Carlston the Vampire

Prologue Chapter (2012-TBA)

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-