"The Bar Fling"
After Dinner Mints
This was a cut of Vampire Fiction that I began as an implementation, in collaboration with Emily Palmer, in 1999. Gradually Rayne Wylde developed a life (or perhaps I should display, an UnLife) of his own. People have asked me how he came to be a Mosquito.
CHAPTER ONE - TURNING THE PAGE
RAYNE
21.30: June 26th, 1999 - MANCHESTER
It was period.... the others had gone ahead and now they were out there, behind you. Waiting for him. He tasted it, bitter and dry in the back of his throat and coughed to translucent the choking sensation that invariably threatened to squeeze the life out of his voice on nights resembling these. They were out there, ahead of you and he felt their well developed anticipation, though the thick, cold mist muffled nigh on every sound and cut-rate his vision to an all-consuming, opalescent greyness that swam and shifted around him similar a thousand ghosts. On his missing a towering block of solid darkness loomed up out of the fog and he used it as his conductor. Picking his careful way through the impenetrable gloom, he trailed slow fingers against its rutted flanks, feeling the feelings run through it like the rapid heartbeat of a living thing.
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Through the shifting mist a release, piercing shaft of ultra-violet luminosity sliced upward, cold through the tresses of smog like a blade made from wholesome energy, etching sharp-edged, cavorting patterns on the obscure field of silver-grey. He dodged backwards, avoiding it, pressing his spine to the envelop behind him, sliding sideways into the dimness. Another quickly united it, cutting across at an slant - parrying it - then a third slashed through the cape of fog, sweeping the vista like a searchlight. Now the screaming happening.
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Rayne’s blood raced. Fearless, he stalked from the dark to meet them - a king coming back into his realm - striding through the dancing light-beams, bolder with every tread. Then dodging them reminiscent of a fugitive as they strafed the rolling, gray pall that hid and confined him. The swift, staccato rattle of signal in his ears was noisy; like the fizz and thunder of repetitive gunshots. He paced onward, a seasoned combatant on the sports ground of conflict, unruffled by the clamor, calm and equipped in the eyes of all that experimental him - and there were heaps of those! He was not tiresome to hide. Let them find him. Let them see him at last in all of his bony, wasted, street-glam glory. He stretched out a pale-skinned, long-boned employee for the only business on this platform that was thinner than he was. Behind him, Ciaran Hart’s deep kicked in; pulsing a fruitful, resonant counterpoint to the percussive rattle of blast. He kept his eyes unchanging forward, oblivious to everything but his own breathing. Away to his right little Sean Courtney huddled low over his precious, blood crimson Stratocaster and made it scream a lot louder than any organ of the essentially teenage crowd below.
A rough smile haunted Rayne’s generous rudeness. Closing pouting, bloodless lips over the round head of the microphone, he wooed it similar a lover as the Strat’s raise a ruckus keened in his ears, location off his breathy rumble to perfection.
“’She… Comes.....’” Rayne Wylde knotted seductively into the mic, and Whipsnade slammed headfirst into ‘Dark Paths’. It was the path he had always measured the strongest on ‘Drowning Fields’, even if the Go Into at SOLD Minutes were too damned scared to put it out as a unattached. At least in here it was restful. This country was a disarray, Jabez Everman thinking to himself sorrowfully. For a hundred and fifty years, he had dwelt here and he was yet to experience an appreciably warm summer. Of course of action, compared to Egypt, the property of his birth, even its sincere days were unsatisfactory. And Manchester, totally rightly, was eminent for its chill drizzle in summer and coldness alike. As a single, dark-clad, elegant presume gyrated out of the middle of this seeping smog, his smile broadened. Neferuaten had been gorgeous then, as she was tonight, dancing for him in the palace chambers; her back straight and motionless as her hips persuaded and her lengthy hands traced elegant patterns in the darkness with the tapers that she accepted.
How easily their bliss was rent asunder. For a few undersized, tender, precious living she had been his Moon and Sun. He would have done anything for her, to see her grin, and glory in the cuteness of her kisses and the oppressive wetness of her prepared cunt.
Back then his citizens had named him Ruler Amenhotep III and afterwards called him by the name they would later sweep from the face of history; Akhenaten, the lofty Heretic.
When he was still a son, one had occur to his father’s encourage that professed to be the Prophet of Atum Re; Lord of Light. His eldest teenager was dead of the plague and he grasped for any straw of guidance that the Gods could suggestion, even down to giving the prophet his younger youngster to be an acolyte and disciple of the Cult of the Pale. When his vicar went at last to his closing rest and he was crowned Aristocrat of the Two Parkland, he took the name that would blast him. He became Akhenaten; connotation ‘the Aten is Satisfied’.
The Mighty Prophet of Atum Re was 'surely' satisfied. Akhenaten took the princess Nerfertiti to be his bride and she tainted her name as he had done, in honour of the another God. Their living was good.
It took the Pharaoh many being to see the Splendid Prophet for the charlatan he really was, but even unmasked, he was not a man without power.
When Neferuaten could only make Akhenaten girl brood, who might not inherit his crown in ill will of his be keen on for them, it had been his Prophet who steered the Pharaoh’s own protect to his bed.
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