The Journal of Geraldine Harrington, April 20th, 2005.
Some lady down the road died peacefully in her sleep two weekends past, and there was an estate sale this morning; as she'd been a Friend of the Cleveland Library, I thought I'd nip down and shark off a few nice pieces to add to the household collection. You can never have too many books or too many weapons. And that is why my family has never done estate sales, but has instead continued to hand everything down, so that each new generation has the entire stock and store of the prior generation, thus enabling us to bristle like gigantic steel hedgehogs and drive hordes of invaders OFF our libraries.
It was about the expected assortment of articles, when someone older than my grandparents dies -- mostly ancient, some useful, more not. I picked up a few dictionaries, some Latin workbooks and some history texts; onwards go I with my assembly of an utterly useless assortment of heavy books that I can hit people with, ho. I shall honour the family name with blunt instruments.
Jack Ritterhaus fetched up, seeking volumes for his shop. Offered to repair a few of my purchases for me, which was right nice of him. Turns out he sometimes gets psychometric impressions from objects (which just makes me miss Audrey even more -- where ARE you, woman?), which can be a bit of a kick to the head. This is what happens when you wander about handing out super powers without instruction manuals: you get Jack Ritterhaus and Lisamere, two beautiful examples of why 'superhero' and 'serial killer' start with the same letter. If they ever breed, it'll be David McTaggart all over again. Anyway:
There seems to be a group of wanna-be superheroes washing up around Jack's place, which is fascinating as an example of Darwinism meeting American entitlement and becoming a force for good in the world. They want to fight the forces of darkness! They want to organize and stop evil! They want to shove their arms into the gaping jaws of dragons and shout 'THE POWER OF GOODNESS COMMANDS YOU TO STAND DOWN!' whilst looking heroic! And the part where nine times out of ten this will lead to your few surviving friends calling you 'stumpy' for the rest of your life really isn't getting through their pointy little heads, because that would NEVER happen to THEM. It's brilliant, in a fatalistic sort of a way. See evil, run towards evil, die horribly, don't pass your genes along to the next generation. Alternately, see evil, run towards evil, survive, all your children will be Steve Irwin. Or possibly a new branch of the Healys. Either way, the world wins when people are insufferably stupid and convinced that they have the God-given right to indulge that stupidity by poking evil repeatedly in the head with a sharp, sharp stick.
I'm going to need rather a lot of popcorn.
It seems that THEIR society of fools would like to arrange a means of exchanging information with OUR society of fools. And as the transfer of information is substantially easier to control when it's a) voluntary and b) somewhat moderated, I am amenable to this fact -- hence my having already discussed a limited and controlled form of discourse with my elder brother. It's good to be a few steps ahead of things, all things considered. We paid for our purchases and absented ourselves to the house, where we were joined by Edward, Samuel and (to balance representation between sides) Jessica. (This was all following a brief appearance by Anna, during which she called the size of Jack's penis into question and got angry when I asked her to stop. I need to catch up to her and make sure she realizes that I was afraid he'd pop it out and show it around if we questioned it.) Jessica's view of security remains...fascinating. It was like...
"We need to have rules."
"Why?"
"So that people don't tell other people's secrets."
"Why?"
"Because some people like their privacy."
"Why?"
"Because when people don't have privacy, people die."
"Why?"
"Because there's evil out in the world."
"Why?"
Cosmology, security, and why the sky is blue, all in one convenient package. I'm seriously considering having a shirt made that says 'I invented the hyphen' and simply leaving it at that. We got a lot done, however, and I do feel that we'll be able to come to an arrangement that DOESN'T involve someone standing on a rooftop with a megaphone and announcing the names and addresses of every Slayer in the town.
After folks skittered off, Sam, Edward and I hung about a bit, discussing things. Sam and I are going to head back for the cornfield after dinner with his aunt this weekend, have another go at getting the attention of the unkillable serial killer who's bound to haunt the place. (Really, it's just an excuse to have something date-like outside the city's limits, where we're less likely to get attacked by things we DON'T want in between courses at supper.) Eddie says it's fine, I'm just not allowed to go unarmed, and so I said I'd go carrying exactly as many weapons as I was right at that moment. Sam was only off by one when he guessed -- he missed the garrotte in my ponytail holder -- and if I hadn't already agreed to be engaged to be eventually engaged, I might've proposed on the spot. Edward? Extremely tolerant of the whole thing, but probably taking it out on me later, by making me watch him be horrifically cute with Carmen. Ah, well. I can take my medicine.
We scattered, I patrolled, and met Jessica back at the house around five, for her to have her first lesson in the use of things which hurt other people in order to avoid being hurt. She's not a COMPLETE amatuer -- she's used knives and a gun, in the past -- and that, sadly, makes her all the more difficult to teach, as it means she has pre-conceived notions when she asks the inevitable 'why', and isn't willing to take 'because' as an answer. We ran stick-forms for about an hour, so that I can get her comfortable with the basic concept of 'blocking with something attached to your hands', and we'll move on from there. Given her pregnancy, I'm uninclined to start her on anything that's going to want for close ranges.
She was wiped by the time we had done, and so we went inside, where she launched onto the seemingly inevitable masturbation talk. Why do people assume I want to DISCUSS these things? I mean, YOU don't, but you're reading this on account of my being DEAD, and dead people aren't really much for talking about their sex lives. Unless they happen to be Chloe, and even dead, I would NOT be that kind of dead girl. Dead girls should not be having torrid affairs with ANYONE. As of this moment, it is a RULE.
I attempted to stand behind the American stereotype that the English reproduce via fission or budding or some other entirely non-sexual means, but she was having none of it. It didn't help that Sam was in the kitchen while I was fixing us a cuppa, and proved unable to maintain a straight face through my assertation that we didn't do anything more than hold hands and think pure thoughts. He fell over laughing, Jessica had to go, and while I suppose that blows my cover, it DOES mean she's probably caught on that I actually like BOYS, given the givens. Or, well, boy, anyway.
Sam is brilliant: when confronted with the choice between a) go upstairs and neck and b) let me get changed, hit the clubs, thrash around a great deal, work up a lather, maybe kill something, and THEN go upstairs and neck, he went with option b. The place was packed when we got there, all screaming people and angry drunks; Arachnophilia was playing, and they sounded like death on stage, it was BRILLIANT. Two vampires down the mosh pit. Idiots. Don't think know that you shouldn't drink drunks? (The Vampire Temperance League: Don't Drink Drunks. Your Undeath Could Depend On It.) Having my hormonal responses keyed into violence? Yeah, THAT wasn't conceived of by a man.
Am now comfortably swaddled in blankets, reeking of sweat, beer and hairspray, and trying to get my pillow back from Sam, who is, once again, passed out cold. Thank you, Samuel, you tall bastard.
Life is reasonably good, and may endure.
It was about the expected assortment of articles, when someone older than my grandparents dies -- mostly ancient, some useful, more not. I picked up a few dictionaries, some Latin workbooks and some history texts; onwards go I with my assembly of an utterly useless assortment of heavy books that I can hit people with, ho. I shall honour the family name with blunt instruments.
Jack Ritterhaus fetched up, seeking volumes for his shop. Offered to repair a few of my purchases for me, which was right nice of him. Turns out he sometimes gets psychometric impressions from objects (which just makes me miss Audrey even more -- where ARE you, woman?), which can be a bit of a kick to the head. This is what happens when you wander about handing out super powers without instruction manuals: you get Jack Ritterhaus and Lisamere, two beautiful examples of why 'superhero' and 'serial killer' start with the same letter. If they ever breed, it'll be David McTaggart all over again. Anyway:
There seems to be a group of wanna-be superheroes washing up around Jack's place, which is fascinating as an example of Darwinism meeting American entitlement and becoming a force for good in the world. They want to fight the forces of darkness! They want to organize and stop evil! They want to shove their arms into the gaping jaws of dragons and shout 'THE POWER OF GOODNESS COMMANDS YOU TO STAND DOWN!' whilst looking heroic! And the part where nine times out of ten this will lead to your few surviving friends calling you 'stumpy' for the rest of your life really isn't getting through their pointy little heads, because that would NEVER happen to THEM. It's brilliant, in a fatalistic sort of a way. See evil, run towards evil, die horribly, don't pass your genes along to the next generation. Alternately, see evil, run towards evil, survive, all your children will be Steve Irwin. Or possibly a new branch of the Healys. Either way, the world wins when people are insufferably stupid and convinced that they have the God-given right to indulge that stupidity by poking evil repeatedly in the head with a sharp, sharp stick.
I'm going to need rather a lot of popcorn.
It seems that THEIR society of fools would like to arrange a means of exchanging information with OUR society of fools. And as the transfer of information is substantially easier to control when it's a) voluntary and b) somewhat moderated, I am amenable to this fact -- hence my having already discussed a limited and controlled form of discourse with my elder brother. It's good to be a few steps ahead of things, all things considered. We paid for our purchases and absented ourselves to the house, where we were joined by Edward, Samuel and (to balance representation between sides) Jessica. (This was all following a brief appearance by Anna, during which she called the size of Jack's penis into question and got angry when I asked her to stop. I need to catch up to her and make sure she realizes that I was afraid he'd pop it out and show it around if we questioned it.) Jessica's view of security remains...fascinating. It was like...
"We need to have rules."
"Why?"
"So that people don't tell other people's secrets."
"Why?"
"Because some people like their privacy."
"Why?"
"Because when people don't have privacy, people die."
"Why?"
"Because there's evil out in the world."
"Why?"
Cosmology, security, and why the sky is blue, all in one convenient package. I'm seriously considering having a shirt made that says 'I invented the hyphen' and simply leaving it at that. We got a lot done, however, and I do feel that we'll be able to come to an arrangement that DOESN'T involve someone standing on a rooftop with a megaphone and announcing the names and addresses of every Slayer in the town.
After folks skittered off, Sam, Edward and I hung about a bit, discussing things. Sam and I are going to head back for the cornfield after dinner with his aunt this weekend, have another go at getting the attention of the unkillable serial killer who's bound to haunt the place. (Really, it's just an excuse to have something date-like outside the city's limits, where we're less likely to get attacked by things we DON'T want in between courses at supper.) Eddie says it's fine, I'm just not allowed to go unarmed, and so I said I'd go carrying exactly as many weapons as I was right at that moment. Sam was only off by one when he guessed -- he missed the garrotte in my ponytail holder -- and if I hadn't already agreed to be engaged to be eventually engaged, I might've proposed on the spot. Edward? Extremely tolerant of the whole thing, but probably taking it out on me later, by making me watch him be horrifically cute with Carmen. Ah, well. I can take my medicine.
We scattered, I patrolled, and met Jessica back at the house around five, for her to have her first lesson in the use of things which hurt other people in order to avoid being hurt. She's not a COMPLETE amatuer -- she's used knives and a gun, in the past -- and that, sadly, makes her all the more difficult to teach, as it means she has pre-conceived notions when she asks the inevitable 'why', and isn't willing to take 'because' as an answer. We ran stick-forms for about an hour, so that I can get her comfortable with the basic concept of 'blocking with something attached to your hands', and we'll move on from there. Given her pregnancy, I'm uninclined to start her on anything that's going to want for close ranges.
She was wiped by the time we had done, and so we went inside, where she launched onto the seemingly inevitable masturbation talk. Why do people assume I want to DISCUSS these things? I mean, YOU don't, but you're reading this on account of my being DEAD, and dead people aren't really much for talking about their sex lives. Unless they happen to be Chloe, and even dead, I would NOT be that kind of dead girl. Dead girls should not be having torrid affairs with ANYONE. As of this moment, it is a RULE.
I attempted to stand behind the American stereotype that the English reproduce via fission or budding or some other entirely non-sexual means, but she was having none of it. It didn't help that Sam was in the kitchen while I was fixing us a cuppa, and proved unable to maintain a straight face through my assertation that we didn't do anything more than hold hands and think pure thoughts. He fell over laughing, Jessica had to go, and while I suppose that blows my cover, it DOES mean she's probably caught on that I actually like BOYS, given the givens. Or, well, boy, anyway.
Sam is brilliant: when confronted with the choice between a) go upstairs and neck and b) let me get changed, hit the clubs, thrash around a great deal, work up a lather, maybe kill something, and THEN go upstairs and neck, he went with option b. The place was packed when we got there, all screaming people and angry drunks; Arachnophilia was playing, and they sounded like death on stage, it was BRILLIANT. Two vampires down the mosh pit. Idiots. Don't think know that you shouldn't drink drunks? (The Vampire Temperance League: Don't Drink Drunks. Your Undeath Could Depend On It.) Having my hormonal responses keyed into violence? Yeah, THAT wasn't conceived of by a man.
Am now comfortably swaddled in blankets, reeking of sweat, beer and hairspray, and trying to get my pillow back from Sam, who is, once again, passed out cold. Thank you, Samuel, you tall bastard.
Life is reasonably good, and may endure.