He strolled along the nearly deserted streets of Galway, taking the odd straggler who was too drunk or too dumb to have found his way inside. They weren't to satiate his hunger, but merely to keep him amused while he waited for Peter to turn up, just as he knew he would. It was simply a matter of finding the right bar.
He found him at the gentleman's tavern in the center of town sometime shortly after one o' clock...he wasn't sure exactly what time it was. He didn't carry a watch anymore. He didn't need to. He loved the way he could smell the sunrise coming. And a watch would take some of the sport out of it, he thought. At any rate, he'd found him. Or rather he heard him, his voice booming out one of their favorite drinking songs through the open door.
The place had no real name; the sign sported only the universal picture of a half-filled goblet. Most of the upper class couldn't read, anyway; they were all too busy being refined. He simply knew the place as a haven for powdered-wig wearing poofs with too much money, who drank nothing but wine, played nothing but chess and baccarat, and talked about nothing but politics, of which they understood nothing...What the hell was Peter doing here?
He walked in, peering around the room curiously, almost cautiously. Just as he'd thought, drained wine glasses and marble chessboards lay here and there on the richly adorned tabletops, accompanied by the occasional white glove or jeweled snuff box; all the earmarks of those who fancied themselves noblemen, but were little more than glorified snobs. In fact, the only thing that did surprise him was that the place was completely empty, save for the lone, familiar figure of Peter, massive form hunched over a pint, singing away. He laughed a little as he moved closer, pounding his footsteps loudly on the carpeted floor, though he suspected Peter knew he was there already.
"Here yeh are, yeh feckin' gobshite," he slurred, mimicking Peter's thick Irish drawl. "I leave yeh alone for a fortnight and yeh're already mingling with the ponces." He picked up a half empty mug, took a sip, and finished dramatically, " 'Tis a feckin' shame...what are we to do with yeh, then?"
Peter turned slowly in his chair, draining his pint the whole way. Having finished, he flung it across the room where it shattered on a far wall. "I'm here because it's the only place in all of Galway that's not been locked tight because of you, yeh feckin' godless bastard." Peter paused a moment, looking him over with a drunken grin. "And if I were you," he continued, "I'd be careful who I was callin' a ponce." He laughed, that guttural, heart-filled laugh...Peter's laugh; the laugh he loved to hear over many a spirited round of digs at one another. Why, then, did it fill him with so much anger? He felt his face change again into that feral, demonic visage he'd become so accustomed to in the short time since he'd been made. Curiously, Peter didn't even blink.
He didn't even look surprised.
"I'd figured it was going to be somethin' like that," he grunted. "Well, I suppose yeh'd better get on with it then, if yeh're gonna." He turned away. "Otherwise, leave me feckin' be. There's drinkin' yet to be done."
He grabbed Peter around the neck and yanked him roughly to his feet. "Yeh're quite right about that." And he closed on him.
*****
Los Angeles, Somewhere in Time
He fell on his knees in front of the fireplace, sobs racking his form. Though he wept for Peter, and the many friends and neighbors he'd killed before him, he wept most for the thought of what he knew was coming; what he knew he'd have to relive yet again. Another curse of his eternity: He was denied the luxury of choosing his pain. It came at him all at once...and the most painful of it all was his darling Kathy.
He found him at the gentleman's tavern in the center of town sometime shortly after one o' clock...he wasn't sure exactly what time it was. He didn't carry a watch anymore. He didn't need to. He loved the way he could smell the sunrise coming. And a watch would take some of the sport out of it, he thought. At any rate, he'd found him. Or rather he heard him, his voice booming out one of their favorite drinking songs through the open door.
The place had no real name; the sign sported only the universal picture of a half-filled goblet. Most of the upper class couldn't read, anyway; they were all too busy being refined. He simply knew the place as a haven for powdered-wig wearing poofs with too much money, who drank nothing but wine, played nothing but chess and baccarat, and talked about nothing but politics, of which they understood nothing...What the hell was Peter doing here?
He walked in, peering around the room curiously, almost cautiously. Just as he'd thought, drained wine glasses and marble chessboards lay here and there on the richly adorned tabletops, accompanied by the occasional white glove or jeweled snuff box; all the earmarks of those who fancied themselves noblemen, but were little more than glorified snobs. In fact, the only thing that did surprise him was that the place was completely empty, save for the lone, familiar figure of Peter, massive form hunched over a pint, singing away. He laughed a little as he moved closer, pounding his footsteps loudly on the carpeted floor, though he suspected Peter knew he was there already.
"Here yeh are, yeh feckin' gobshite," he slurred, mimicking Peter's thick Irish drawl. "I leave yeh alone for a fortnight and yeh're already mingling with the ponces." He picked up a half empty mug, took a sip, and finished dramatically, " 'Tis a feckin' shame...what are we to do with yeh, then?"
Peter turned slowly in his chair, draining his pint the whole way. Having finished, he flung it across the room where it shattered on a far wall. "I'm here because it's the only place in all of Galway that's not been locked tight because of you, yeh feckin' godless bastard." Peter paused a moment, looking him over with a drunken grin. "And if I were you," he continued, "I'd be careful who I was callin' a ponce." He laughed, that guttural, heart-filled laugh...Peter's laugh; the laugh he loved to hear over many a spirited round of digs at one another. Why, then, did it fill him with so much anger? He felt his face change again into that feral, demonic visage he'd become so accustomed to in the short time since he'd been made. Curiously, Peter didn't even blink.
He didn't even look surprised.
"I'd figured it was going to be somethin' like that," he grunted. "Well, I suppose yeh'd better get on with it then, if yeh're gonna." He turned away. "Otherwise, leave me feckin' be. There's drinkin' yet to be done."
He grabbed Peter around the neck and yanked him roughly to his feet. "Yeh're quite right about that." And he closed on him.
*****
Los Angeles, Somewhere in Time
He fell on his knees in front of the fireplace, sobs racking his form. Though he wept for Peter, and the many friends and neighbors he'd killed before him, he wept most for the thought of what he knew was coming; what he knew he'd have to relive yet again. Another curse of his eternity: He was denied the luxury of choosing his pain. It came at him all at once...and the most painful of it all was his darling Kathy.
