Continued from yesterday...

I've been jumping all over the place in this story, updating it to fit the new parameters, but this will be pretty much the same, now.

------

Walstead saw Simon and beckoned him over, saying, “Simon, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Aristian.” The tone of his voice was far too deliberately cheerful in its casual dismissal of manners.

Simon focused on him and softly said, “Since you insist on referring to me by my first name, shall I refer to you by yours? Do you prefer Charles or Dillon?” 

Walstead’s fake expression of camaraderie froze. 

Manville huffed and said, “I think your manners are...” 

Simon cut her off by simply turning to the man and saying, “I am Mr. Halloran, Dr. Aristian. I understand you’ll be doing a physical examination on me.” 

Walstead jumped in to say, “Just a visual. A look to verify your claim. That’s all.” 

Simon hated games like this, obvious and childish. But since they insisted...he said, “I’m exposing myself to a physician I’ve just met, so that is a serious consideration...” 

“Mr. Halloran,” Aristian said, quickly. “I’m a PhD, not a physician.” 

Simon eyed him and asked, still in a very soft voice, “Do you have any medical training?” 

He shook his head and shrugged. “Rudimentary things. CPR. Immediate aid.” 

Simon’s heart beat faster as his breath grew shallow. He cast a cool glare at Walstead abut his voice remained calm when he asked, “Is this a joke? Are you mocking me?” 

“I never said he was a physician.” Spoken in that same vile overly-sincere tone that was close to condescending. “Did you really think I could get hold of a medical professional this fast?” 

Manville broke in, fighting a smirk as she said, “Simon, it doesn’t matter who does the...” 

This time, Simon raised his hand to cut her off. “You will address me as Mister Halloran or you and I will have no further communication.” 

She drew in a hissing breath, ready for battle, but Walstead stepped between them to say, “Your choice is simple, Mister Halloran. Dr. Aristian takes a look at this tattoo and describes it into the record, and we continue on. Or we get a continuance and have a physician contracted to do the exam, which you would be liable to pay for. Choice is yours.” 

Simon almost sighed. “I’m not the one demanding this.” 

“Those are your choices. Which one is it?” 

“You know what my choice is.” 

Walstead’s voice and manner were growing tight and ready for a fight. “Not acceptable. The judge has said so.” 

Deep within, Simon was so angry at this casual abuse he had to close his eyes and step back. It was like that day Alain had found him in the book shop, and had tried to act like they were old friends while suggesting Simon was a bad person for vanishing on him. 

Vanishing. All he'd done is cut off contact. What did they call that, now? Ghosting? 

He was also upset that ReShawn wasn’t here to do battle against this blatant attack on common decency. He’d have known the legal precedents to push Walstead back. 

“So which is it, Simon? Courtroom’s open, now, so...” 

Simon. 

From Manville’s voice. 

She had deliberately called him Simon. In direct violation of simple manners. The little bitch. 

Simon opened his eyes and saw a smug expression on her face, so said nothing. No words came to mind, so no need to fight back any explosion. He simply walked around them all to enter the courtroom. 

In silence.

Here we go...

I worked on this part of MQM, today. It's during Simon Halloran's trial over claims of indecent exposure within six-hundred feet of a school. He was able to get the arresting officer to admit that even though he said Simon exposed himself under a street lamp, erect, the man could not describe the penis.

Simon points out he has a very obvious tattoo of a dragon on it, showing the cop is lying. That's when Walstead, the ADA, demands a Dr. Aristian examine Simon's dick and describe it. Simon reluctantly agrees. They break for lunch to give the doctor time to arrive.

------

Simon managed to force a dry cheeseburger and overcooked fries down his throat, with packets of ketchup and mustard, followed by a Dr Pepper Zero from the vending machine. The café in that building was overpriced and his mother’s non-cooking had been far superior, but he did not want to have to deal with Security to get back into the building. He promised himself a better dinner...so long as this wasn’t to be his last meal. 

He ate at a table in a corner as other people clattered around him and children ran about, screaming. He used his hotspot to search online for this Dr. Aristian. He knew he wouldn’t have time to interview the man, but he could still do as much as possible to prepare, only he found nothing. The closest match was an attorney named Carter Aristian, who had a PhD...and was in an office a few blocks away, going by Google maps.

He felt that usual breathless nervousness build behind his heart as he read through the man’s credentials. Ohio State for pre-law then Harvard Law. Clerked for one of the most conservative justices on the Supreme Court, which indicated not only his level of ability but also his political leanings. His doctorate was in the misapplication of the law by Henry VIII during his breakaway from the Catholic Church and how it had become a witch hunt comparable to the HUAC hearings. It seemed a bit simplistic and too easy of a comparison, but it was sufficient to make him a Doctor of Jurisprudence.

Achieved by a man who, if the photo he used on his site were current, was very attractive and not yet forty.

Which tugged at Simon’s quiet self-loathing. He had always felt he'd effectively done nothing with his life except find a silent space in which to live. He felt no jealousy or envy or disparagement against the man. It was more his simple understanding that he had never even really tried to better himself. In any way. And here was someone who'd fulfilled his promise, completely.

It hurt his heart.

He texted ReShawn, again, but received no reply. In a follow-up text, he filled him in on Walstead’s new ploy. It was delivered, but not seen. ReShawn had said his meeting was at ten and it was now approaching two, so he was feeling more and more like he had been blown off. That ReShawn was simply not interested in providing legal assistance.

Simon packed his laptop and folder with his notes into his backpack then headed downstairs. As he turned into the corridor that led to the courtroom, he saw Walstead and Manville by the doors, talking to a dark, trim, attractive man in his thirties. His hair and beard were cropped close, a thick wedding band was on his left hand, and his suit...well, while it was nice it was nowhere near as sharp or tailored as Walstead’s. 

And Simon almost forgot to breathe. 

Even from down the hall he could tell it was the man in the photograph. His profile sharp and well-formed. And that he was not a physician but a Phd. They'd led him to think Aristian was a medical professional when in reality they were pulling a trick on him. A chill passed from his fingers up his arms and through his body.

This was unacceptable.

Thoughts?

I'm not sure where this came from or what the intent is, but I sat down at my laptop and this is what came out...possibly the opening to The Murder of a Quiet Man. A story I sort of started a while back and got shifted off of.

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Silence is, perhaps, the most complex word in the English language. Or any language. It can mean peace. Acceptance. Anger. Understanding. Acquiescence. Disapproval. Separation. Refusal. Hate. Love. And even cruelty. 

To be silent in a judicial sense is seen to mean consent. Which is too simplistic a definition, even when restricting it to the law. Silence in a relationship is often seen as evidence the bond between two individuals is over...or has become comfortable enough to quiet the need for speech. 

For Simon, silence was a gentle blanket enveloping him in peace and safety. He had always sought it, but he had found the easiest way to achieve silence was to let it come to him. Usually, while reading late in the evening. 

Another would be at the end of a thunderstorm that had declared its presence for all the world to see but now was whispering like a lazy feline in need of a light caress. He would sit on his back balcony, under an awning that still dripped from the rain, the moisture remaining in the air as he sipped a cup of hot tea and soaked in the joy the world seemed to feel.

Sometimes he even achieved that level of Zen, for lack of a better word, while listening to music. Easy tones drifting melodiously. No words. Nothing brash or demanding. Just New Age in a classical style. During those moments, he cared nothing for the world and its billions of issues. He would not think beyond the immediate. His eyes would close and in the darkness everything would be reborn...would renew...would regain its meaning. And life would realign itself within him.

A funny thing to learn in your seventy-third year. 

Could be it's probably me...

I cannot rouse myself up to work on Blood Angel 4, no matter what I do. My interest level is way low. And that's even with a beautiful naked man chained to Léonidès' bed, awaiting abuse...

I seriously wonder if I'm undiagnosed ADHD. I'll start doing something like putting away the dishes I washed, last night, then get sidetracked into prepping my meds for the day, then decide I need to go through my folders for a job that needs more info and go online and think, I should check my bank accounts...all within ten minutes.

When I manage to finally pull up the Word doc for BA4, I'll read through a page then think of how I need new sleeping shirts because the one I wore last night had a frayed collar and maybe I should brush my teeth and get dressed but the bed needs to be made up and I should turn off the vaporizer and...it goes on and on.

It's a common neurodevelopmental disorder typically diagnosed in childhood, and if we'd had that as a potential diagnosis back then I'd have been the poster child. It's characterized by persistent inattention and impulsivity...as well as other attributes, but those two pretty much sum me up. As a boy, when I was reading a book I liked my mother would actually have to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention; just calling to me wouldn't get through to me.

There's the difficulty of sustaining focus on tasks, frequent careless mistakes, appearing not to listen, poor organization, losing items, and being easily distracted. Which I am. I have a hell of a time focusing on any project for very long, or even getting started on one, sometimes. And i am constantly forgetting something somewhere.

I have difficulty sitting still (I'll fall asleep), I fidget (I'm compulsive about biting my nails, nonstop), and I'll act without thinking (which references my actions far-far-far too often).

If I am, I'm probably of the Predominantly Inattentive realm: inattention, with minimal hyperactivity-impulsivity. The exact cause is unknown, but researchers believe it results from a combination of factors: Genetics: it's running in families. Brain Structure/Function: Studies show reduced activity in certain brain regions, such as the prefrontal cortex.

Seems a bit silly to get myself checked for it at this late stage, but it might explain some of my inconsistencies and difficulty in completing project. Maybe.

Self-indulgent lunatic at large...

This evening, after making myself have a salad for dinner and getting a blood sugar reading of 134 (under 180 is wanted, for evening)...I proceeded to cook and eat a full bag of onion rings...which were very good...then pig out on a pint of Ben and Jerry's Brownie Batter ice cream.

Now I feel fat in both tummy and cheeks. And also somewhat satiated. Almost at peace or happy, something stupid like that.

I mean, WTF is wrong with me? This is obscenely self-indulgent and frankly unhealthy. Which I knew. But I didn't stop. 'Cause it was all so fucking good...

I wonder if it has something to do with the direction Léon is going. Complete self-indulgence. If he wants something, now, he's going to have it. Gabrielle has roused that attitude in him. He wants Franz (even though he doesn't really want him) so he's going to take him (just not keep him)...if he can get to Alexandria before Gabrielle. That's the issue, now.

His ship is captained by a vampire named Eogard, whose First Mate and crew are doùlos. They were corsairs at the beginning of the 19th Century, off the Barbary Coast, and know how to sail a ship. Eogard can pilot at night as his First Mate, Christian, works the day.

If they cut out half the ports of call they need to make for provisions, they can do the journey in 4 weeks. But that means not only holding stocks for the doùlos crew but also captives for Eogard and Léon to feed upon. To which Léon says, "Fine."

Men for him...women for Eogard.

And it doesn't matter if they deserve punishment or not. Léon's overwhelming focus is getting one over on his sister and the Oiym. He's pushing his own agenda, now, and things are changing.

And it's taken a tub of ice cream to settle me into going along with it.

Strength revealed...

I happened onto an interesting fable by Aesop, supposedly...though it might be Anisthenes. 

The hares harangued the assembly, and argued that all should be equal. The Lions made this reply: “Your words, O Hares! are good; but they lack both claws and teeth...such as we have.” 

It suggests that a brave speech, unless it is also supported by strength, is mocked by those more powerful. I would add that it's also mocked by those who think they're powerful when in fact they are not. They're just full of bluster, bullshit and stupidity.

Felon47 and Putin fit that. Men who talk tough but scoot away when others push back.

I think that notion may be building up in BA4. Gabrielle is strong and knows it. Acts the part. Has the wealth and willingness to do what it takes to get her way. Or exact her revenge on those who've tried to wrong her.

Léon references an occasion in Hamburg, Germany in the mid-19th Century where a Lutheran minister rallied a pack of men to attack her coven as they slept. Two vampires were killed before the rest could escape.

Once she knew her people were safe, she returned to the place and took the men to her coven to be fed upon, saving the minister for herself. Then she burned the house with everything in it, including the men's bodies.

The next place she bought was an estate near Hampton Court, and she borrowed Reynard to help set up security...then tried to keep him. Léon went to bring him home, and found he wasn't all that much interested in returning. She was letting him sleep with her, and he was enjoying himself.

But Léon tricked her into revealing her disdain for Reynard, which hurt his sense of pride and he left. Despite her demand he not. Gabrielle was too arrogant to think Léon could get around her, but he showed that in his own quiet way, he was just as clever and strong as she. 

Now he's offering to convince the Oiym to let her turn Franz, but she never asks anyone's permission. She plans to take him on her own terms, and she's trying her usual controlling bullshit on Léon. Which makes him angry, but he's also fighting back in a way she would net expect of him.

He's going to take Franz, himself, then allow her to have him. Which would keep the man from being her mate. All he has to do is get to Alexandria, in Egypt, before she does...and ignore the threats of the Oiym.

Proving he's got the claws and teeth, even though no one has seen them on him, before.

Back to moving forward...

Here's what I've started after Léon has taken the surviving marine, Clerik, to his schooner, the Angelique. Eogard is the captain, a vampire. Leon's English is not good but he needs it to communicate with Clerik and Eogard...

-----

Before he could think, I had Clerik in my cabin on the Angelique. He was close to freaking out from the sudden change in location so I sat beside him and said, "I have drug. Make you sleep. Other trick." 

Then I showed him a pair of Chinese fingernail rings. Put one each on my thumb and index finger. Clicked them. He seemed to accept that explanation about my nails and relax a little.

I did not do this out of kindness. I needed him to settle into silence until I could get things arranged with Eogard on the journey back to the west. 

That calmed him a lot, though even through the gag I could hear him grumble, "Wha' yeh do'n' wit' meh?" 

I can say, with all truth, I did not really know what my plans were, for him. Not then. 

I pulled some chains from the cupboard and bound him to the bed, spread eagle, face up. Then I stood at the foot of it and gazed upon him. He reminded me of Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man...if a bit softer around the belly. 

"Sleep,” I said. “We talk. Morning." 

He replied with something like, "Don' kill meh, please." 

I wondered if the girl he had killed also begged for her life. Probably. So we'll see how much good his begging does.

Just to emphasize my control of him, I trailed my fingers through the hair on his belly up to his chest. aAnd it struck me that he might be good to bring home as a gift to my pack. Let them decide what to do with him. 

But all I said was, "Play nice, you be fine." 

He glared at me, still afraid but muttering as best he could. "Ye wan' mor'...this?" 

"Yes. I take you...my home. You stay quiet. Tell nothing." 

"Won' tell enneh-one. Shameful." 

I was tired of the grumbling in his gag so removed it and pulled on his dick. He cried out. I moved close to his face.

"This, you like," I snarled. "Girl you kill? Not so much. We have deal?" 

He leaned back on a pillow to gaze at the ceiling as he said, "Take meh soul?" 

I chuckled. "Gone much past." 

I could see him thinking, hard, as he swallowed and little whimpers of fear still leapt from within him. I continued to hold tight on his dick. Made him squirm as my free hand toyed with his elegant nipples. 

Finally, he nodded. "O-keh." 

Now I wasn’t so dumb that I thought he meant it. He wanted time enough to figure out how to escape me. And I actually felt it might be fun to let him get away a couple of times during ports of call. That way, I could go hunting. In fact, the more I considered that idea, the more it aroused something primal in me. 

He noticed it in my eyes so turned his head away from me, as much as he could. He was close to tears. 

I chuckled and pinched his nipples, making his yelp in pain. He shook his head. “Please,” he grunted. “Jess don’ hurt me.” 

Stupid man...begging for mercy after what he’d done? That would make my abuse of him even sweeter. 

Here we fucking go again...

What the hell do you do when your MC decides something he's done has brought about a major change in him...but he won't tell you what it is? I've been through this, before, with other characters and it drives me nuts, because I can't figure out the story till I know.

Right now, Léonidès is saying he's gone through a big, seismic change. Something deep within him is different, and I'm at a loss as to what. He's a fucking vampire. They are what they are. Am I working up a new mythology in vampire lore where Blood Angels can grow or change or be affected by events?

No idea. Is he going nicer? Meaner? Is he ending his demand he and his pack feed only on people who deserve punishment? He's toying with the idea of making Clerik, one of the marines he took, into a doùlos. A sort of slave beholden to him who can work during the day. Like a familiar.

Léon doesn't need a doùlos. He's not that affected by the sun so can handle daytime needs, himself. And he just forced the man to watch him viciously rape and kill a buddy. Doesn't exactly make for a loyal servant. Is he going to toy with the man? Torture him? Fall in love with him? All of the above? None?

He's also heading for Alexandria, Egypt, where the Oiym have their fortress and Franz is contained. Is he planning to take Franz, anyway? Or just mess up Gabrielle's plan to take him? Or just watch and get his jollies?

Once again, I guess I'll have to start writing and hope I'm following the path Léon wants. I've already dumped half of what I've written for this chapter, and I hate throwing out my work.

Which I don't really do. That's how I wind up with a dozen drafts of each section and get lost, sometimes.

This may wind up with twice that many...

Seen...

I've often said I write so I don't become the beast, and this helps clarifiy and support my reason why...

I was impacted by it way too much. I need to sit with it, for a while.

But at the moment, I'm glad I'm alone and to myself, considering where my brain has been going this year...

Memories...

I've been thinking back on when Blood Angel came to being in my head. I was in St. Louis visiting an old friend. A guy I'd known since college, whose life was made up of stumbling blocks and then cut short by pancreatic cancer.

It was for his wedding, most of which I missed because I was being chauffeur for various older people going back and forth to their hotels. God...nearly thirty years ago.

Once he and his (third) wife were gone and everything was done, it was mid-afternoon. So I drove around the city.  Not the prettiest of places, but I did see an old church that fascinated me. 

The Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis. In white stone and a lovely rose window. With two bell towers and steps up to the entrance, from the street. It was near Forest Park. And for some reason I thought of doing a version of Tristan and Isolde as a tragic vampire tale. 

Where she finds a man she wants to join with her as undead but he's too locked into being human. The climax was to take place in the church tower, where he dies protecting her, or something, and she is so destroyed, she walks down the stairs up to the double doors and flings them open to be burned up by the setting sun.

Pretty overwrought. And would have been difficult, logistically, because the doors faced south, not east or west, in direct line with the sun. Didn't matter. I couldn't figure the story out.

Not until Katrina hit New Orleans. I shifted the location to there, and it fell into place as a screenplay. Tristan is a young jazz musician with a horrific past and Gabrielle is in the city making sure her company gets some of the rebuilding money. She connects with Tristan and slowly convinces him to join with her as a Blood Angel. Which he does under one condition: they leave New Orleans forever.

And from that, the whole of this series of novellas has grown.