-o'-nine-tails, his p.e.n.i.s clamped in the jaws of a household mousetrap.

A man dressed in unconvincing drag emerges from the dry-ice smoke of the dance floor, his wig askew, funeral crepe wrapped about his exposed p.e.n.i.s, lead fishing weights hanging from his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

He smiles at me, his eyes unfocused and unreadable, even to me.

I find what I'm looking for in a young couple dressed in leather bondage gear. The female wears a bra.s.siere with holes cut in the center that allows her pierced nipples to protrude, and a peaked cap reminiscent of those once favored by the Gestapo.

The male wears a halter studded with chrome spikes that displays his tattoos to their best advantage.

A leather bondage mask hangs from his belt. Both wear tight-fitting leather chaps that expose their pale a.s.s cheeks. With their blond hair, tanned good looks, and complementing bodywork, they could be easily mistaken for fraternal twins. Perhaps they are.

The male seems a bit dubious at first', eyeing the scar that twists the right side of my face into a perpetual sneer and my ruined eye. I might not be physically attractive enough to suit his tastes, but I appear to have the necessary wealth. In the end they prove pathetically easy to snare -- all it takes is the promise of free drugs and a night of excess at a fashionable address. As we leave, I probe their minds, expertly tweaking their pleasure centers while dampening their sense of self-preservation.

The humans that frequent these clubs are far from cautious by the normal standards of the herd, but I still find it prudent to lull them into a false sense of security.

It is early morning, and as the club prepares to seal its doors against the coming dawn, the city's butchers can be seen starting their day's work, unloading freshly slain sides of beef and pork from refrigerated vans. High-pressure hoses sluice the blood from the loading docks into the gutters, where it mixes with the vomit, urine, and used condoms from the night before, filling the air with the fragrant aroma of spent meat. I find it most invigorating.

The leather-clad couple ooh and aah appreciatively at the sight of my vintage Rolls and the uniformed driver that awaits my return. We climb inside and I offer my new playthings cocaine and champagne-in copious quant.i.ties as we roll through the city' s predawn streets. They indulge themselves to excess, giggling and snorting and groping one another as I watch, smiling quietly.

The male fixes me with a questioning gaze, his eyes made hot and wet by drugs and my manipulation of his brain chemistry. 'So, what's your particular kink, buddy?' He smiles slowly, knowingly. 'You like to watch? Is that it?'

He slides his gloved hand between the female's thighs, ma.s.saging her mons veneris.

I return the drunken idiot' s clueless grin. ' Yes.

I like to watch.'

They are duly impressed when we arrive at our destination: a stylish loft apartment that utilizes the entire top floor of what was once a furrier's warehouse. The interior is an austere variant of art deco, all shining chrome and black marble decorated here and there with expensive Persian carpets, atmospherically lit by cunningly arranged track lighting.

I shrug out of my coat and smile comfortingly at my playthings. I take my place in an overpadded leather easy chair, light a French cigarette, and cross my legs. I gesture to a corner of the room with exposed brick walls, bare metal pipes, and a stained concrete floor. Handcuffs are attached to one of the radiator pipes and leg manacles are set into the wall, and a metal trapeze hangs suspended at eye level from the rafters. An array of punishment devices hangs from a row of pegs.

' Why don' t you show me what you do best?'

The leather-clad couple exchange glances and shrug. As far as they are concerned, I am a jaded, somewhat physically repugnant jet-setter with too much time and money on my hands.

The male removes his bondage mask from his belt and slips it on. With its zippered mouth and eyeholes, it resembles a leather scarecrow's face. The male grabs the female by the hair and drags her over to the pipe, where he handcuffs her with her arms over her head, her b.u.t.tocks pointed in my direction.

The male selects a cat-o'-nine-tails and, after a couple of experimental snaps, brings it down on his partner's a.s.s. The female squeals and wriggles as the male rains blow after blow onto her upturned derriere, leaving angry red welts across the creamy expanse of her jiggling cheeks.

I yawn.

This seems to aggravate the male, although it's hard to tell with the bondage mask on.

'What's the matter? Isn't this good enough for you, scarf ace?' he snaps, turning from his trussed partner to glower at me.

I pretend to let his "insult go unnoticed. 'You haven't even broken the skin!' I sniff. ' I want the Real Thing, not this candy-coated pretense!'

The male mutters something to himself and returns his attention to his slave, smacking her unprotected backside with even greater ferocity.

The female shudders and weeps, struggling against her restraints as blood fills the paper-thin cuts striping her a.s.s.

After a few minutes of this, the male stops to change hands, shaking the blood from the whip. He turns to fix me with a challenging stare from behind the safety of his mask.

'Is this real enough for you, you one-eyed b.a.s.t.a.r.d?' he snarls, slapping his partner' s blood smeared flank with the flat of his hand.

'You're not even close,' I smile. 'Here, allow me to show you how it' s done.'

He stands aside, hands on his hips, expecting me to get up and take the whip from him. Instead, I simply force my mind into his skull.

The male's body twitches as I penetrate him between the eyes, his limbs convulsing involuntarily as I seize control of his nervous system. As far as he is concerned, he has been suddenly, inexplicably struck blind, deaf, and dumb. I am the only one who can hear him screaming inside his head.

I give him back his eyes and ears, but I don't allow him to open his mouth. Screaming is not allowed. Not yet.

The female turns to look at what she believes is still her partner, her eyes confused. 'Frankie?'

The male grabs a handful of the female's long, flowing blonde hair. I pause long enough to savor its silkiness against borrowed fingertips, then proceed to pound the captive woman' s head repeatedly against the steam pipe.

At first she's too startled to respond. By the second blow she begins to struggle and swear. The punishment my surrogate is meting out is not the kind she craves.

'Frankie! Stop it, you f.u.c.ker! You're hurting me, d.a.m.n it!'

I have my plaything slam her head into the pipe a third time. A fourth. One of her retinas has become detached. Blood streams from her nostrils, making the bottom of her face look like a clown's mouth.

The female goes limp by the sixth blow, cranial fluid leaking from her ears and the corners of her eyes.

Humans have so many foolish preconceptions concerning my kind: that we cannot walk in the light of day; that we burn at the touch of religious icons; that we survive on a diet of human blood. That last bit is true, in part. Yes, blood is indeed the life.