Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Buffalo Butte
Come and see the thundering herd of 8 American Bison, located on the outskirts of the park! Even though everyone knows then as “buffalo”, and plenty of taxonomic names that are inaccurate remain in widespread use (hello American Robin!), we are going to stick to the proper “bison” everywhere but in the exhibit name, which was chosen by a donor.

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It’s been a hard year, full of anxiety, ill portents at home and abroad. I can’t shake the feeling that I think many people of my generation share, that despite some bright spots here and there, something really bad is coming. Ecological catastrophe, surging support for authoritarianism in my country…grim times indeed.

As anyone who reads these pages can tell, my updates have gotten a little more sporadic as a result. Many days, writing seems like just one more thing atop a mountain of stress–the feeling of wanting to write not quite overcoming the feeling of wanting to curl up, exhausted. But even if I am a little behind, I’m still gamely trying to keep up with this, my oldest creative outlet.

Recently, I’ve been trying to incorporate more inspiration from my daily life into these pages, to let them stand not only as a record of fantasy but also reality through a fantastic lens. Has that succeeded? Is it even noticeable? In either case, I’m still gamely trying.

You out there who subscribe, read, or even comment here–thank you. There is nothing that keeps a long trek going so much as the idea of a journey shared with friends.

But enough of that. Back to creating more fictional characters for my ever-growing army of the unreal!

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“How come I’ve never heard of this?”

“It was during the war, and they wanted things hushed up. Can you imagine the rumors of saboteurs, secret agents, and spies if it got out?”

“So what happened after he murdered those trappers?”

“Well, John Alberts couldn’t have picked a better place to do it. Alaska had something like 50 different law enforcement agencies before it was a state, everything from the Army to deputy US Marshals. So no one could figure out whose job it was to go after him.”

“And?”

“Eventually he led a motley collection of lawmen and soldiers on a 1,000-mile chase through the bush. Killed five or so of them, I think, before they got him at long range with an Army sniper. Pretty remarkable if you think about it.”

“WHY did he do it?”

“Hell if I know. Guy didn’t say a single word, not even when they took him alive before he died of the injuries. I read someplace that he might have been a paranoid schizophrenic who suffered a mental break. But…”

“But what?”

“But then there’s this guy. Same MO, same behavior, and the original incident isn’t exactly required reading in school.”

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“Blind Curves,” Josiah read off the sign. “A strip club for the visually impaired.”

He turned to Elijah. “How can they read the sign if they’re visually impaired?”

“You think they’re driving if they’re legally blind?” Elijah said. “The sign’s for their taxi.”

“Oh.” Josiah smirked. “Well hey, it’s an opportunity for ugly strippers for once.”

“What’s that supposed to men?” Elijah said.

“Well, if you can’t see them, who cares what they look like?”

“Josiah, you dumb son-of-a-bitch, you think anyone is in there on a pole if the clients can’t see them? No, they are gonna be up close and personal. Hell, maybe the dancers are blind too. But I tell you what, they are gonna be toned as hell.”

“And why’s that, professor?” Josiah said, by degrees amused and insulted by his fellow HVAC repairman’s sudden expertise.

“Folks who don’t see so well, they see with their hands,” Elijah said. “So it’s gonna be all lap dances, all hands, all hands that know what the hell they’re doing, and they’ll feel it if there’s an ounce of flab anyplace.”

“Huh,” Josiah said. “That’d be a sight to see, wouldn’t it?”

“Not really, no,” Elijah said. “More of a feeling.”

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“John, you know I got ask about that.” Bill pointed to John’s white truck, which had a “no hearts” symbol painted drippily upon its door.

“It’s my truck,” John replied. “I can paint it how I want.”

“Granted, yes, but you had to know that people were gonna ask about it, especially seeing as today is Valentine’s Day.” Bill lolled his head to look at the paint, its bright red in the process of drying and baking to a dull rust. “Someone asks me why one of my contractors is heartless, I gotta have a reason to give ‘em.”

“Tell ‘em it’s John’s truck, and he painted it how he wanted.”

“Dammit, John, will you stop it?” Bill cried. “Now it’s a simple question, and you refusing to answer is just making it a ‘thing.’ So what is it? You against sappy commercialization? You Catholic and a devotee of the saint?”

“Left my girlfriend,” John said. “Found a bunch of hearty cards in her stuff, and they wasn’t from me.”

“There, was that so tough?” said Bill. “Now, I’m sorry for your circumstance, but let’s get that washed off. Folks are gonna be bringing that up all day otherwise.”

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“Dragons running numbers, huh?” Kitredge said, slowly looking his finger near one temple. “So tell me, why ain’t we noticed any giant lizards flapping around midtow runnin’ an illegal lottery, huh?”

“Jinny ‘Stabitha’ Burrows flapped around midtown for three years a block front he precinct,” Petrescu shot back. “I can’t say how she did that either, but catching her was pretty damn good proof.”

“So you gonna catch a dragon for us?” Kitredge snickered. “Get the armorer to really live up to his name and give you a sword?”

“Mark my words, sergeant. Mark them well. No force known to man could’ve made that heat, and using it to smelt gold is like using a howitzer to shoot a mosquito.”

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Cosa Nosfetatu
Originally Italian, now open to members of all nations and creeds. Primarily involved in protection rackets, trading business owners and residents small quantities of their own blood in exchange for defense against creatures of the night.

‘Ndraculata
Romanian roots, the oldest and most successful vampiric crime organization. Skims blood from city hospitals and blood banks, supporting its activities by trading illegal medicine and narcotics.

Hemoglobin Cartel
Latin American in origin, but not restricted in its recruitment. Chief importer of cheap foreign blood. Controls the dockyards and strictly limits the immigration of foreign vampirics.

The Five Fangs
American/Canadian; does not accept foreign-born or foreign-made recruits. Named after its three founding street vampires, one of whom had a chipped fang. Mostly involved in human trafficking for “blood farms,” in which people are sequestered and intravenously drained for a period as payment for debts.

Unione Corpuscle
French, with strong ties to Corsica and Marseille. Somewhat weaker in the New World after infamous “French Circulation” was busted. Very involved in new technology, including synthetic hemogloboids, “designer bloods,” and cloning rare Bombay blood types.

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“And this is the area where I believe the vampires are running their rackets,” Petrescu said, tapping a blood-red area on the city map.

“Oh c’mon, for cryin’ out loud,” Sergeant Kitredge whined. “You honestly expect us to believe that?”

“Look, I don’t know what they have on the honchos to keep them in denial, but if you follow the blood, it’s clear that this city is thoroughly infiltrated by the vampire mafia. The Cosa Nosfetatu. The ‘Ndraculata. The Hemoglobin Cartel. The Five Fangs. The Unione Corpuscle. The…”

“Cool it with that, will ya?” Kitredge said. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that this means anything other than you going to a place with padded walls and buckled jackets. Why do we care?”

“Extortion is extortion, be it in blood, sweat, or tears,” Petrescu said. “Violence, intimidation, and plenty of dirty money as well. But that’s not the worst of it.”

He indicated another area of the map, near the docks. “This group, here, has been engaged in an underground war with the Cosa Nosferatu for access to their racket. Crime syndicates eventually reach a balance, with each of them taking a territory. But these new folks here upset the balance, and that’s got them scared, I think.”

“What scares a goddamn bloodsucker?” Kitredge said.

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“It’s a nice business. Shame something like this had to happen to it.”

It was Johnny Pallid, still in his fancy suit, and leaning against a lamppost in the pool of weak radiance it gave off. Tony had no idea how he’d gotten there; the street had definitely been empty before, and a big guy like Johnny ought to have been audible a mile away in those wingtips he was sporting.

Tony, still, shaking, broke open his shotgun, ejecting two smoking shells. “You know something about this?” He said, gesturing to his shattered storefront.

“I know that bullets won’t work against those animals,” Johnny said. He held a hand up to his face as if to light a smoke, only to place a toothpick there instead. “They’re just gonna keep coming back, smashing and grabbing, until you give them what they want or there’s nothing left.”

“I’m a simple butcher,” said Tony. “What can I do?”

“Easy. Protection. The cops won’t believe a word of this. They’re not wise. But my boys? We can keep this place safe.”

“And I guess you want money in return, is that right?” Tony said. “You’ve been around for a while, Johnny, you know I’m just scraping by.”

“Not money. Blood.” Johnny tipped down his sunglasses, revealing a pair of red-rimmed junkie eyes.

“F-from my animals? The blood is taken out at the slaughterhouse.”

Johnny grinned, deliberately letting a pair of elongated canines rest outside his lips. “The human body can replenish a pint of blood in 48 hours, and we’re just asking for a few ounces.”

A blood bag plopped weakly at Tony’s feet. “First week’s free. After that, fill ‘er up and my boys will make dead sure nothing happens to this place every again. Might even get you some new business, too.”

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At this point, I quietly pulled the keys from Morgan’s ignition. Whatever had been in those brownies, it was hitting like a psilocybin hammer.

“Can you believe this?” Morgan was shouting, having staggered to the roadside and gesturing at a nearby park.

“What is it?” I said, trotting over. “Do you need to throw up?”

Morgan was gesturing wildly at a large tree nearby. “Did you see it? It ran out in front of my car and then up the tree!”

I looked up at the boughs, seeing absolutely nothing but ragged late-season foliage. “What?”

“That squirrel! I almost hit it with my car!” Morgan sounded on the verge of tears, voice catching in throat.

“Well, uh, if you almost hit it, I’m sure it’s fine,” I replied.

“You don’t understand!” wailed Morgan. “It was Chickersnit, resplendent lord of all squirrels! By almost hitting him, I have incurred his wrath, and that of all his kind!”

I cocked my head involuntarily. “What…the hell, Morgan?”

Morgan was desperately scooping up acorns from a shrimpy oak up the hill. “I need to give him an offering, or rodents will attack me in my sleep!”

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