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Time Marches on Out the Open Window

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Brainpan Drippings: And Other Such Samples

My name is Professor Henry Oswald Fisher. You may not have heard of me, or if you have you may then understand the significance of my lifetime’s worth of work. In the 300 plus years I have worked with the International Institute for the Advancement of Vampires, I have contributed to the vast wealth of knowledge accumulated by its preeminent research department, knowledge which has helped our species thrive in this ever-changing, nigh-inhospitable world, this ill-fated Earth. I am one of the oldest vampires alive, at a still considerably ripe 537 years of age.
My field of expertise, of course, is in Homo vampirum physiology, with a further emphasis on the interaction between modern man’s vampiric anatomy and the elements harmful to its wellbeing. During my early post-graduate study, I worked on a great many academic projects, including the discovery of the biochemical theory behind our race’s intolerance to the Italian strain of the garlic variety of vegetables, under the tutelage of the esteemed and late Professor Joseph Goldblatt. I was even instrumental in spearheading the Hampton Group’s project into unearthing why the auditory frequency of running water affects the Blood Mother’s parasites within our bodies.
Now, as I close in on my 538th year of life, I embark on my greatest project yet. I plan to uncover the reason why crucifixes are capable of harming us. To that purpose, I have gathered with me a team comprising of seven other individuals, including my dear assistant Ms. Mayil Batra, her friend and fellow student Victor Collier, a short, Asiatic cook I know simply as Denver, foreign exchange student Marci Bernard of Paris, France, lab assistants Mark Gibson and Mortimer “Morty” Dempsey, and one Mr. Michael Callahan, the military adviser tasked with our safekeeping. We are currently marching through the dustbowl that is the Allegheny Plateau, making our way towards the old, deserted city of Pittsburg. There, in the seclusion of one of the many abandoned temples, we shall uncover the secrets of the old Christian sigil.

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Mrs. Snutly's World Famous Meat Pies

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 Brainpan Drippings: And Other Such Samples

“They’re made of people.”
“The meat pies.”
The older and somewhat portly gentleman with the white thinning hair and the white bristly mustache lowers his newspaper down just enough to meet the gaze of his younger compatriot from across the table.
“The meat pies, Ford. They’re made. Of people.”
Ford places the newspaper down next to the little crème-colored ceramic coffee cup with the blue double lines running along the rim, and turns his full attention to the young black man in the black mod leather jacket with the golden chain and its little gold cross hanging around his thin neck. Ford stares deep into his younger compatriot’s dark and mischievous eyes.
“One of ya jokes again, Ephraim?”
“Naw, I’m being serious.”
“Come on, you’ve been reading too many of them horror comics.”
“No, seriously, just look.”
Ephraim glances to the lonely waiter standing at the lunch counter.
The young man is barely in his 20s, but already he’s sporting the greying eyes and greying complexion of someone well into their 80s. If it weren’t for the patchwork of acne riddling all over his cheeks and forehead, and the blond peach fuzz, he’d look much younger, but as it is the kid looks worse than 30 year-old Ephraim, hell, looks worse than Ford, who’s already pushing 60. The boy is just standing there, staring off into space, as he barely registers the guests’ orders as he jots them down on his notepad. Everyone in the diner seems to be a local, so this behavior doesn’t seem to raise too much of a suspicion, but for Ford and Ephraim it is far too off-putting to ignore.
“Kid’s probably juss stoned. You know how you young’uns are these days, with ya new drugs. Like candy to you guys.”
“Oh come on, that totally looks like somebody who’s caught somethin’ from eatin’ people. Looks like a damn zombie, like from one of them movies, you know, the ones showed at the drive-in back near Baton, the Red n’ Gold Marque.”
“Eh, you’re seeing things.”
“Oh yeah? Then explain to me the cook over in the kitchen window?”
Looking past the counter, the two of them observe the heavy-set, white-haired cook behind the grill. Despite the animated pep in his step, he looks to be in the same partially catatonic state as the young waiter. His nose is ruddy and swollen, probably the early stages of a serious case of rhinophyma.

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