What if the COVID vaccine was a covert government project to eliminate Vampires by degrading their human-food-sourced blood supply? What if it was bungled by Fauci and the National Health Agency bureaucrats and now Vampires want payback?
AZIEL PINDAR, MONSIEUR COMTE de la MER
The party is in full swing. The jazz quartet is marvelous, nailing tunes from the giants – John Coltrain, Thelonious Monk, Jimmy McPartland, Miles Davis…..but the hall has excellent acoustics and Katrina and I can actually talk without straining to hear each other. We simultaneously order sparking water for our beverage – and share a laugh about it.
Endless trays of hor d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne drift through the cavernous hall, hefted by a dark-suited wait staff that are as pleasant as they are physically fit. Katrina and I sample a bit of this and that – she’s partial to the meat pate’s and I to the shrimp and shellfish offerings. Fruit plates are constantly paraded by our table and we sample the assortments liberally. All tables bristle with baskets of warm, crusty artisanal whole-grain breads, the smells of which are delightful. Refilled baskets and butter dishes appear as if by magic.
There’s a small dais and lectern set up at the far end of the room – apparently a speaker is going to be introduced at some point.
The dance floor is accomodating a surprising number of couples. I ask Katrina to dance and she graciously accepts. She moves with a natural rhythm and style all her own – and dosen’t shrink from brushing against me when the we inevitably get close. Her body is firm. With my arm around her back I can feel a muscluar physique just below her jacket and blouse. I sense that if I passed out cold, she’d calmly dance my lifeless carcas back to our table, carrying me effortlessly.
After about an hour and a half the Jazz Quartet takes a break and a senior Jesuit with a remarkable crop of Andrew Jackson-like gray hair on his head taps the microphone on the little dais across the room.
“Guests! I’m Monsignor Deveraux – your Host on behalf of the Society of Jesus for tonight’s festivities….Please return to your seats so that I may present tonights’ guest of Honor – Henryk Ainsley Bischoff, MD – this years’ recipient of the Edward Donnel Thomas Prize in Hemoglobinopathic Disease as awarded by the American Society of Hematology in Washington, DC”.
Dr. Bischoff makes his way to the microphone and shakes hands with the announcer. He’s a middle-aged man with a gaunt face and haughty, clinical expression. A classic mixture of faux concern for humanity, gleaming incisors and scientific detachment. He positions himself behind the lecturn microphone with practised ease and launches into an especially droll and monotone harangue without missing a beat.
“Thank you, Monsignor Devereaux….I thank the Church and the Society of Jesus for its gracious hospitality tonight. The Church has been quite supportive in my research – as has the Cooper Consortium of Medical Foundations – and I would like to express my sincere appreciation of their endless faith in my work. Together we will continue our full frontal assault on diseases of the blood and the pathogens and viruses that afflict our most precious life fluid – so that someday soon we may announce to all that blood holds no further secrets for us. That the cures that have so long eluded us are finally within our grasp….”
Subdued, respectful applause from the guests follow and, on cue, the jazz quartet launches into another set of delightful Bebop standards. Dr. Bischoff wades his way, triumphant, through a sea of handshakes and admiring eyes like Julius Caesar. I don’t know who this guy is, but some people look like they want to drop down and kiss his ass in the middle of the hall. I’m not impressed.
Fact is, I’ve had my fill of “Doctors”.
After choking on a steady diet of zealous quacks shilling the COVID vaccine over the past year and a half, I’m disgusted by anybody with an MD after their name. Especially seeing how piss-poor the vaccine they concocted performed – and how easily they all lied to us every step of the way. Hopefully, the age of holding “Medical Doctors” in breathless esteem is dead and buried. COVID has exposed them all as useful idiots, willing apparatchicks in a Big-Money-Big-Pharma scam engineered to churn dollars into their investment portfolios. And then there’s criminal mediocrities like Anthony Fauci…..
But I have my own problems – like what the Hell am I doing here?
Our table is situated next to a wall, directly under an enormous – and apparently authentic – wall tapestry from bygone days, A French castle scene with idyllic pastures and peasants threshing wheat sheaves. I accidentally rest the back of my head against it while taking in the activities around me and am surprised to feel it bow inward. I expect a solid wall behind, but……
Katrina notices my quizzical expression and watches me peek behind it.
Hmmm….Christ’s crossed feet with a spike through them…….the tapestry is covering a large crucifix. The wall tapestry itself is about thirty feet high and at least twenty-five feet wide. A Golgotha-sized cross behind it seems proportionally dimensioned. That’s a big crucifix….. I glance around the place and see that each of the four walls of the grand hall have a similar-sized medieval-themed tapestry hanging in about the same locations. Odds are there are ginormous Catholic crucifixes behind them, too. Curious…..
“News Flash – the Jesuits are hiding Jesus behind their wall coverings….how disrespectful of them….” I quietly mumble to Katrina.
Katrina lets out a muffled laugh, throwing her head back in amused disbelief. She uses the moment to slyly glance around the room and study the other tapestries. But her cheerful visage is short lived….. Her eyes now zero in on an odd looking, elderly gentleman slowing making his way towards us and wielding an ornate walking stick like Johnny Walker on the scotch bottles.
The guy’s thin – wispy, really – a body like Fred Astaire had during his prime. He walks in a deliberate, determined stride. He knows exactly where he is intending to go. Grey, short hair crowns his high forehead and bushy eyebrows. His eyes are fixed on Katrina and I.
A few steps behind this man is Monsignor Deveraux, his platinum Andrew Jackson coiffure vividly contrasting his rather bland Jesuit-regulation duds. I notice that the crucifix Monsignors usually dangle outside their blouse is missing. In fact – the place is literally crawling with Jesuits of all age groups and none of them are wearing the symbol of their redemption. Hmm….
Either Fred Astaire slows down or the good Monsignor speeds up – but within seconds they are standing side-by-side at our table, plainly wanting to address us.
Monsignor speaks first – through picture-perfect choppers as white as his hair. The other gentleman is obviously accustomed to being introduced and remains silent, just staring at us like an undertaker fingering his measuring tape.
“Ahhh….Mr. Croft. So good to meet you!” Devereaux croons. His manner is oily.….like a life-insurance salesman warming up for a sales pitch. Like the ecclesiastical front man he is, he extends his hand. I don’t reciprocate.
“Excuse me if I don’t shake hands….” I say with a thinly disguised saccharine smile. “It’s an unfortunate eccentricity of mine in these COVID times….I hope you understand”.
“Not at all….” Devereaux folds his extended wing back into his own air space. “Entirely reasonable, of course….and YOU must be Katrina!” he effuses like a game show host. This time he keeps his hand to himself. Katrina just smiles and nods at him. Her manner is pleasant but wary. She makes no effort to disguise her chary expression. Neither one of us knows this Monsignor – or the old fart he’s keeping company with.
Monsignor keeps smiling his toothy grin and turns towards his companion. He then molts his voice into an absurd basso profundo timbre and – in a reverential, almost fawning tone – presents the man next to him.
May I have the honor to introduce “Monsieur le Comte de la Mer – Aziel Pindar”.
Katrina and I are immediately – almost viscerally – compelled to study this guy. Even in the dulled lighting of the reception hall, we can see that he is dressed oddly. His suit coat is cut more in the style of a waistcoat, a’ la Dickens or Beau Brummel. His shirt has a high collar – starched to perfection – and his neckware is more reminiscent of a silk cravat than a modern tie. Some kind of red emerald-festooned pin is affixed to the cravat in a Victorian or Edwardian fashion statement. His trousers are snug overall, buttoned at the front and tight-fitting at his ankles – where they are strapped under low-cut boots that are highly polished and elegant. All in all, the old gent cuts quite an appearance. A walking historical artifact. Quite the dandy, indeed. And Monsieur seems to very much enjoy the scientific examination we’re giving him.
I glance at Katrina to catch her reaction – but her face betrays nothing. I try to be gracious but can’t tear my eyes off of him…..
It suddenly hits me that this guy’s eyes are making my flesh crawl. They have a curious membrane-like slick covering them, almost lizard-like. His facial skin melts into sunken cheekbones that extend down to a preternaturally pointy chin. His overall appearance – and bird-like physiognomy – makes me wonder if he’d been hatched from an egg in a cave somewhere long ago. His lips are wrinkled and weirdly indistinct.
“Pleased to meet you, Monsieur le Comte…...” I finally say. “May I introduce you to my escort, Ms. Katrina Kozub…..”
Katrina nods but says nothing. I get the impression she knows more than she’s letting on. Her next words jolt me.
“Would you care to join us, Monsieur?” Her face is an unexpressive mask. She doesn’t even blink her eyes. I notice that her left hand is tucked behind her jacket as if she is adjusting her blouse. Ah, yes……that’s where Mr. Glock lives….
Monsieur turns his eyes from Katrina and looks at me for an uncomfortably extended moment.
I return his gaze, silently challenging him to accept Katrina’s offer. His facial flesh looks like its been soaked in brine and gives off a pissy yellow pallor…..probably some kind of jaundice. He has blackened pinpricks for pupils. A shock of straggly gray hair covers his head in no apparent style or cut. His ears are leathery and flat to the sides of his skull. He’s completely devoid of facial hair or stubble. There’s a smell clinging to him, something akin to wet ashes and used bandages. Nothing about him is pleasant.
And then, as if things can’t get more unearthly, Monsieur accepts Katrina’s invitation to join us at our table…….
“I shall be delighted to join you for a few precious moments, Ms. Kozub…..I trust Mr. Croft will not object too strenuously…..”
Monsieur le Comte speaks slowly. He doesn’t exactly smile – he grimaces whilst laboriously croaking words from somewhere down his gullet. KInd of like the way people talk when they lose their voicebox to cancer – but not as garbled. Watching him talk, I catch glimpses of long, yellowed teeth precariously lodged in dessicated grayish gums. His breath is ripe. I instinctively back away from him so I don’t breathe in his fouled air. What a strange duck. All the same, I back Katrina’s play and offer him my chair – I opt to sit to his side and opposite Katrina. I want to see her face in case this goes off the rails.
Sure enough, he lowers himself onto the chair. There’s a waft of moth balls as he settles in. I position a glass in front of him and pour in some of our sparkling mineral water. If he wants wine he’ll have to get it himself. Monsieur – or Comte – or Aziel Pindar – or whoever he is doesn’t exactly tickle my hospitality bone. I’d prefer him to take his foetid pie-hole elsewhere. Looking at Katrina, however, I get the impression this is all no coincidence. She sits silently, eyes glued to our interloping guest.
Monsignor Devereaux no sooner excuses himself (waving a darling and energetic “toodle-loo” before departing) than a young priest approaches our table with a silver tray covered by a white service napkin. For a moment I think he’s bringing a vitamin B-12 shot for old Pindar, but he silently places the tray on our table, smiles and strides off.
Pindar, unperturbed by this, sits quietly – his fish eyes darting between Katrina and I. He’s resting his boney left hand on the tablecloth in front of him and his index finger – skinned with that same pissy-yellow alabaster flesh that covers his face – taps an annoying, syncopated beat on the table surface. It’s not prompted by the jazz that fills the room. He seems to be counting off seconds on some secret mental stop watch.
Suddenly the serving cloth on the tray jumps as if it’s going to dance off the table – revealing a clamshell phone underneath. I startle a bit in my chair, surprised as all Hell. It’s unexpected – and my nerves are a tad edgy facing this talking corpse in front of us. The cell phone is ringing on vibration mode, presumeably not to disturb the ambiance of the event.
Monsieur le Comte stops tapping his finger and addresses me.
“I believe that call is for you, Mr. Croft…..”
I look at Katrina. She’s unfazed and not turning her eyes from Pindar. She whispers, “Go ahead…”
Gingerly, I pick up the phone and flip it open. It’s a new Nokia – of a type I’d never seen before. My answering voice is a bit exasperated. This James Bond shit is wearing thin…….
“Hello?……”
I’m nearly floored by the voice I hear on the other end.
“Hello, Jon….”
“Hack???? Hack, is that you????” I almost jump out of my chair.
Part of me is relieved that it’s his voice I hear – but something else tells me to shut up and just use my ears for a change.
“Jon, listen to me. I only have access for three minutes into this facility…..LISTEN, PLEASE, JON – AND SAY NOTHING…….
“If he is there, things are more serious than I imagined. Hear him out and then thank him. Politely AGREE to whatever he asks and WITHOUT COMMENT excuse yourselves. Use the pager device they gave you to call for your car – AND THEN LEAVE THAT DEVICE ON YOUR TABLE..….Walk out, claim your vehicle and LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. Katrina has been briefed for this contingency. Follow her instructions implcitly. She is your lifeline. Remember – HEAR PINDAR OUT AND THEN LEAVE…SAY NOTHING.….Good luck, Jon”.
I close the phone and gently place it back on the tray. I can feel Pindar’s eyes now expecting my full attention. I take a belt of mineral water and make the first move.
“What’s on your mind, old timer?” I say, struggling to keep a bemused look on my face. The last thing I want this old fart to see in my eyes is fear – although I’m starting to get real concerned. Right about now I just want Katrina to shoot the stinky fucker.
Monsieur Comte de la Mer, Aziel Pindar speaks – or rather, croaks– for about fifteen minutes, expressing himself in perfect (if French accented), English and waving his emaciated, diaphanous hands for dramatic emphasis.
At the end of this exposition, Katrina and I do exactly what Hack said.
We can’t get out of there fast enough. We make some real tracks.
Copyright 2023, Jon Croft
Graphic courtesy of Wikipedia
