Skulking in Shadow
Completed 6/5/02
"Damn flourescent lights. Make me look dead." ~Spike, Doublemeat Palace
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The fluorescent lights do little for my complexion as I stand just far enough away from the building to let the light shine through the big bright windows and spill neatly at my feet.
Like I wish she would.
Truth to tell, the fluorescent light doesn't do much for her complexion either - washes out those gorgeous golden skin tones.
Y'd think that those of us who live to live at night would've made something a bit more appropriate for our coloration. But then that gets into nasty legal issues - y'think that the good ol' U.S. of A. is going to blithely hand out a copyright permit to one William the Bloody, care of Sunnydale Cemetery, Holstern family crypt, California? Not bloody likely.
Besides, though us beasties of darkness swear off Anne Rice and other such pap, we like the romance of candles and fire.
Fire is primal. It's not just humans that can loose themselves, staring into a fire for hours on end. Other than serving as simple illumination or heat, it feels homey. Sometimes a bit too homey. Pyree demons like it so much that they set whole cities to blazing. What d'you think the Great Chicago Fire was? It wasn't Mrs. Murphy's ruddy cow kicking over a flaming' lantern. And the L.A. riots, a few years back, the Pyrees had a good old time there.
But here I am, playing with my lighter, passing it from hand to hand, behind my back, over my knuckles, opening and snapping it shut, all the while staring into the jarring colors of the DoubleWhammy Place.
I've caught a couple glimpses of her, as she goes about the mechanical tasks of feeding an ever-changing populace, hungry for the plastic combo-grease delights these places specialize in.
If it were up to me, I'd clean out the town, kitten-poker cheating or not. I want to support her. Her and the Nibblet, but I know she won't accept my money. My money's dirty. Either the way I get it, or just the fact that it comes from me. Beneath her, she said. Yeah, I was, when we crashed through the floor of that condemned apartment complex. She won't accept my presence either for that matter, except when it's dark and we're panting into each other's open mouths...
I shift and cross my arms, glaring at the food factory. It's such an obvious symbol of her life. Fast food spots are for squealing softball teams, and gooey-eyed handholding acne-afflicted teenagers, and the SUV- slobs who stay in their air-conditioning and accept their purchases through tinted windows, behind dark glasses. See what I'm getting at here? Sun. Light. Those things that can mean an instant fiery death for me, and only a nice tan for her.
Ironic that - how well she commands the darkness, stalks through and overpowers it, and makes it safe. She brings the light into the dark. Into my dark.
I push myself off from the post I've bee leaning against, and stalk purposefully toward the building. Come out and play, Slayer. It's dark out here.
"Damn flourescent lights. Make me look dead." ~Spike, Doublemeat Palace
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fluorescent lights do little for my complexion as I stand just far enough away from the building to let the light shine through the big bright windows and spill neatly at my feet.
Like I wish she would.
Truth to tell, the fluorescent light doesn't do much for her complexion either - washes out those gorgeous golden skin tones.
Y'd think that those of us who live to live at night would've made something a bit more appropriate for our coloration. But then that gets into nasty legal issues - y'think that the good ol' U.S. of A. is going to blithely hand out a copyright permit to one William the Bloody, care of Sunnydale Cemetery, Holstern family crypt, California? Not bloody likely.
Besides, though us beasties of darkness swear off Anne Rice and other such pap, we like the romance of candles and fire.
Fire is primal. It's not just humans that can loose themselves, staring into a fire for hours on end. Other than serving as simple illumination or heat, it feels homey. Sometimes a bit too homey. Pyree demons like it so much that they set whole cities to blazing. What d'you think the Great Chicago Fire was? It wasn't Mrs. Murphy's ruddy cow kicking over a flaming' lantern. And the L.A. riots, a few years back, the Pyrees had a good old time there.
But here I am, playing with my lighter, passing it from hand to hand, behind my back, over my knuckles, opening and snapping it shut, all the while staring into the jarring colors of the DoubleWhammy Place.
I've caught a couple glimpses of her, as she goes about the mechanical tasks of feeding an ever-changing populace, hungry for the plastic combo-grease delights these places specialize in.
If it were up to me, I'd clean out the town, kitten-poker cheating or not. I want to support her. Her and the Nibblet, but I know she won't accept my money. My money's dirty. Either the way I get it, or just the fact that it comes from me. Beneath her, she said. Yeah, I was, when we crashed through the floor of that condemned apartment complex. She won't accept my presence either for that matter, except when it's dark and we're panting into each other's open mouths...
I shift and cross my arms, glaring at the food factory. It's such an obvious symbol of her life. Fast food spots are for squealing softball teams, and gooey-eyed handholding acne-afflicted teenagers, and the SUV- slobs who stay in their air-conditioning and accept their purchases through tinted windows, behind dark glasses. See what I'm getting at here? Sun. Light. Those things that can mean an instant fiery death for me, and only a nice tan for her.
Ironic that - how well she commands the darkness, stalks through and overpowers it, and makes it safe. She brings the light into the dark. Into my dark.
I push myself off from the post I've bee leaning against, and stalk purposefully toward the building. Come out and play, Slayer. It's dark out here.