Hitching Post Saloon

April 19, Saturday

Dan and Jon, after prolonged, ritual purification by Cryptologist Rex, had arrived at the local watering hole before Dusk to capture what Jon indicated was “a snake.” Dan could scarcely believe he had been inducted into a monster-hunting fraternity. He had wanted to ask so many questions of the giant host that gave them sanctuary. But the ceremonials wiped the big guy out. They could barely help him to his desk, which was a bed, with the foot slid under an iron-banded oak table that held a giant screen TV—his desk top…

Celina, their bar maid, was all smiles, “Mister Imbolden—no Mrs. Imbolden tonight?”

“Oh, ah, she ditched me, literally, was found by this fine young fella here, saved me from the desert.”

Dan smiled softly and Celina lit up to him, liking him right off, as he said, in his soft voice, “Oh, Jon was doing alright, would have made the hike on his own.”

“What will you have, Handsome—something more interesting than Mister Imbolden’s double well whiskey, neat?”

He had gotten over feeling uneasy in a bar setting, and after the recent chem trail insanity he was done with diet sodas, convinced that THEY were tainting human blood for some vile purpose, “I will have a water, Miss.”

“That is interesting,” she smiled as she winked at Jon, “Really, Jon, the most beautiful woman in the world seeks you out and takes you away from poor little ole me, and you manage to mess that up, what, in a day?”

Jon squirmed uncomfortably on his stool at the Public Table, reached into his jacket palming a fold of hundreds and was stopped by that dainty hand, “Oh, Jon, Mrs. Imbolden and I have an understanding. You can’t buy your way out of this.”

He sighed, eased out the bills, peeled off two Benny’s and sadly said, “I have a rare disorder, kiss-induced seizures. We kissed and I blacked out. That’s the truth, Doll.”

The old fellow hung his shoulders and handed off the outrageous over payment, “One is for you. Let me know when the rest runs dry—I’m taking the rapids down Whiskey River, Doll.”

The woman seemed sad for Jon, who sat back, waited for her to head for the bar, and opened his eyes, as if a professor ready for student questions.

“Jon, you were roofied here, as near as I can tell—you left with a woman—you are married?”

“Yes, married, but not roofied. I have issues; mind is going, why we need you. All I’m good for is bait anymore, the hate part is drifting out of grasp…”

“So, what in the heck were those vultures, those man, crones?”

“Vampires, blood-drinking faɡɡots, not just homos, but fags in the sense that they cannot stand alone—the ultimate fascists, as indicated by the Romans with their fascine; the Romans who drank the life blood of thirty four, heroic, Arуan nations.”

“From what I saw and felt, pretty weak—vampires, really?”

“Dietary demons. They can’t digest meat, have scurvy, have false teeth, can’t suck blood. The males can’t have sex—there is no such thing as turning. Think of the dead in Odysseus, who crowd around, weak and dumb, begging for sacrificial blood. All of the modern vampire lore is bullshit, meant, most pointedly, to deny God, Angels, demons—the Bad Actor Prime, etc. Just like we can’t get vitamins from plants and therefore eat meat and use supplements, teas, etc., to front-end process nutrients, the Vamps use us, like cows, our blood their milk. You’ve seen em, felt em, in two states, the lowest forms.”

Celina brought the drinks and smiled. Jon took the time to make eye contact, to admire her fading beauty, to make the old girl feel like the bell of some long gone ball.

“So it doesn’t spread, like in the movies?”

“Oh, no. That entire trope, being turned, is the toxic spit that Bram Stoker’s Dracula roasted on, the only thing that remained, after the homos got a hold of the myth and shaped it to divert attention from the fact that they are blood drinking, baby-eating faɡɡots. The only flesh they can digest is fetal or infant. In Norse myth, Hel is inhabited by cowards and run by a ghoul queen. That is how the Vamps are run. There are boss bitches, like that Bathary gal, beautiful though she was, who use sex to enslave and then neuter the men they feed upon.”

Dan was intrigued, “So this is dietary, demonic feminism?”

“No,” nodded Jon as he sipped his whiskey, “It is a patriarchy based on deception, a hierarchy: at the bottom there is the flock, the herd, the food, humanity. Next are the Creeps, that have a great range of power, from can’t chew gum without breaking their jaw to winged shadow sodomites come to rape you in your bed roll. The next level are human slaves, programmed by the Master, mesmerized meat bots controlled by the Master and his wives. There are nine Masters, called Watchers, where we get the idea of nine-layered Hell.”

Dan was excited, “Like in the full book of Enoch? The giants that mate with mortal women?”

Jon winked and drank, “Each has a number of wives—these are bad bitches. They shift from nubile beauty to wicked crone based on their feed levels. They lose power when dry, risk exposure when they are thirsty. This is what accounts for most of the missing persons and bodies attributed to the serial killer myth. Seduction is their way, deception is how they pray, for they have but one Ultimate Master, The Deceiver.”

Jon crossed himself and asked, “Does it shake your faith, that The Lord lets such evil roam the earth?”

“Not at all, Dan. A wretched sinner like me, who will wager a nation on a fair lass to kiss, how else is Our Heavenly Father going to test us, to assure we are worthy of to continue?”

Dan swelled with FAITH inside, breathed in deeply, into his chest, looked into the hard-as-iron gray eyes of the fading hunter slouched across from him, and realized out loud, “I prayed on Ash Wednesday, then fell asleep behind the wheel of my lawn mower and had a dream of climbing the Supers, of braving the evil spirits to gain an audience with God. That is why we met—from prayer, to dream, to this.”

Jon made a fist and looked at it, as if it had once been mighty. Seeing there but a memory, he looked at Dan and said, “Dreams are not ours—they are from God or… You are God’s own blessing, an angel of flesh and bone sent to call me home. I will not see Christmas Day or even Michael’s Mass, maybe not Easter Sunday.”

He downed the whiskey and raise the empty to Celina and mumbled, “Son, a young, golden-skinned, blond beauty of rare allure will enter with two paint-on-tan faɡɡots, and a dyke cock blocker, just after dark. When they come, you are to show all of your very real concern over my state, what being dumped by my beautiful wife just yesterday. Pat me on the back. Ask Celina to take care of me, perhaps get me a ride home with two nice couples driving a big black Expedition, and let me drift down Whiskey River. They will sit in a perch-like, Dinner Bell Pose, like vultures looking down their beak at fresh meat.”

“Jon,” he objected, as the very four people just described walked in, looked about casually, and moved south to the other end of this Public Table.

“Boy,” hissed Jon, you are still fresh enough to harbor hate. All is left of me is worth but bait. Do as I say.”

Dan felt deep sadness, had so wished that he might have stumbled upon a father figure met late in life. Celina was there by his shoulder. He pushed the water over to Jon, “Celina, please make sure Mister Imbolden drinks his water and gets a ride home.”

“You’re going, already? The young ladies will cry inside.”

Jon counseled, “I’m his coach, his trainer, Doll. Dan has a fight on Sunday and needs his legs—no ladies for him. I’m here for you girls, never fear.”

Celina feigned shock, “Why you terrible man, what ever am I to do with you?”

Jon winked at her, “The bottle, Doll. If I drink enough I won’t swoon like a school boy when we finally kiss.”

The woman scoffed down from the freshly raised pedestal Jon had constructed, then touched Dan softly on the shoulder, “I’ll make sure he’s alright, Dan—getting dumped by Mrs. Imbolden, must make a heart ache.”

‘Who the heck is Mrs. Imbolden?’

“My dear estranged Wife, graced that seat yesterday, Son. May she grace your path before all’s done. Finish that hike, let God’s Will be done.”

Dan rose, hugged Celina, who seemed like she missed a long gone son, and patted Jon on the back. Looking down the table to the left, Dan did not like what he did see, four figures perched like birds of dismay, three sets of hungry gray eyes looking sulkily his way, and one blue-eyed beauty who radiated the fact that she always got her way.