# 7
By Brian Campo ( bcampo@hotmail.com )
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. Sansker and all Spawn related characters are owned by Todd McFarlane productions and I do not contest that ownership. This story is in no way official, and should be taken as seriously as kids playing Spawn in their backyards. Please, do not sue me, I am hardly worth it :)
Warning: This story contains harsh language and EXTREMELY graphic violence. If you are easily offended, or think your mom might drop a load of hurt on you for reading this, don't. Consider yourself warned.
-A change of heart part five
Del Rey, Mexico- John awoke with the dusk, and knew right away that something wasn't right. It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, just a feeling in his gut that all wasn't right in the world. He sat up on the rickety little cot he had been sleeping in and looked around the room. There didn't seem to be any immediate danger. It looked like he was in a basement or cellar of some sort. How he got there, he hadn't the foggiest.
He remembered the confrontation in the temple. He remembered Carl being murdered. He remembered his suicidal leap into the underground river. After that, it was just a big blank spot in his memory.
He threw his legs over the side of the cot and got to his feet. Nearby, someone had laid a suit of clothes over the back of a chair. They looked like they might fit. He got dressed, noticing that the clothes looked to be a couple of decades out of style. It didn't matter, he was grateful to whoever had left them for him.
When he finished dressing, he began to look for a way out of the room. The room itself seemed to be the receptacle for about fifty years worth of junk. It stood in stacks that reached the ceiling, and filled shelves on all the walls. If there were windows, they had to be behind one of the piles, because John couldn't see any. The room was so dark, that if it weren't for his vampiric vision, he wouldn't have been able to see at all.
He carefully wove his way through the stacks of junk until he found a stair case leading up. He went up the stairs and saw a sign hanging on the door. On closer inspection, he saw that it said, "It's night, it's safe for you to come up."
He opened the door and found himself facing a kitchen with a small dinner table. An older man sat at the table, smoking what looked like a bong and playing solitaire. He looked up when John opened the door.
"So, the unholy abomination living in my basement finally decided to resurrect itself." He grinned broadly. "Hi, my names Tim Wyatt."
"Jean St. Claire." said John, a little uncertain.
"That's a mouthful of a name you got there. Can I call you John?"
John closed the door to the basement behind him and pulled up a chair at the table. "John would be just fine." he said. "How did I get here?"
The dog sitting to the left of Tim was staring at John suspiciously. He looked like he trusted John about as far as he could throw him.
"We found you floating in a tide pool down at the beach. You were too big to carry, so I ran to my house and got my jeep. I brought you back here to the house two nights ago, and you've been sleeping in the basement every since. Had to pull out all the old tricks of my trade to get those cuffs off you, by the way."
Those were state of the art cuffs, thought John. Just what kind of trade was this guy involved in where he could remove Shadow Striker inhibitor cuffs? "You...took care of me?"
"As well as I could." said Tim. "Once I figured out what it is you were, I realized that I didn't have the first clue as to how to take care of you. I've just kept you out of the sunlight and been trying to get blood into you as often as I can."
"I feel just fine. Blood?"
"Yeah." said Tim. "Chicken's blood. I've been getting them, alive, down at the market in Del Rey. I cut their heads off and drained them into your mouth. Didn't know what else to do."
"You did just fine." said John. "You saved my life."
"Don't worry about it. You brought a little excitement to this old man's otherwise boring life."
"Well, I thank you, Mr. Wyatt. I'm sure you must have a thousand questions..."
Tim laughed at him and said, "You're in Del Rey, son. We don't ask questions here."
"What's Del Rey?"
"This little pimple on the ass of the world. It's where old criminals go to retire and live off their loot. Three things you learn when you come here. You don't make deals with anybody, cause they're all crooked, and you don't ask questions. Whatever you've done, no matter how bad it is, there's probably someone here who has you beat."
John doubted that, but was glad he wouldn't have to do any explaining. He felt himself warming to this old man already.
"Do you think you could stand a little to drink?" asked Tim.
John's stomach grumbled in reply. Maybe that was what he needed. He felt run down, tired. "Sure." said John. "That would be great."
Tim sat his bong down and got up from the table. As he went out through the back door in the kitchen, John looked around the room. On the walls, there were pictures of a man dressed in a one of those strange costumes that used to be so popular in the super hero and super villian crowd. John realized that the man in the pictures was his host, minus thirty years and twenty pounds. In one picture he wore a pair of gloves that were emitting bolts of lightning. In another, a woman in a skimpy costume was hanging off of his shoulder, smiling. She held a bullwhip in her hand and it was wrapped around his waist. There were newspaper clipping mixed in, detailing Tim Wyatt's life of crime. The man was displaying this stuff as proudly as one would display old trophies.
Tim came back in, holding a squawking chicken by the feet. He carried it to the sink and pulled a filet knife out of a drawer. "The neighbors are starting to think I'm doing voodoo over here." he told John. He sliced the chicken's head off and began to drain the blood into a large beer mug. "I keep telling them that I got a hankering for fried chicken." He dropped the rest of the chicken in the garbage disposal and flipped the switch. As he turned to walk to the table, feathers exploded out of the sink behind him.
"Why? Doesn't anyone know I'm here?"
"No, sir. The third thing they tell you when you come here is "No child killers, and no goddamn vampires". It's in the town laws or something. Once I figured out that was what you were, I kept you secret. There are some bad types in town that don't like your kind."
"It seems I need to thank you again, Mr. Wyatt."
"No need, just be careful. Those bad types are assholes, anyway. They give decent criminals like me a bad name." Tim slid the mug of blood to John, who began to sipped at it hungrily.
"Do you have a phone?" John asked between drinks.
"Nope. Nobody I want to talk to." said Tim. "Gussie's, the bar in town does. I can drive you there later if you want."
"That's all right." said John. "I wouldn't want someone to see you with me and get you in trouble. If you point me in the right direction, I can walk."
"Suit yourself. I can show you the way when you're ready."
Half an hour later, they stood on Wyatt's front porch.
"Can't miss it." Tim was saying. "It's a big place with a light up sign."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Wyatt. Once I make this phone call, I will be able to get some money, and I would like to pay you for your troubles."
"Bullshit." said the old man. "It wasn't no trouble. You get where you're goin' in one piece and we'll call it even. And no more swimming in shackles and handcuffs, it just isn't safe."
"I'll try to keep that in mind." said John, and he held out his hand to shake Tim's. A very strange thing happened. Tim reached out and grabbed his hand in a firm grip and shook it. Usually, if someone knew what John was, there was always a hesitation to shake his hand, and an involuntary recoil at his touch. Not with Tim. They shook like old friends.
"Take care of yourself, John."
John thanked him again, then walked down the steps and out into the street. The old man called his dog to follow, and then disappeared into his house.
Gussie's was every bit as classy as it sounded. It was good for about two things, getting drunk and starting fights. John had seen a couple thousand of these little dives in his lifetime, and they were all the same. Two bit shit holes, every one.
There was a pretty decent crowd inside for this early in the evening, and they all gave John the eye when he pushed his way through the bars double swinging doors. One very large man in a red flannel shirt looked at John like he was something he had wiped off of his boot once. John hoped it was because of his apparent bad taste in clothes, not because he recognized him. He was still feeling too tired to be getting in any scuffles.
"What can I get you?" asked the bartender when John walked up to the bar.
"I need to use your phone."
"The phone is for paying customers. You gonna buy a drink?"
"If you let me use your phone, I will even leave a very large tip."
The bartender slid him the phone and then walked down to the other end of the bar. John picked up the receiver and dialed Jacob Moore, his lawyer. A secretary answered and asked how she could help him.
"I'd like to speak to Jacob Moore." said John. "This is Jean St. Claire calling."
"One moment." said the secretary and John was placed on hold. When the phone was picked up on the other end, Jacob said, "John?"
"Yeah, Jake, how's it going?"
"Jesus Christ, John." said Jacob in an excited whisper. "Everyone is saying that you're dead!"
"I won't be cliché," said John. "so I'll just say they're full of shit. I'm guessing you've heard from Mark?"
"Not personally, but he's all over the news. He said that the UN had killed you. He's started a war in Hong Kong, John."
"I'll be damned." said John. "He's gotten a lot farther than I would have expected him to. He fucked me over but good. He was the person working with Persephone the whole time."
"That little bastard." said Jacob.
"Yeah, that was what I thought. The son of a bitch killed Carl. Stole my heart, too. Anyway I look at it, I'm pretty much fucked."
Silence for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear about Carl. He was a good man, and I know you cared for him."
"I appreciate that, Jake. I'm trying not to even think about it. I just keep focusing on what I'm going to do to Mark when I get my hands on him."
"What do you want to do? What do you need from me?"
"Right now, I need a transport and a bundle of cash Maybe a suit of clothes produced in the last five years."
"I can do that. Where are you?"
"That's the deal. I need you to send a pilot who can keep his mouth shut. The people that run this town would rather that the world didn't know they were here, and on top of that, they really don't like people of the nocturnal persuasion."
"Don't worry about it, John. I'll get someone discreet. Now, where are you?"
"Del Rey, Mexico. It's on the east coast, I believe."
"Ok, got it. You just sit tight, John, I should be able to get someone to you within a couple of hours."
"I'll do that." said John. "Thanks, Jacob."
"That's what I'm here for. Take care of yourself."
John slid the phone back to the bartender and asked for a bottle of whisky. "Start a tab, " John told him. "put a thousand dollars at the top of it. Subtract all my drinks from it, and when my transport gets here in a couple of hours, whatever is left is yours."
The bartender liked the sound of that. He slid John a bottle and a shot glass.
John held up his first shot and said, "To old friends long gone."
The bartender poured himself a mug of beer and held it up in the air with John. "And to the friends we will make."
"No, no. " said John. "New friends are no good. You can't trust them. Stick with the old ones until they're all used up, and then you're all alone. To old friends long gone." He tossed back the shot and poured another while the bartender took a long pull off of his mug.
"To loves long lost." he said and the bartender joined him in another drink.
"To youthful ideals long forgotten." was his next toast, and the bartender snorted.
"I didn't have any ideals in my youth." he said.
"That doesn't surprise me in the least. This will be a two part toast, To youthful ideals long forgotten and for you, The bliss of ignorance."
They drank together once again, the bartender looking like he was trying to decide if he had been insulted. Behind John, the man in the red flannel shirt shoved his chair away from his table and stood up. He crossed the room and stopped at John's right arm.
"I know you, don't I?" said the man.
John turned his head and looked the man up and down. "Don't think so."
"You're that guy they're always talking about on the news, aren't you? That vampire that killed all those people."
"You got the wrong guy, I'm afraid. " John turned back to the bartender and raised his glass. "To first kisses and last lingering looks."
The bartender drank to that and John joined him.
The rasp of steel got John's attention. He looked back at the man in flannel, who had pulled a foot long Bowie knife out from behind his back. "Sanka? Is that your name? I know it's something like that."
"No, that's bad tasting coffee. I'm just another drunk, mister. Why don't you put your pig sticker away before you hurt somebody."
The man with the knife moved it a little closer to John's face. John raised another full shot glass.
"To the look in the asshole's eyes when he realizes that he's in over his head. If you don't get that knife out of my face, I'm going to stick it so far up your ass it's going to part your hair."
The man with the knife grinned big and wide, enjoying the fact that he was getting John's goat. "I wonder what kind of bounty they got out on a little blood sucking sack of shit like you."
John sat his glass down on the bar, and lower his left hand behind his back. He flexed it, and extended his claws.
At least that was what he intended to do.
His claws didn't extend. The man with the knife slugged him in the side of the head, and the world did cartwheels around him. He fell back off of his stool and landed on his back with a crash.
What the fuck is going on? he thought in a panicked little voice.
The knife wielder threw the stool out of the way and stepped toward John with his knife raised. John reached up and grabbed the edge of the bar. He used it to pull himself to his feet just as the man with the knife closed in on him. John threw a punch at his chest that would have usually splattered the man's heart across the back wall of the bar. It jarred him a little, but that was all. The knife whistled as it cut the air, and John felt a stinging across the forearm he held out in from of him.
John grabbed the whisky bottle next to him by the neck and busted it over the bar. The man in the flannel looked a little more wary now, but was still more than willing to keep coming. John backed away from him with the broken bottle end held out in front of him. He was doing his very damnedest to stay calm. He had known from the moment he awoke that something wasn't right. It was his powers, they were gone. He wasn't any faster or stronger than a human.
The man with the knife made an over handed lunge at John, with every intention of driving his knife into John's chest. John stepped to the left and grabbed the man's knife hand with his left hand. He threw his weight into the man's side and drove him into the bar. The hand with the knife was shoving back against him, and he strained to keep it from coming up. He jerked up his right hand and shoved the broken whiskey bottle through the man's throat. The knife hand twitched for a moment and then began to slowly relax. Blood began to pour out the end of the broken bottle. John's legs trembled, and he thought he might fall down.
"Just what the fuck was that all about?" he wondered aloud.
"I think he thought you were someone else." said the bartender. "I don't know. It's clear enough to me that you aren't a vampire."
John shoved the body up onto the bar and rolled it over onto it's belly. The head flopped over the edge of the bar, and blood began to drip on the floor.
"I mean, aren't vampires supposed to be really fast? Super strong, too."
John held his shot glass under the dripping bottle end and filled it with blood. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too." he said as he tossed back his shot. The bartender's eye's widened as John licked a small droplet of blood off of the corner of his mouth.
"You mean you're a...?"
"That's right. " said John. "You've been sharing drinks with a bloodsucking son of a bitch."
The doors to the bar clacked together loudly and John heard somebody running down the street outside.
"I'd get out of here, Mister." said the bartender. His voice had that strained sound like when someone was trying to keep from dropping a load in their shorts. "That was one of the Gecko boys that just ran out the door, and I'm guessing that he's going to be back with his brothers. They really don't like vampires very much at all."
"Are they big guys?" asked John, looking a little worried. He wasn't feeling so good. He felt...weak. Sluggish.
"No, but they have lots of guns, and they're good with 'em."
John sat down his shot glass and stared thoughtfully at the door. He turned back to the bartender and said, "You got a gun back there behind the bar?"
"Look, Mister, I don't want any trouble in here. Why don't you head on out before the Geckos get here and tear the place up. I'm telling you, they're bad news, and you don't want no part of them."
"If you've got a gun, I'll add another thousand to the tab."
"I'll give you the gun if you will just get out of here."
"Done." said John and held out his hand for the gun. The bartender slapped a .44 magnum into his palm and John started for the front door. The sounds of shouts coming up the street stopped him in his tracks. After a moment's thought, he turned and walked back to the bar.
"You got a back door to this place?" he asked and sat the gun down on the counter. The bartender pointed at a sign in back that said, "Rest rooms"
"The service entrance is back there. Hurry up, I think they're almost here."
John left the gun where it lay and ran to the back of the bar. As he disappeared around the corner into a narrow hallway, he heard the front doors of the bar slam open and someone shout, "Where is he?" He spotted a door with an exit sign above it, and shoved his way through it. He found himself in a garbage strewn alley populated by a pack of hungry dogs that scattered at the sound of his approach.. He turned to the left and ran as fast as he could in his diminished state. He was rounding the end of the block when he heard voices coming out of the back entrance to the bar.
Two and a half hours later, John heard the whine of transport turbines, and he came out of his hiding place. The transport flew in from off of the Gulf and it circled the town a couple of times before landing a little west of John. He stuck to back alleys and side streets as he made his way to it, trying his best not to be seen by anyone. When he got to it, he saw that it had landed in the parking lot for a grocery store. He waited for several minutes in the shadows of a building until he was sure that no one was watching the transport. Satisfied that he could cross to it without being attacked, he made a desperate dash for the craft. The pilot lowered the ramp as John got close, and John ran inside.
"Let's go!" he told the pilot, and started smacking the close button on the door with his palm. The pilot wound the engines up and lifted off.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Carsen?" asked the pilot once they were in the air.
"No, no problem." said John as he looked out the window at the town below. "I just ran away from a fight for the first time in eleven hundred years, but I don't have a problem with it. Do you?"
"No, sir." said the pilot. "Anywhere in particular you are wanting to go?"
"Yeah, I need to get to New Orleans."
"New Orleans it is." said the pilot, and he turned the craft back toward the Gulf.
At first glance, the man who answered the door might be taken as a black man, but that would be an incorrect assumption. He was of a breed of people that predated all others, including Negroes and every other race. To say he was human was almost an incorrect assumption. He had some of the genetic makeup of a human, because his kind began in the same place, but his ancestors had taken a different evolutionary route than ours, leaving him with a very different heritage. At a passing glance, he would have passed for one of us, but with a little study, the differences could be seen. The way his eyes twinkled from some unknown light source, or the fact that his shadow didn't quite match his shape. The timbre of his voice was off just enough to make you wonder if you were imagining things when you kept expecting his words to dissolve into bird song. Once upon a time, one of our ancestors reasoned that if we banged two rocks together we might fashion a weapon. His ancestors just thought to kindly ask the rock to take the shape of a weapon.
"John?" he asked, incredulous at the sight of John Sansker standing in his doorway of his New Orleans home. "My God, man, what abominable act has brought you to my doorstep?"
"Just spit it out." said John. "If you want to know what the fuck I'm doing here, just ask me what the fuck I'm doing here. You always have to be so wordy, Charles. No one ever knows what the hell you're talking about."
"Fine. What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Relax, Charlie, I know what you're worried about. I'm not here to collect any debts. Believe it or not, I just need your help."
"Since when does Big John Sansker need help from my kind? I don't trust you, and I say piss off. If you think I'm going to invite you over my doorstep, you got another thought coming, friend, and here it is, piss off."
John stepped through the door way uninvited. "You put way too much stock in old wives tales, Charlie. A vampire doesn't have to be invited in. Humans just tell themselves that so they can sleep at night. Relax, Charlie. I intend to leave you completely unharmed. Now, can we sit and talk, or do I have to spend the evening trying to convince you that I intend you no harm?
"I don't trust you, John Sansker."
"So you have stated," said John. "please, sit. We'll talk."
Charlie backed around a coffee table and sat down on a sofa, never taking his eyes off John. John sat in the opposite chair and tried to appear non threatening. The furniture in the dark man's room was comfortable, but looked just a little strange, like maybe the wood it was made of hadn't stopped growing yet. Come back in a five years and the rocking chair might have become a love seat. Ten years more and you might have a sofa.
"What do you want?" asked Charles.
"Conversational skills, Charlie. Learn them." said John. "You spend too much time alone. You need to learn how to speak to people. Here, I'll help you. So, John, how have you been?"
Charlie looked more than a little put out, but he had known John long enough to know that he would have to play out this game until John grew bored of it. "So, John, how have you been?"
"Could be better." said John. "I've had a rough couple of weeks, Charlie. Thank you for asking."
"What do you want?"
"Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless." said John, shaking his head. "I lost my heart. I've lost all my power. The boy that took my heart killed my friend of two hundred and sixty years and has started a war between vampires and humans. On top of all that, I think I might be dying. Was that to the point enough for you?"
Charles stared at John for a moment while the words sunk in. Then he started to laugh. "You are dying, and you want me to help you?" He sat back in his chair and laughed uproariously. "My, God, man, why would I do that? I think that you dying would be the best thing to happen to the world in twelve hundred years. I just wish I could feel that I somehow contributed to your demise."
"I wouldn't be surprised if you had." said John. "It seems that everyone else and their sister was in on it."
"No powers, you say?" asked Charles, trying to stifle his chuckles..
"No." said John. "I feel like I'm running through cold molasses all the time, and my strength has gone all to shit, too."
Charles suddenly sat forward and delivered a swift right to John's left eye. John's head snapped back and he had to fight to keep from blacking out.
"What the hell was that for?" he shouted, clutching at an eye that felt like it was going to blacken.
"That was for fucking my wife, you son of a bitch. Did you think I didn't know?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!" said John, doing his best to sound offended. "I never touched your wife."
"Bullshit." said Charles. "1822. I was working in England when you decided to drop by here at the house. Don't deny it. I used a truth spell on my wife, and she told me everything. I tell you, if it wasn't for those blasted tattoos of yours, you would have dropped dead years ago."
"Three hundred and eighty years, Charlie. Christ, doesn't anyone forgive and forget anymore? It was an afternoon shag, and she was more than willing. It's not like you didn't dip it in other pools while you were out on the road."
"You infected her, John." said Charles. "I found her hiding in the root cellar living off of the blood of rats. And stop calling me Charlie, it has always annoyed the shit out of me."
It was several minutes before John broke the silence. "I'm sorry." he said. "I was wrong."
"What?" said Charles. "Do my ears deceive me? John is sorry?"
"Oh, bite me. I said I was sorry, what else do you want from me?" Those words felt as unnatural for John to say as they were for Charles to hear. It wasn't often that John Sansker apologized for his actions.
"Canceling debts would be a nice start."
"Done." said John.
"Not just to you. I want all of Black Madagascar's claims to my soul dropped."
"I'll take care of it." said John, feeling it was best to leave out the fact that Black Madagascar had been dead for one hundred and seventy years. Charles seemed to be under a lot of stress, and finding out that he had been worrying unnecessarily for a century and a half would only make matters worse.
"If I help you, I won't ever hear from you again, will I?"
"Charles, we're very old friends. You wouldn't want me to visit?"
"If I never think about you again for the rest of my life, I will die a happy man. You cannot possibly fathom how much I hate you."
"At much as it hurts to hear you say that, if you help me, it will be the last you will ever see of me."
Charles studied him for a moment and then said, "Keeping tradition with all the other stupid choices I've made with you, I'm going to believe you. Where is your heart?"
"Charles, you're the best." said John. "A young upstart of a vampire stole it, and I think he's had it surgically implanted into himself."
"I don't even want to know how it happened." said Charles. "It probably involves you doing a lot of things that you shouldn't have which would influence me not to help you. The fact of the matter is, you are right, you are dying. If you do not get your heart back from the gentleman that has borrowed it, you will get weaker and weaker until you die. The heart is adapting to him, so you are no longer drawing power from it. You are losing any claim you have to it every second that it is in his body."
"How am I supposed to fight him? He has all the strength and speed that I used to have. He'll tear me to pieces in two seconds flat."
"All I can tell you, is that you weren't always that fast or strong. You found a way to stay alive up 'til now, you'll find a way this time. What you really need is some time to think about it, and that is something that I can give you. Only a little bit, mind you, so I wouldn't be taking any vacations on the way to where you are going."
"What do you have to do?" asked John.
"A little voodoo. All I need is a little hair from you."
Charles wasn't somebody that you just casually handed over your personal stuff to. It was rumored that a guy named Job once dropped a hair into Charles' mutton stew and he got a little angry over it. Sansker wasn't eager to give Charles some of his hair, but he did anyway.
Carefully pinching the hairs between his fingers, Charles stood up and motioned for John to follow him. They went downstairs to the basement of the house where Charles kept all his magic makings and workings. John gave him room to work, standing back and taking in the magical memorabilia through out the room.
Charles would stop every few minutes to tell him, "Don't touch that." and then go back to his work. After half an hours work, he told John to come closer, which he did. He pointed at a crudely made voodoo doll lying on his work table and said, "That's you."
"Ok." said John.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"Well." said John, shrugging his shoulders. "It looks like a lump of mud with some hair and sticks for arms."
"This will only work if you really believe in the doll, John." Charles picked up a six inch long needle off of the table and stabbed the doll in the leg. John shrieked in agony and fell onto the floor.
"Mother of God!' he screamed, clutching at his leg. "Stop it, Charles! Stop!"
"Do you believe this is you?" asked Charles.
"Yes!" said John. "Now stop doing that!"
Charles withdrew the needle and sat it down on the table. "Get off the floor, John. You look like a fool."
John pulled himself up off the floor and looked like he was considering murder. Charles was reaching into a nearby cage ad pulling out a large black rat. From one of the drawers in his work table, he pulled out a zip lock baggy and some chloroform. He dropped the rat into the bag, soaked a rag in chloroform and dropped it in with the rat. A few minutes later, the rat was laying motionless in the sealed bag. Charles removed it from the bag and laid it out spread eagle on his work table. Another drawer was opened, and he removed from it a hobby knife, which he used to cut open the chest cavity of the rat. The rats heart was still beating, although not very fast. He quickly severed the veins, arteries and other tissue surrounding the tiny beating heart and pulled the organ out of the rat's body. He turned to the John's voodoo doll and used his thumb to make a deep cavity in it's chest. Murmuring an incantation, he lowered the heart into the hole, and then pulled the surrounding mud over the hole, covering it.
"There you have it." he said to John. "For a short time, Heartless John has a heart. I would not waste one second from this moment forward. The spell will not last for long."
"You gave me the heart of a rat." said John, more than a little disgusted.
"I hope you are appreciating the irony of that like I am. Now, I believe you have things to do, and frankly, I can't wait to be rid of you. Good bye, John."
John stared at the tiny doll laying on the table for a moment and then said, "Good bye, Charles. Don't let anything happen to that, ok?"
Charles got up from his stool and lead John back up the stairs and out the front door. "By the way," he told John. "should you get any headaches or diarrhea, that's probably me just working off a little frustration. Nothing to worry about." He shut the door in John's face and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
For the conclusion to this series read The Dragon 2200 # 9, #10, and # 11
The Snake Pit
I welcome all letters and criticisms. Sound off if you got a pair, I want to hear what you think!
Poor John Sansker
It´s hard to be a bloodthirsty vampire nowadays.
It´s funny how religious fanatics can make a killer like Sansker seem like the good guy! Still there´s not much to
say about # 3. They came, they saw, they got their ass kicked!
I´ll give #3 7 out of 10
Am I wrong if I say that the house of the devil is the same place as in from Dusk till Dawn:" the titty twister". I
like it!! It´s always funny when you put stuff like that in a story.
John finally hit rock bottom going from leader of the Vampire Nation to presumed "dead". The funny thing is that it
was pretty much what he wanted after being exposed in the first miniseries. Of course he problably would have
done it a little less painfull and with his heart safe but then again; Now he's got someone to look forward killing.
what can I say: I´ll give it 9 out of 10.
B Better
I do my best, thank you. With # 3 I was trying to bring a little vulnerability to the invincable Sansker, and also show there was a reason why he let Mark and Carl tag along with him. I see you also caught the From Dusk til Dawn reference. By the way, did anybody see Mark's betryal coming?
Hey man, just sayin', this is a really great story you've got goin'
here. Loved the From Dusk Till Dawn tie in in #4. One question: do you
have any characters in mind you're going to do in future fanfic's? This
Sansker one is awesome, and There are a few other characters in the
Spawn Universe that could use a little of your touch. Namely, Angela.
Thanks for your time, and keep writin' them stories!
Nickodemus
Thank you for the compliments, and I'm glad you're getting a kick out of the stories. I was hoping every one would catch on to the From Dusk til Dawn tie in, and it looks like it worked. These stories are actually just a little part of a much larger picture, namely the Shattered Image fan fiction site http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Orion/2160/index.html
The guy that runs that site wrote a timeline that the writers try to stick to, and in his timeline, Angela was killed by Spawn. The thing is, the guy that wrote the timeline seems to have disappeared from the internet, and if he doesn't return soon, I'm going to toss his timeline and use any of the characters I want. I've been tossing around a lot of ideas for what I might want to write once I'm finished with John Sansker, but I'll just have to wait and see which one fleshes out the best.
Thank you for taking the time to write, letters from people who read the stories are what keeps me writing them. Thanks again, Brian Campo
Well, that's another issue, thanks for taking the time to read it. As always, if you liked this story, you might like my others, check them out at my site, Bad Monkey Comics!!!
If you have any comments or curse words, e-mail me at bcampo@hotmail.com I welcome all comments and criticisms, but ask if you are going to tell me I suck, tell me why I suck (yeah, that sounded funny to me too.)
By the way, I will probably print any letters I get next issue, so if you don't want yours printed, let me know.