Prologue Chapter (2012-TBA)
-Excerpt-
ALEX JHON
THE hazelnut latte grande cup sat
there on the silver desk in front of me. The vivid haze coming from the paper
glass didn’t give me any provoking idea of what to write for now. As I scribed
some words, I was on the verge of thinking about closing my thick book and just
enjoying myself with the stunning view – seeing the Venetians passing by in
front of the coffee shop, hearing them talking about things vaguely and of
course, that modest distinctive smell of rain and dirt.
“Where is he?”
I asked myself as I finally decided to close my book.
For all these
years of experiencing what it a writer’s self-motivated mood; It was like, if
you didn’t know what to write then you don’t write! That’s it. Don’t push
yourself or the story will just be dead.
It is the rule
of Sir Crowley. Indeed…
Ah, yes… You might want to met Sir Crowley.
Now, you might
think, ‘Who is Sir Crowley?’ or ‘So is he your assistant, Carlston Young?’ I
would probably answer both of them with a simple nodding… and a mysterious George
Clooney’s smirk.
Well, I would
never assume Sir Crowley as just as a black leather book about 15 inch
diagonally wide and some tattered skin on the binder side, nor I would just
describe him as just a book of journal in which I usually put all of the
stories that I had been hearing from many exotic people around the world.
“Sir Crowley
wouldn’t like that.”
He is my
assistant, alright – but rather, a passive companion type. Not an slave of
course but, he needs me nevertheless or he would be dried to death due to his incoherently
thirst of supernatural and out-of-the-box cover stories of which I have been
collecting all these years.
Yes, I had
been doing this since the first time I died as a human in 1817 and reborn as
the children of the night by whom of which I hadn’t got the chance to know his
cursed name. That man with slick black hair, blue eyes and the scent of country
floral justification.
I cursed him
so bad but yet, I adored him for giving me the gift of immortality.
THE rain is appalling…
The rain gave
a soothing sound, such of those you might imagine a group of tiny nutcrackers soldiers
lining and rushed with solid steps altogether above the green canopy of which
the guests of Pallazio Café’s rested their comfort on. I then sipped the latte
while my wide bulging brown eyes scanning through the street of Northern Vienna pathway.
The road was
long and gray, brick layered, asleep with yellowish light standing like
birthday candles on a black forest cake. At first I though Vienna would feast my eyes with ivory-colored
frayed houses and dead salmon-stench river. It had not.
The street,
the city, was mostly grayish figure of noir and greeting cards images, they
were classical, or maybe because the rain stroke its way in the afternoon?
Well… I wasn’t
so sure of it actually because I only been in Vienna for the second time now and this was
the only street I know by now.
Travelling to Northern Vienna again to get a story for Sir Crowley was
the least crazy idea that I could think of.
You see, for the
first time I was here…
It was when I had
… died here. On this very road, just two blocks from Pallazio Café, on that first
spinal turn on the left. The small theater of Allegri was still there it seemed,
it had changed into more vibrant taste of modernization of course but the
stench; the stench of oily water and the dirt rain…
“It was 1817…”
Yes, that year
I lost my grasp upon God and surrendered unwillingly to the demons of the night
decree.
Amazingly,
after that, I wanted to open Sir Crowley again and put the unpleasant memory of
my own death, my story of which I never thought of doing it because the truth
was, I didn’t know!
I still hadn’t
got the slightest idea who was my ‘maker’.
So like a wise
guy would act… I held it. I didn’t close the book. I let the page opened. Sir
Crowley was almost at his peak of interlude. Should I create Sir Crowley the 2nd?
THE rain was pouring harder; my declining
sharp nose could smell the dirt and rain much clearer. I smelled a bit of
jasmine and lavender from across the table – A woman dress all in white at
least until her whitish smooth knee. Her blonde hair twirled like a Chinese
noodle. She sipped her small cup tea or coffee (I couldn’t tell) and then
smoked a few puffs of her, possibly, Virginia Slims.
Ah… I smoked,
yes. I love those slim cigarettes. They were the definition of elegance to me.
Sexy, not manly but not feminine as well, it was a bit over-generalized but
nevertheless, I still called them as the taste of Eden. Pot from Heaven!
That woman… that
scent… I knew a woman like that once, before death took me in, in a brothel. I
think her name was Emelia.
NOW… with a rain like this, I
highly doubt the guest which I supposedly met would came, a bit late maybe but
the chance of having him not coming was the same amount of percentage with the
fact that I would probably order another Hazelnut Latte.
But I was
wrong…
Just far from
the road, a tall figure with a very pale skin, unlike my tanned skin, came
slowly in a fashioned sway – a bit elegant I might say. He wore a brown leather
jacket and black jeans. His boots curled his tight jeans a heel high. His black
hair was thrown a back, slick and shinny – as if I am seeing a version of
Lorenzo Lamas in Renegade back in the 90’s; of course minus the facial hairs
and the manly look. I am not saying he is not manly, but I found him to be
tantalizingly seducing for a man.
From that
moment on, I know that he is just like me.
“Today, I’m
gonna get me a vampire story…” I said to myself merrily.
That euphoria
of finding another of my kind was only lasted about a few minutes. I realized
something else…
I
might know his face…
As he came in
closer, I could see his inner red t-shirt. He took off his Rayban glasses and
sat before me with a smile and said the worst thing ever, the worst question I
never would imagine to hear since a few centuries ago.
That pale guy,
with that light tempting bluish eyes, spoke with a deep yet soft German
accented voice, “It’s been a while, Mr. Young. Do you remember me now?”
I wished I hadn’t
made an appointment. Or maybe I did glad had this…
I don’t know!
I just wanted to scream aloud. I met him again! The guy that made me the way I
am now. The guy with no name. Or did he had one?
“Well, you
seem to remember me. ”
His face was sharp and thin, but his body was tall and fit. A body of a
swimmer, perhaps.
There was a
solemn pause for a few seconds. I couldn’t find things to say. Imagine that!
For all these years I have been trying to gather thoughts if I had met the one
who were responsible for my immortality and damnation, I had a lot in my mind,
a lot of cursing or perhaps several praises. At the same time, I would want to
punch him in his pretty pale face and yet kiss his white hand and salute my
‘maker’.
He smiled. I
don’t like that smile. He had taken a part of me and now he did it again.
“Let me do the
talking first then. How was the book I gave you?”
“The… book?” I
wasn’t very sure, but I believed he was talking about Sir Crowley. I realized
that old trivia again which I had forgotten since the age of Flower Generation
spurred and vanished. Who gave me this
book? I found it in the same coffin I awakened…
“Ah! There it
is!” he looked at Sir Crowley on the table. Smiling as if seeing an old friend.
“I… My name…
Do you know me?”
He looked at
me through his blue deep eyes. He smiled and then jerked a bit to the front
such like a tempest strike, “I do, Herr Young. The problem is… do you know who
am I?”
He laid back
to his seats again and titled his head as if waiting for me to say a few words,
of which I realized again that he would’ve known I will not say anything. His
smile, I hate it!
“Well… I was
rude, excuse me for doing this…” he put his fists together and his both eyes
flashed a bit, “My name is Vladimir, Vladimir Raglan. But you can call me Vlad
of course, friend.”
Vladimir Rag-lan…
“Yes, that’s
right.” His response thrilled me.
Did he just read my mind?
He smiled and
nodded.
-to be continued-