Travel Bug (11 page)

“Astonishing,” said Harold.

“I knew it.”

These aliens believed that God created the bug to tempt them into sinning against him. Now since energy cannot be created or destroyed, neither can evil. It can only be contained, like repressing one’s sexual urges. The bug allowed them to cheat time itself and they compared it to some of a genie or jinn, making dark wishes come true but at the cost of one’s own soul!

“That’s quite a complex theology they have.”

“I think there is even more to it we don’t know, Harold,” I said.

There was much more. Only by banning this creature, their Satan to another world, in another time, could they finally be rid of the problem of evil. The Insights as they were called, roughly translated had lived with the travel bug so long, they had almost forgotten what life without it was like. That’s why they wanted to bring in an age of peace (there were many wars fought over it), understanding and prosperity (whole societies went bankrupt and starved their people in order to get it) and wisdom.

“We thought the unnamed species was from the past but he is actually from another universe, fifty billion years from now,” I said.

“Wow.”

They picked our planet and our time because of our ignorance. The problem of evil would be placed on our shoulders. Once they left us behind, only goodness and mercy would follow them for the rest of their days.

“Look…”

“Yes?” I asked.

“The earth was the planet they chose to be damned forever by the unnamed species. Our world had the mark of the beast from that day forward.”

“I see your point but…”

“What?” my great grandfather inquired.

“You’re starting to sound like someone I know…”

“We’ve got to find something else out before we go and time… is short.”

We jumped ship for good and left the cold weather for present day Florida. This was true despite the fact that only the old man was really ready for retirement.

“Now you know……”

“Yes, I know.”

Dinosaurs walked the earth once again in what would one day have animatronics dinosaurs at an exuberant price for the thrills and chills of kiddies worldwide.

“They dropped it off and buried it before we even had a chance to evolve,” said Harold.

“That they did,” I answered him.

“Why?” he asked me.

“I don’t know, Harold.”

“Why didn’t they just kill it?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“The real million dollar question is why they buried it in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps they were hoping that it would just freeze to death or hibernate for as long as there was life on this planet.”

“Perhaps,” I answered him.

“Well, this is quite a mystery.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Andrew, maybe just having the thing alive and sleeping, undiscovered forever put damnation on our planet.”

“That’s an absurd premise even for someone like me going into the priesthood.”

“Listen…”

“No, you listen…”

“Please…”

“Whatever people or aliens or whatever intelligent life form believes the devil to be, they have a problem…”

“What problem, Andrew?”

“They forget to take responsibility for their own actions. Every fucking idiot atheist except for a few libertarians makes excuses for the insatiable blood lusts of Marxist regimes on the planet.

“Agreed,” he answered me.

“Every idiot who believes in God allows the devil to take control for all their own faults or to demonize people who don’t see the world the way they do.”

“Sadly, your great grandmother was like that.”

“I would like to hear more about her sometime.”

“Sometime, yes……”

“Harold, if there is one lesson here it’s that this thing is just a creature and not the devil. Everything that threatens man and apparently other intelligent life forms is demonized as the devil himself.”

“There is a good story in there somewhere,” he said.

“Yes, I know there is but we’re going home soon. I can feel it.”

“Home, there is no place like it to live but no one lives forever.”

Bruce, the Vampire Novelist!

Bruce O’Malley was a vampire and now he had writer’s block. He wrote all kinds of books but he was primarily known and well known at that for his horror fiction. His publisher was Clive King who was simply the most successful publisher in London. He would come all the way to Dublin to see O’Malley. That was an honor to anyone who knew how busy King was. This was the century that brought great stories to those inclined to read them. Stoker had written his masterpiece in this century. Bruce had mixed feelings about it. On one hand it was a delightful novel but it was full of inaccuracies about the life of a real vampire. Bruce had his eye on another type of book that he would like to try to write.

“Good morning, Bruce,” said Clive.

“The president of King Publishing is here and it’s not morning yet.”

“Obviously not, you’re still with us.”

“Yes, of course.”

“What’s on your mind, Bruce?”

“Lewis Carroll.”

“I’m sure I don’t understand.”

“I would like to write a children’s book.”

Clive King looked at Bruce like he had gone mad. This was the man who wrote about ghouls, ghosts, witches, werewolves and of course, vampires. The good publisher simply could not understand why this creature of the night would even want to write something for children. Bruce had been a vampire for a long time. He was made in the dark ages. That meant that he had seen many a nightmarish horror. Many of the unspeakably evil acts were done by vampires but more often than not it was the hypocritical human race who was the evildoers. The overweight, cigar smoking King was obnoxious. He loved watching the smoke get into Bruce’s eyes. They would typically turn bright red when irritated. King disliked most of the men who worked for him. He especially disliked Bruce for wasting the powers of an immortal.

“Bruce, you write spectacular tales of terror.”

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment, lad.”

“Oh?”

“That’s what you write. You writing a story about a mad hatter or talking animals is an absurdity.”

“No. I must write a book for children, I insist.”

Bruce hadn’t been a killer in a very long time. He got by on the blood of animals and surviving the dark ages made him return to his gentle nature. Bruce did not make a habit of being disagreeable with his publisher.

“Why do you persist in such a bad idea, Bruce?”

“One can say things in a children’s book that one cannot in an adult novel.”

“I think we both know that you are more apt at writing tales of the supernatural.”

“A work of children’s fiction could certainly contain supernatural elements, Clive.”

“I would just rather see you spend your precious time on writing horror.”

“Clive, I have all the time in the world.”

“Well, I can’t say the same.”

“If you only knew how lonely it was.”

“I’ll tell you what if you make me immortal, you can write whatever you like and I give you my word it will be published.”

Bruce had seen a great many truly evil vampires. They were ambitious, arrogant men when they were merely mortal. Once they crossed over they became the cruelest despots. Clive King was a remarkable man but he had a superiority complex the size of the great city of London. There was no way in hell that Bruce would ever allow such a man to become a vampire.

“You can keep me company then. Please consider it.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Clive, I grow weary of lying to you.”

“Oh, do tell.”

“You don’t have the capacity for it, the heart for it.”

“What?”

“You would not dine on the blood of rabbits and fresh game like me. The only thing that would satisfy you would be the taste of human blood.”

“What does that mean, Bruce?”

“I was a simple peasant when I was made. Humility and starvation were my companions. Power and wealth are yours.”

“You think I would become a monster?”

“Sir, you’re more of a vampire then I am already.”

Clive King didn’t rise to power by virtue of hard work or some type of inheritance. He ruthlessly climbed his way to the top of his profession. He provided the luxurious hotel suite where Bruce lived. The secret compartment with his coffin was located just behind his typewriter. Most of the best writers either worked for King or were in his debt in some capacity.

“It’s almost morning now,” said Clive.

“Yes… it is.”

“That’s the only time when you are vulnerable.”

“Yes…”

“Do you know what I’m getting at, sir?”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Clive.”

“Look, I can kill you if I chose to do so.”

“Why would you say such a thing to me?”

“I would rather follow you into the next century and beyond.”

“Look, threaten me if you like. I am out of ideas for horror stories. I would like to write a fairy tale for children.”

“Why are you out of ideas?”

“I haven’t killed a man in over a century. All of the desperate tales of horror of years gone by have been put into print. If I didn’t write “Tales of the Vampire,” then someone else employed by you would have. Centuries of stories were written down for you and I didn’t receive as much as a writing credit. Now that you have made a fortune off of my life among the damned, you want me to burn into ashes under sunlight.”

“Such melodrama, Bruce, perhaps you should write plays.”

“Sorry?”

“You are not Stoker, Bruce. He would seem a more fitting and deserving novelist than you would ever be.”

“Oh, I see now. Insults are now tolerable in our relationship.”

“You called me a terrible tyrant in a polite way, now you speak to me as if we should be polite and respectful.”

“What are you saying, Clive?”

“You’re not Shakespeare, Bruce. You are merely someone who was fortunate enough to be made into an immortal vampire.”

“I think you had better listen to me. You don’t write short or great novels for the readers who pay a costly sum to purchase your books.”

“I am great man. Once you met me, you were in trouble. Someone like you who have been given this blood gift or whatever you call it, have a bargaining chip but you are still no match for me.”

“Clive, you are a most powerful and important man but nonetheless you are still just a mere man and I am a vampire.”

“Now you’re threatening me?”

“Well, hell yes!”

“Oh, I see.”

“Good.”

“Who are you to threaten me? Daybreak is almost upon us now.”

“I made my peace with feeling inferior to the land owning lords and those who loved war a long time ago. Ambition is fine but when it comes at the cost of destroying others, it’s wrong.”

“You have the perspective of someone who does not deserve immortality.”

“No! I have the compassion of one who loves the poor and down trodden. You merely care about yourself and your money.”

“True.”

It was probably a most difficult thing for Clive to admit that Bruce was essentially a better man than him. The choices of good over evil that are required to be a good man were far too costly for a man like Clive King. He was not a hero but neither was Bruce O’Malley. The fine Irishman was simply someone with a conscience. He was insulted by many people during his life’s journey. That’s part of the price of being born in a peasant class. Babies born in the upper class cried quite a bit but those born into poverty knew at the infant state that crying was pointless.

“I am successful and you are a lucky loser,” said Clive.

“I had a loving father and mother. They were poor but they were rich in terms of their great love for me.”

“What a delightfully sentimental vampire you are.”

“Yes I am. I can still remember being human.”

“I despised my father and my mother even more.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Well, they’re dead and one of the ways that I would like to get back at them is becoming an immortal.”

“I’m very sorry but that’s not possible.”

“Oh, it’s very possible and you know it. If you don’t make me immortal, I am going to let you waste away in the dreaded sunlight.”

Now Clive opened up his coat and revealed a razor sharp wooden stake. There was no doubt what his intentions were. Since Bruce despised living forever so much, at least allegedly, Clive decided to put him to the test. If he was not serious about living forever, this could be a great opportunity for him to finally die. Clive didn’t want to kill him but he had to keep his reputation as a ruthless man who could never be refused anything from anyone.

“I don’t really need any additional stories from you, Bruce.”

“I see…”

“Our scribes have written many good tales of your blood drinking adventures already. We have enough now. You are expendable, sir.”

“Indeed.”

“I need an answer soon. Don’t make me destroy you.”

The vampire was utterly conflicted. On one had he had abandoned his life of violence a long time ago. Still, this little tyrant was beginning to annoy him like a fly that had to be squashed. Like a monk who renounced worldly possessions and lusts, Bruce had said farewell to killing but he was at heart, still a vicious monster. He knew this. There was many a terrible story that he chose not to reveal to Clive. The romantic stories stayed but the unspeakable ones remained unspoken. Bruce was proud of all the evil landlords he tortured who bullied the starving families.

“Do your worst, little man.”

No one spoke to this man this way without paying a terrible price. The vampire was not fully aware of this but Clive was no stranger to murder either. Men did not climb this high without being ruthless and occasionally unspeakably cruel.

“You’ll be sorry, vampire.”

“No. You will be sorry because you underestimated my vampire nature. I am a killer.”

“What have you killed recently?” He laughed at the vampire. “Animals or just salads or plants…… ?”

“Many men have died in unspeakable ways from me…”

“So have many hens and chickens. If you ever were a monster, Bruce, which I tend to doubt you ever were… you aren’t one now.”