1 thought on “World War II Era Vampire Stories”

1. He wasn’t the funniest of vampires — the humor could be a bit maudlin in general but that title went to the Polynesian branch of the family, having convinced a whole island to drop what they were doing and build enormous stone idols (those which died in the construction — well, waste not want not.) Jokingly, Rapu would call himself ‘The Durian’ — cool guy — lots of yellow, and kept you on your toes.

   Still, at the reunion he did his best to cheer up his fellow Undying. He was the kind of man which the majority will claim is unwelcome, yet no one kicks out of a gathering because his antics make things bearable if not, oh, he did not(!) — the kind of man which takes the attention off of grief and off of any failings which others might scathe them for. Send out the raven before the dove? Send out the parrot or the candy-striped pterodactyl and you’re in the clear. (Phil, The Monster of Loch Ness can attest to the fact of candy-striped relatives. It’s much easier to swoop down on your prey when they are still trying to resolve that, yes, something is really happening.)

   Anyway, the gatherings usually started out sour. He liked it that way, as he could be depended upon to be precisely late to every occasion. Speeches and speeches and droning on and the tear filled stories at the podium, as the older vampires trying to outdo each other in gory descriptions — just not his thing.

   He was more for his own stories, and the glints of chance which life had to offer…. also the catering which was sure to follow the histrionics and a glass or three. There was that time that he had been blown three blocks down a London street, only to land on some un-exploded ordinance from a previous raid, and he swore that from 100 feet up in the air, he saw Parliament. That day he was arguing with a fellow soldier in Berlin, and the building behind them slid lazily into the street — creaking and crumbling from it’s second floor and tumbling down two feet away, effectively ending the argument as they laughed about almost dying. He had met Lili Marlene though verdammen~!

   One of his favorite projects in the war was to grow out the most eccentric facial hair he could and, what do they call it? When you show up in the background of an exposure? Photobomb. It was more difficult to be at the right place at the right time* but he claimed to have gotten Churchill no fewer than five times and that the latter erasures which Stalin made to photos during his purges usually left him in, as they couldn’t identify him, and he seemed mostly harmless — over-jovial, really and..well, fun, Mr. Stalin.

   His specialty was whipping a crowd into a frenzy of patriotic glee — such that folks might want to get a drink after the celebration, and, well, things happen in that kind of chaos — everything happening at once — who’s to tell…

   *It helps when you’re mostly nocturnal. Sunscreen and long sleeves do wonders thankyouverymuch. Sneaking into the editor’s office before the morning edition is released and, erm, assisting with the photos that are selected for the final print — maybe cheating but he never would deny a modicum of pride or vanity.

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