The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

I am the Father of Hell, and my eyes burn bright

in the Mist. Feel my wrath and hear the scrape of

my steely, slashing claws. My teeth are sharp and

I am semi-hungry. Don't let the fact that my

feet are covered with grave dirt bother you as

mine enemies shall never make it to a graveyard.

I am coming, hear my insane laughter echoing off

the crypt walls. I am here. Soon I shall pick my

teeth on a splintered thighbone of one of mine

adversaries. I hate the taste of their flesh rotting

between my teeth. Often when I am sated, I floss

with a hangman's rope and brush with the hair of

a handy corpse. I sing the song of the banshee to

the tremulous chords of the wolf pack. They know

me and follow at my heel to lap up my leavings-- but

not too closely-- the Children of The Night.



I am the nightmare that all men fear-- the one who

prowls the night in wanton lust and desire for hot

human flesh. I feast first on dainty tidbits such as

freshly plucked eyeballs, colored with fear and

aversion. I lick the sauce from the sockets, before

beginning upon cocktail fingers and toes. Then

pulling off a meaty drumstick, I feed the genitals and

the guts to my Children of the Night, giving the young

first choice. There is plenty to go around. Often

mortals have asked why the wolves follow me and

why I allow them to do so. Ours is a symbiotic

relationship. I feed them, and they clean up after me.

Simple, is it not? One cannot just leave all of those

corpses and torn parts afield, now can one?



Our relationship has endured for thousands of years

and will continue as long as there are men who cower

in the darkness, afraid for their mortal souls and of things

that go crunch in the night. There are those who teach

fear and limitation to the gullible mortals who attend the

school of mysticism on Sunday Mornings and eat stale

crackers and guzzle watered down grape juice when

they should be drinking fresh, hot blood instead. How

sad that they are throwing away their power and wasting

their seed upon a mythos of soul slavery. No matter,

they are all equal to us. They are our meat. It is just

that some shriek louder than others when the fang

approaches.



Thousands of people disappear every day or night

as the case may be. But then it has always been that

way, hasn't it? Where do you suppose they all go?

Do you really think that gray aliens scoop them up?

"Beam me up, Scotty!" Sure. No, I and my kind

are the responsible parties. We feed upon them--

we and our attendant wolves that clean up our mess

so well. We are having a party. Do you hear the

wolves howl in the night? They howl of joy. They howl

of triumph! They howl of wanton lust! They howl of

satisfaction! They are cheering me on! Hush! The

puppies are hungry. I shall not disappoint them. I do it

for the children.

Satan is the Lord of the Shadows, setting

upon His throne of darkness in the Sides

of the North, spinning through the chill

blackness of the Netherlands where the

sons of light fear to tread. There, ruling

the All in the perfect grandeur of love and

lust, He is as much concerned with the

goings on of the dark Abyss and those

who willingly inhabit it as He is with the

troublesome few who create problems for

His own who, for the time being, must

dwell in pain of the light.



There are those who believe not in Satan

and cleave to a contrived righteous god of

fabricated consciousness who dwells in

the light and attempts to bend the knees of

the simple of mind and make them live,

imprisoned in an ever-so-thin shell of

crass morality that is so easily fractured

when the least stress is applied upon its

sallow surface. Love and lust stagnate

beneath this shell of imposed impunity

and beg to be free to lick the night.



But, in spite of all of the fevered patching,

great cracks appear in this frail facade of

sublime foolishness and immorality leaks

out to sizzle in the sunshine of failure and

guilt only to be forgotten and sealed up as

though the sad event had never happened.

How foolish to dwell in a flawed egg of

rotten morality that is not even their own,

but one foisted upon them by a maniac

who gloats upon their failure, and dotes

upon reprisal.



But there are also those who prefer the

darkness, and by choice, live in the cool

and resplendent shadows who call out to

their Dark Lord, saying, "Satan, save me

from those purveyors of finely fractured

morality!" Satan hears their prayers and

answers them by setting them free of the

chains of abject and painful limitation and

belittlement, filling their hearts instead

with darkest lust and desire and potency

and power that they might go forth and

become one with Him in the All!



These liberated ones, then are set free

upon the Earth to live and breathe and

have their being as they will. Lord Satan

reaches forth to them mightily and makes

them as gods of the darkness and sublime

fulfillment. Content for the moment, but

relishing their next conquest by which

they will ever increase their power and

pleasure by magnitudes unknown within

the delights of holy darkness, He fills

their ever expanding souls with the ruddy

warmth and glow of burning desire.

A way back a while ago there was this tough guy named Schultz who was a gambler and a womanizer. He didn't like to work, but he did like money, flashy clothes and diamond pinkie rings. He thought that watches of filigreed gold were nice, and he liked expensive cars too. He was always lucky at cards and usually made himself a pretty good living off of the pasteboards. There was a whole slew of poker games, and he was good at all of them. Five Card Stud was his game, but he'd play any game where a buck could be made, and he wasn't too particular who he played with. Schultz was a professional.

Yup, Poker was his game, and it was said that Schultz had the strength of character to win a Poker game on a pair of duces. He had luck on his side too. That's why some people called him "Poker Face Schultz." It was because he never gave any hint as to his luck of the draw by any facial expression, a blink of his eye or an unconscious scratch. He didn't nod either. There was no doubt about it, he was good at what he did. One night in Kansas City, Schultz got himself into a big poker game that went on until dawn. Everybody who was anybody with the mob was there, and the booze flowed like water. Women of every description floated from table to table, trying to make a score by getting next to a guy who was winning strong. Figuring that they would make off with some of the loot, they were real friendly.

One good looking blond squeezed in next to Schultz, but he wasn't having any just then. He was a man with a job to do, and he was doing it. She wasn't too dumb either as she recognized what was happening and kept quiet. Once in a while, she fed Schultz a sandwich and a cold beer to keep him going. She took a chance as she figured that Schultz would stick with her when the game was over. Then along about three in the morning, the soul death hour, when people die in their sleep and spirits are lowest in the living, Schultz kicked back from the table and took a break. He went into the head and washed his face, wet his hair, combed it and put on the clean shirt that he carried in his valise. Refreshed and awake, he went back to the table and proceeded to play Poker.

The cards changed hands time after time as dealers fanned the cards and flipped them on the green, baize table-top in front of the players. Guys came and went, smoked cigars and drank beer. Mostly, they just blew their wad and tapped out. Some lasted a few hands, but most dropped out after only a hand or two. The money moved around like it was on wheels, but most of it stayed in front of Schultz as he was hot. Playing Poker like a machine, Schultz dealed, bet and called his way through the competition until the last man was out. The blond kept shuffling Schultz's winnings into his valise, making sure that nothing was left on the table. As the clock turned around and the hours grew small, those guys at the tables became increasingly unhappy with old Schultz as he had cleaned them out, one by one quicker than a Federal Judge with a song bird on his shoulder. You see, Schultz had broken the cardinal rule of a professional gambler and took too much from one table at one time. Learn a lesson from that and never do it yourself. All you have to do is lose a small pot now and again to take the heat off. Then when you have harvested all you dare, you lose another small pot and tap out with no body getting upset.

Well, as it turned out, Schultz overplayed his hand, won too much money from the wrong people and had to leave town in a hurry or else have his thumbs busted. This connected guy named Roselli, a rat-faced little punk who worked the numbers on the docks, thought he was a lot better than he was. He sat down across from Schultz and started talking big and playing bad Poker. Schultz spotted him for a sucker and let the little rat-faced man play into his hands. Well, Roselli ranted on as he went through the motions of playing cards about some of the jobs he'd pulled off. Then he started flapping his lips about how tough he was and the usual gangster crap. However, as he did, he proceeded to lose a roll as big as your fist to Schultz on a pair of one- eyed jacks. The money crossed the table as if by magic, but the rub was that the bankroll wasn't his. The money belonged to Roselli's boss, and was he ever going to be pissed. Roselli though he could buy the bank so-to-speak, thinking that nobody could come up with that much money to call him. Well, Roselli's ploy didn't work, and Schultz took him to the cleaners and didn't even leave him bus fare.

Well when the last of his money was gone, Roselli, jumped up, kicked over the table and hollered that Schultz had cheated him. He made a hell of a fuss there in the gambling parlor, and his last word was that he'd get even whatever it took. Nobody was going to get into him like that and get away with it. Roselli was vindictive about it all right, and it was a good thing that he wasn't packing a rod that night or Schultz might have not lived to spend his winnings. Well, Schultz wasn't stupid, so he didn't waste any time clearing out of town while he could-- the blond went with him. It was a good thing too as those boys played rough, and it wouldn't have been a good idea for either of them to stick around any longer. Those gangsters wouldn't stop to think about it before giving a guy like Schultz a "Chicago Necktie" or the blond a pair of "Cement Overshoes."

What do you know, summer found Schultz in Chicago, gambling with the stockmen and roustabouts that worked for the railroad when they were sober enough to get up in the morning. Schultz was holed up with the blond upstairs at the "Cattleman's Hotel," one of the busier hotels of the day, but he spent most of his time downstairs in the casino plying his trade. The blond knew that she had a good thing going, and generally kept watch on Schultz in case he needed her to handle the winnings. Too, she kept an eye out for trouble or strangers in town. It was natural for her to keep looking over her shoulder as this wasn't the first time she had to skip town to keep on breathing regular.

It was a pretty good life for Schultz and the blond as they moved from city to city, and as the years passed they found that they made a pretty good team. Often they laughed and compared themselves to Doc Holiday and Big Nose Kate Elder... Of course, the blond always said that she didn't have a big nose, but Schultz always came back with: "But you've got big tits!" Ha, Ha, Ha. They had a good time together, but all good things must come to an end sooner or later.

Many years later, the blond had passed on from cancer, but Schultz still played his beloved poker. Oh, he didn't play as hard and fast as he once did, but he did play to win. One night, in another fair-sized Poker game, Schultz pretty much cleaned everyone out, but one guy. This guy was tapped too, but wanted to play one more hand. The fella said to Schultz: "Look, you've got all of my money, but I got something you can use up in my room. It's all that I have in the world, but I'll bet it against this one last hand." Schultz was intrigued by the idea and wanted to know what the old fella had, but the old guy wouldn't say except that he figured that Schultz needed what he had more than anyone he had ever known. Well, Schultz was so far ahead of the game that even if he lost this one hand-- so what? It wouldn't matter much. Schultz looked the man square in the face and said in his usual even voice, "You're On."

Schultz let the old guy deal the fateful hand, but Lady Luck was across the table, setting next to his opponent. Schultz always did attract women. Anyway, the old man pulled a pair of threes while Schultz drew a straight flush. The game was over. The old man said that Schultz had one fair and square, and if he would come upstairs with him, he would hand over his treasure.

It seemed like an eternity, standing in front of the elevator waiting for the car to come, but finally it did as the pointer touched the lobby floor. Schultz and the old man entered the brass and oak paneled car and slowly ascended to the fourth floor where it stopped with a lurch. The metal doors slid open in their channels, and the pair stepped out upon rose-floral patterned carpeting. The lights were dim, but you could see enough to get where you were going. They paused in front of room 421 for a moment as the old man fidgeted with his key, and then the door swung open to reveal a room with an unmade bed.

The old guy didn't waste any time as he opened the dresser and removed a small box. Well actually, it was a wooden case with a hinged top. Painted black with red lettering and some sort of gold scroll work, Schultz thought that he had won a harmonica and broke out laughing. The old man just looked Schultz in the eye and waited until he regained control of his mirth before speaking. Then depressing the catch and opening the lid, the old man revealed an old, silver railroad signaling whistle-- the kind that conductors use to attract the attention of the engineer when it was time to go or stop...

The old man then began to tell his story about how many years ago, down by the crossroads, he had sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for happiness. Well, the Devil had given the old man that shiny, silver railroad whistle and explained that whenever he was really and truly happy and desired nothing more that he should blow the whistle, and time would stop right there. The Devil said that the old man could live out eternity right there in complete happiness-- yes, forever and a day. The trouble was that the old man had never found happiness. It seemed that if it weren't for bad luck, he would have no luck at all. That's why he never blew the whistle. Now, he was old and for him, there would be no happy days. He knew that it was about time for him to pass on and go meet the Devil, so he figured that before he did, he would pass on the whistle to someone else. Maybe they could get some good out of it.

That card game was his last chance, and he blew it. The old man figured that he'd be better off in Hell anyway-- it couldn't be any worse than here in Chicago in the summer. Well, now it wasn't so funny, and Schultz wasn't laughing when he took the whistle from the old man. The moment he touched it, he felt a shiver as a wave of cold hit him, but it was just for a second. Schultz didn't know whether to be frightened or to throw down the whistle and run like hell. He could do neither, so he silently placed the whistle in his pocket and gave the old man a hundred dollar bill, telling him to drink it up and forget the whole thing.

Well, it's "Different strokes for different folks," and where the old man had nothing but bad luck, Schultz had nothing but good luck. Money, booze and broads came his way in profusion. Anything Schultz wanted, he got. If he wanted a car, he got it. If he wanted a house, he got it. If he wanted a woman, he got her too. After a while, he became bored with life as there was no challenge anymore. If he went to Vegas and flipped a silver dollar over his shoulder onto a Roulette wheel, he won. If he played craps, he won. If he said "Hi" to some woman, he'd be sleeping with her before he knew it. What the hell... Poker was his game.

This went on until one day when his heart could take no more. Schultz had never blown his "Devil's" whistle because he always figured that someday he'd even be happier than he was, but now it was too late. So one night, he found himself walking down by the railroad yards just looking at the trains as they passed by and rattled the tracks. It wasn't long before he felt a sharp pain in his chest and a dull ache in his left arm. He was frozen with fear, for he knew that he was going to die right then and there. He couldn't speak a word or yell for help. It was over. His face started to flush and he sank to his knees. It was only a moment or two before Schultz lost consciousness and fell to the earth in death. Funny, though, his ghost was still on his knees holding his chest with both hands looking down at his expired physical body there on the cinders. His consciousness had passed from his physical body to his ethereal body and he was taking it all in.

Well, at least it didn't hurt any more. Let's not kid ourselves, Schultz had just undergone a profound experience, and he was a might confused. Things didn't look any different, and he felt fine. He didn't know how to explain that. Then all of a sudden, he heard the most forlorn sound that he had ever heard in his whole existence. Off in the distance, he heard the ethereal whistle of Old Phantom #9, The Ghost Train from Hell. Instinctively, he knew that the ghost train was coming for him, and there was nothing he could do about it.

In good time, the #9 rolled to a stop right in front of him. The door hissed open and there stood the Devil in his shiny black conductor's cap and uniform. It seemed the most natural thing in the world as the Devil held out Schultz's ticket in his hand... "Come on board, Schultz," said the Devil, "This is the Ghost Train to Hell, and you've got a reserved seat." Well, there was nothing for it, and Schultz knew it. Never once had he went to church or even listened to those preachers who once in a while had the audacity to make the rounds of the gambling halls and bars. He sure didn't belong to the Nazarene or his Father. In his own heart, Schultz knew that he belonged in Hell with the rest of his kind, so he got to his feet, shook hands with the Devil and climbed on board.

What the Hell! It wasn't so bad. On board, the Devil ushered him to the gambling car where he met all of his friends. Why, even the blond was there. She had rode out to welcome him and bring him home. Schultz sat down at a table, picked up a deck and started to play Poker. Soon, they had a fine game going and the waitresses brought the drinks. The blond sat down next to him and started shoveling money into his valise and every now and again , she would feed him a sandwich and a cold beer.

It was great! At last he was just where he wanted to be, and he was as happy as he knew he would ever get. All was well, and the money kept pouring in. The people laughed, the booze flowed, and the Devil announced that Hell was the next stop in about 10 minutes. OK, Schultz was as happy as he could ever be, and then he remembered the old man as he patted his vest pocket where he felt to lump that was the Railroad Whistle from Hell that would stop time right then and there wherever he happened to be. It was then that Schultz had his greatest, grandest idea. The Devil wasn't looking, and it was but the work of a second... Schultz reached into his pocket, pulled it out, took a deep breath and BLEW HIS WHISSSS