"My power is as vast as the plains, my strength is that of mountains. Each wave that crashes upon the shore thunders like blood in my veins."
Nocturnes and Nightmares: An autobiography by Vincent Valentine
(An interview with Vincent Valentine conducted and re-written by Phoenix Down)
Part Four
The dream of manhood
This is the beginning of a nightmare
Your… here again. Thank you. Thank you for continuing to come back and keeping your promise. I think that this is one of my 'good days,' and talking to you, helps me. No, I am not ever going to leave, however, anytime soon. I still have yet to rectify all the things that I did. I have still to plunge myself into these… nightmares. Talking about the past re-awakens some demons I have yet to face, but, as I learn in this deep dark prison, the sooner I fight these demons and suffer these nightmares, the sooner perhaps I can leave this hell and enter purgatory. And I dream of heaven.
I promised you more stories, and I will tell them. I remembered where I left off. I had just left the night at the Honey-Bee Inn, where I met Delilah's mother, Lilly, I suffered the first of many nightmares. As I waited that morning for the gun shop to open, the nightmare was still real and touchable in my mind. It remained so for quite a while. In the times where I was alone, and awake, the beast in the nightmare would come and visit me. Sometimes it would come and gnaw at my flesh, wanting to be inside my bones.
I did get the job at the gun shop, and it happened without a whim. The first day, right as the owner walked in, he asked me what I was doing at the doorstep. I told him that I wanted to work here, he told me to come in and start.
He said he was a real good judge of character, and I seemed like the most honest, hardworking, and dependable individual he ever came across in this part of town. My age, he said, is not a problem. He didn't care as long as I showed up and did what I was told. His name was Ted, but everyone called him Knuckler, on account that he claims that his knuckles are world famously sharp.
For the most part, I called him Ted.
My other co-workers were Silk, Paranoid Tim, Bomb (Da Bomb), and The Jesus.
The nickname that they gave me was Vamp, as in, Vince Vamp.
They said I had eyes like a vampire.
~
"You got that shell for me, Vamp?"
"No, I can't find it."
"Where's Silk?"
"Out in the back, trying out that new shipment of glocks we got coming in."
I wiped a long black lock of hair off of my thin cheek.
"This is a nice one, where'd this come from?" I asked finding a very old, antique rifle down off a high shelf in the stuffy side room.
"That's Knuckler's, he'd kill you if he saw you touch it." Bomb said flatly.
"Really?" I let a sweeping knife grimace touch my lips. "You think he'd kill me, huh?"
"Put it down, Vamp, I know what your tryin' to do. You know you can't afford to get yourself fired."
I let my hands glide across its well-crafted barrel, and over its ornately decorated pieces. It must've been one of the best-made guns in the world, and I have yet to see it's equal to this day.
How badly I wanted to shoot it.
How badly I wanted it to be mine completely. It's destructive power, It's… it's strength.
*Note from the author:
At this point Mr. Valentine began to shake badly. He stopped talking so I asked him what was wrong. He didn't respond, and I stopped recording. As I was about to leave, he shuddered in a raspy breath, "No, don't go, oh, god, I'm sorry. I can get a handle on myself, oh, oh, god, I'm sorry, I won't hurt you, I am not a beast, I am not human, now, but I am… don't go. Lets just not talk about the… guns."
So we changed subject.
I thought I saw a twitch in his eyes, and his good hand seemed to look uncontrolled and claw like. His breath was very heavy and he stared at me greedily.
…Sorry. I just can't… talk about the guns right now. I think it would be too dangerous if we continued… along that subject. Considering my condition. Yes. My condition.
You know, I used to write.
And play classical guitar.
I will tell you about that.
I always wanted to write and play guitar when I lived with my mother. They were my two loves; sometimes they were the reason that I woke up in the morning. I had gotten classical guitar lessons all my life. I've even written songs before.
I don't write stories. I write a little poetry, non-fiction, songs, and plays. Like I said, I am not a weaver of stories. In fact, I hate them and those whom tell them. Stories are pointless, frivolous, and stupid things.
My job at the gun shop was very complicated. Knuckler and I balanced the checkbooks, ordered the shipments, and did all the paperwork and managing that was necessary.
"After all kid," He'd tell me.
"Out of all the stooges in the room, your 14 and not even graduated from high school, and you're the smartest one here."
Some months, I was left to EVERYTHING alone. I would lock myself in the office all hours of the night, doing paperwork. When my eyes were strained and my limbs would tire, I would write poetry. Or sometimes play guitar.
I didn't have mine, I left that at home when I ran away. I thought it would be too cumbersome to carry. But there was a very old, badly out of tune and in needing of new strings, acoustic guitar left in the office. The strings were so worn that I couldn't even get it close to being in tune. But it didn't matter. It made sounds and I could put my poetry to it. It kept me from going mad or badly maiming The Jesus.
"Vamp! VAMP! Where the f-are you? What the f-are you doing? Get the f-up!"
I slept in the top room of the gun shop. It was cold, the mattress was soiled and the ceiling leaked. I often took Lilly's offer in sleeping at the extra room at the Honey-Bee Inn.
I disliked "The Jesus."
But it was tolerable. I wound up working there for years.
That's all for tonight.
Nocturnes and Nightmares: An autobiography by Vincent Valentine
(An interview with Vincent Valentine conducted and re-written by Phoenix Down)
Part Four
The dream of manhood
This is the beginning of a nightmare
Your… here again. Thank you. Thank you for continuing to come back and keeping your promise. I think that this is one of my 'good days,' and talking to you, helps me. No, I am not ever going to leave, however, anytime soon. I still have yet to rectify all the things that I did. I have still to plunge myself into these… nightmares. Talking about the past re-awakens some demons I have yet to face, but, as I learn in this deep dark prison, the sooner I fight these demons and suffer these nightmares, the sooner perhaps I can leave this hell and enter purgatory. And I dream of heaven.
I promised you more stories, and I will tell them. I remembered where I left off. I had just left the night at the Honey-Bee Inn, where I met Delilah's mother, Lilly, I suffered the first of many nightmares. As I waited that morning for the gun shop to open, the nightmare was still real and touchable in my mind. It remained so for quite a while. In the times where I was alone, and awake, the beast in the nightmare would come and visit me. Sometimes it would come and gnaw at my flesh, wanting to be inside my bones.
I did get the job at the gun shop, and it happened without a whim. The first day, right as the owner walked in, he asked me what I was doing at the doorstep. I told him that I wanted to work here, he told me to come in and start.
He said he was a real good judge of character, and I seemed like the most honest, hardworking, and dependable individual he ever came across in this part of town. My age, he said, is not a problem. He didn't care as long as I showed up and did what I was told. His name was Ted, but everyone called him Knuckler, on account that he claims that his knuckles are world famously sharp.
For the most part, I called him Ted.
My other co-workers were Silk, Paranoid Tim, Bomb (Da Bomb), and The Jesus.
The nickname that they gave me was Vamp, as in, Vince Vamp.
They said I had eyes like a vampire.
~
"You got that shell for me, Vamp?"
"No, I can't find it."
"Where's Silk?"
"Out in the back, trying out that new shipment of glocks we got coming in."
I wiped a long black lock of hair off of my thin cheek.
"This is a nice one, where'd this come from?" I asked finding a very old, antique rifle down off a high shelf in the stuffy side room.
"That's Knuckler's, he'd kill you if he saw you touch it." Bomb said flatly.
"Really?" I let a sweeping knife grimace touch my lips. "You think he'd kill me, huh?"
"Put it down, Vamp, I know what your tryin' to do. You know you can't afford to get yourself fired."
I let my hands glide across its well-crafted barrel, and over its ornately decorated pieces. It must've been one of the best-made guns in the world, and I have yet to see it's equal to this day.
How badly I wanted to shoot it.
How badly I wanted it to be mine completely. It's destructive power, It's… it's strength.
*Note from the author:
At this point Mr. Valentine began to shake badly. He stopped talking so I asked him what was wrong. He didn't respond, and I stopped recording. As I was about to leave, he shuddered in a raspy breath, "No, don't go, oh, god, I'm sorry. I can get a handle on myself, oh, oh, god, I'm sorry, I won't hurt you, I am not a beast, I am not human, now, but I am… don't go. Lets just not talk about the… guns."
So we changed subject.
I thought I saw a twitch in his eyes, and his good hand seemed to look uncontrolled and claw like. His breath was very heavy and he stared at me greedily.
…Sorry. I just can't… talk about the guns right now. I think it would be too dangerous if we continued… along that subject. Considering my condition. Yes. My condition.
You know, I used to write.
And play classical guitar.
I will tell you about that.
I always wanted to write and play guitar when I lived with my mother. They were my two loves; sometimes they were the reason that I woke up in the morning. I had gotten classical guitar lessons all my life. I've even written songs before.
I don't write stories. I write a little poetry, non-fiction, songs, and plays. Like I said, I am not a weaver of stories. In fact, I hate them and those whom tell them. Stories are pointless, frivolous, and stupid things.
My job at the gun shop was very complicated. Knuckler and I balanced the checkbooks, ordered the shipments, and did all the paperwork and managing that was necessary.
"After all kid," He'd tell me.
"Out of all the stooges in the room, your 14 and not even graduated from high school, and you're the smartest one here."
Some months, I was left to EVERYTHING alone. I would lock myself in the office all hours of the night, doing paperwork. When my eyes were strained and my limbs would tire, I would write poetry. Or sometimes play guitar.
I didn't have mine, I left that at home when I ran away. I thought it would be too cumbersome to carry. But there was a very old, badly out of tune and in needing of new strings, acoustic guitar left in the office. The strings were so worn that I couldn't even get it close to being in tune. But it didn't matter. It made sounds and I could put my poetry to it. It kept me from going mad or badly maiming The Jesus.
"Vamp! VAMP! Where the f-are you? What the f-are you doing? Get the f-up!"
I slept in the top room of the gun shop. It was cold, the mattress was soiled and the ceiling leaked. I often took Lilly's offer in sleeping at the extra room at the Honey-Bee Inn.
I disliked "The Jesus."
But it was tolerable. I wound up working there for years.
That's all for tonight.