I do not understand these things they call debates.
The man and woman asking questions kept telling us that is was a party.
It does not look like a party to me. Their clothing is dull. There is no wine. Nobody wears hats. Where are the musicians? Nobody sang songs that we could all join in on.
It was said there would be two parties.
What are they celebrating? They do nothing but complain.
Where are they running? Only a few of them look like they would do well moving fast on their feet. Maybe if lions were sent after them or soldiers with swords then they might run. The ones called O’Malley and Rubio might be able to run. The rest would be eaten.
They yell at each other. They smirk and roll their eyes like children who wish to be adults.
How do they pick their idiots to lead. There must be someone behind them. Who’s puppets are they?
The last one I watched a few nights ago was called the Democratic Debate.
There were only three this time. The old man was on one end. The young man was on the other end. The woman was in the middle. I tried to wrap my mind around the placement. Was she in the middle to keep the men from fighting?
The woman who stood in the middle puzzled me. Her husband was the ruler but now she wants to rule. But her husband is still alive. I do not understand. Someone alluded to his indiscretions. They won’t talk about it. Did her husband steal her from another man? I shall find out.
The old man and the woman will not let the other man talk. The skinny blonde woman asking questions won’t let him talk. They ignored him. He did not fight with them but tried to take what they call, the elevated path, or maybe higher road. I do not remember the exact term.
The old man yelled a lot. The woman smiled and turned her back to the younger man. The younger man must have wished he had brought his sword.
The woman sat in the middle as if she was in control. They ignored the young man on the end. What purpose does this serve?
Before that I watched what was called the Republican Debate. It was no party either.
The other time seven men stood in a row. The man with the pointed nose bickered with the man with the dead cat on his head. They ignored the others. The others just stood and watched. Can they not fight for their places? Why did they just watch and not act like real men?
There is a doctor who keeps talking about brains. Are Zombies an issue? Brains are obviously an issue, or lack thereof. In the advent of Zombies I would worry not for my own safety but for the safety of my own food supply.
The woman who asked the Republican men questions looked unworldly, like a painted doll. I could not keep my eyes off of her. I looked upon her in wonder. If I bit her neck would blood flow from her veins or would it be molten plastic or glue? I would love to know. I would take my chances.
One man who was speaking is the son of one who used to rule. He is also the brother of a man who used to rule. Now he wants to rule. I do not understand. Why aren’t they ruling anymore? Do they know the woman in the other debate? Do they know her husband? Has she taken any of the brothers as lovers? I am trying to figure this all out. Would the old man yell at them too?
The loud man with the swirl of cat fur on his head makes rude childish facial expressions. He looks as if his mistress never asks him for money. He is posturing like a turkey spreading his tail to make himself look larger. I am not fooled.
All of the men bickered like old women. The spoke endlessly about the old man and the woman who wants to rule. What do they have to fear from a woman and an old man? Did she also turn down their love? Is the old man a wizard? None of them speak of the younger man. Do they live in fear of him and not dare speak his name? I wonder.
The other woman with the forehead that doesn’t move did not show up among the seven. I believe she might be among the legions of Banshees.
I do not understand why the people allow such fools to fight for leadership in such a strange way.
I saw my neighbor Doreen by the mail boxes this evening. She has yellow hair and always smells like Jasmine flowers. My neighbor Doreen said every single one of the politicians is crazy. Doreen might be onto something.
They all seem inept at making alliances. One day they are friends and the next day they are not. Doreen will always be my friend. She tells me that I am cute. I am not exactly sure why but it is starting to feel nice. She doesn’t know I am a Vampire. I know her blood type. O positive. I like Doreen. If I knew how to bake food I would make her banana bread. I understand that is what neighbors who like each other do.
Doreen said that all of the men and woman who want to be ruler would look good in orange jumpsuits. I question Doreen’s taste in fashion. Orange does not look good on anyone.
I remember when I was a boy of about thirteen, almost a man, my mother came upon the Countess Wiktoria of Velaslopia bathing in a tub virgin’s blood. In her hand was a goblet of wine made of berries and bile. A naked young man sat on the edge of the tub reading poetry to her. Mother pulled out a sword and cut off Wiktoria’s head.
When the young man asked “WHY?” my mother told the truth. Our people were starving and she could not let the Countess Wiktoria continue to waste food on useless beauty treatments. Afterwords she fed Wiktoria to the stray dogs on the street so that they could go for another week without starving. My mother was that kind of woman.
Wiktoria was my mother’s childhood friend. Wiktoria never told others that Vampires were devils. Wiktoria never slept with my father. But my mother did what she did because it was the right thing to do. THAT is how much my mother cared.
These men and woman who want to rule might yell and act like insolent children until their bidding is done – but they lack the humanitarian passion my mother had.
My mother would do anything for her people.
Last night, as I was out looking for fresh blood, a man asked me if I was in the country legally. Is it so obvious that I am not a native? Is my accent so strong that one would be led to believe that I am in the wrong place?
“Of course I am here legally,” I told him. I felt something odd inside. Then I took him out back and took enough blood out of him to make him sleep for the next 24 hours and have nightmares for the next ten years. His friends thought he was dead until the men in the red truck came and brought him around him. I wanted to smile but I did not.
Later, while my lover Gillian rubbed my shoulders with her long cold fingers, I asked her about that feeling.
“It was fear my love. You must ignore it.”
“But I am the master of fear. I make others fear. I do not understand why I was feeling it,” I told her.
“Stick around and you will.”
I hope she is wrong.