As percieved by Marcus Fratelli – Toreador neonate
The smell of glue and drying paint still hovers in the background amongst the pervading smell of sweat, flesh, sex and blood. Amongst the myriad of sensory input which collage the creature I have painstakingly taken months to assemble, the throbbing music marking its heartbeat, the alcohol and human body fluids which make up its blood, the hand selected staff its immune system, the state of the art security its eyes and myself as the brain, it is the smell which connects me most to its corporeal existence.
Like cradling a new-born baby, it is this cocktail of acrid cigarette smoke, phenol, industrial chemicals and human pungency which evokes the strongest emotions in me.
I stand and watch them threaten my baby, and it is the smell which cements me in place, locks me in disbelief as the black anonymous figures strike at my first line of defence. This assault is not random, these infiltrators are not here to deliver casual violence. This is a calculated attack. I know this because the sharp wooden stake which has just entered the chest of Ridley, my stunning blonde Adonis, is not the type of weapon a common thug brings to a club known for its clientele of ‘alternate lifestyles’.
The screen in my glorious sanctum glows its cool LED lit light, projecting into the room in razor sharp definition the unfolding violence at my front door, as the eight or so dark figures finish their work on my bouncers and begin to move inside. Into my evocative foyer, it’s black Pirelli tiled surfaces gently accepting of their rough purpose.
Someone leaves the room.
A brief conversation occurs. Of course my newly acquired senses pluck every syllable from the phone based conversation. The voice in my room is German. Shepherd is 20 minutes away. He is sending people. What type of people? Kine we can trust, apparently.Barely 5 seconds have passed and I still stand transfixed. Their assault is unrelenting. Haley has closed the cloak room shutter. They are displeased at this and begin to hammer away at the shutter with a mallet, maintaining the assaults uncouth fashion. The blows ring from the door, sending muffled tapping into the club. The patrons are now aware that something is amiss, the noise interjecting the rhythmic pulse of the music. I will need to address this.
The mouth of my child is filled with black creatures of ill intent. But I have designed her to be strong, the custom portcullis serving as both a themed aesthetic door and a near impregnable security measure holds to its intended purpose. My spine shudders as a screeching sound of protesting metal reaches my hypersensitive ears, there is new movement in my field of vision, the shutter has been lifted…but there is something amiss, it has been opened from within the cloak room it protects.
Violence of flesh abruptly returns to the crystal clear images being relayed to my eyes, as the mallet wielding thug is brutally drawn into the small opening offered by the lifted shutter. While no sound accompanies what I witness, there is pain detailed in the images. My baby has an ally, a brutal and deadly beast, an animal which has been poked with a mallet.
Someone else leaves my room. The cool burst of air briefly breaking the enchanting hold of the digital imagery. The back of a small woman, wearing a sparkling sequined suit, a ridiculous paradoxical image that my mind is unable to give context as these seconds pass by. I return to watching the screen.
They have retrieved the would-be metal worker from the stainless maw of the cloakroom counter. There is a flash of orange-white light, accompanied with the sharp angry snarling bark of firearm and my acute vision captures a small flower of blood blossom from the shoulder of one of the dark figures situated in the middle of the foyer. His body fluids are quickly lost to the dark bubbled texture of the tiled floor, and closely following, he too is embraced by Italian rubber. The assailants respond as one, dropping to the ground to stay out of the animal’s sight.
The sound of this shot is not missed by my clientele, a palpable wave of fear runs through the still beating hearts of every patron and staff member in my club. Once again my reverie is broken, shattered by the poignancy of my utter disassociation with the live, air drawing creatures in my domain. The screen can hold me no longer, responsibility floods my being, I am an apex predator and my flock is threatened, disrupted. I need to respond.
Snatching one final glance at the screen, as I depart my inner sanctum, I witness a flurry of supernatural sped activity. The beast is amongst them now, having emerged from the cloakroom, he is shot at, attacked in waves. A steely block fends off a stake wielding attacker, a two man tackle is laughably shrugged off with one entangled assailant receiving multiple blows to his back, all delivered in eye watering speed. The gun barks a second time, appearing to again hit the animal loose in my foyer, but he shows no sign of being hit, gunfire and physical assaults both casually disregarded as he methodically lays waste to the assailants of my baby.
Away from the screen now, I emerge into my dungeon of entertainment. My flock parts at my approach, my facial expression and my body language detail enough at what is unfolding above us, as I hit the stairs I coldly and calmly order them to ‘go home’. I clear the first turn in the staircase and am now out of sight, I call upon my blood to quicken my movement and my nervous system, my surroundings becoming, for a brief instance, a blur as I defy physics and displace air with my haste.
Emerging into the upstairs room, the core public arena of my baby, I am confronted with chaos and the palpable sense of human fear. In amongst the unfolding madness of fleeing Kine, my eyes are drawn to the visage of a woman who reflects the same detached incongruence as myself. She stands near the bar, wearing a dress that can only be described as horridly ill fitting, like something out of a Freddy Kreuger version of Bride Magazine. While her emerald green couture clearly marks her misfit status , it is the message reflected in her eyes that sends a brief shiver through my spine. Her deep dark eyes somehow mirror what they have recently witnessed, and what I see there sends tendrils of ice through my veins. Drawing her gaze from mine, she turns her head towards the back of the bar and in a few short elegant steps, slams her palm into the fire alarm.
A ringing claxon fills the hollow and empty sound left by the cessation of my child’s signature heartbeat. I continue on to the portcullis, in a vein effort to assist those who have come to the aid of my baby. What awaits me in the foyer, stirs a base fear I had been warned about but not yet encountered. The assailants have bought fire to my premises, a creeping, deadly force to those of my blood.
The sequined woman was fighting them through the portcullis. She had managed to snag the shirt of one of the attackers and, with strength belied by her stature, had dragged him violently into the unyielding wall of steel forged by my grandsire’s hands. The beast too had curried victory, his ferociousness and supernatural resilience having clearly stolen the assailing groups resolve and forced all but the near incapacitated into a rout.
They ask me to raise the portcullis. I relay this to the green dressed woman with the frightening eyes. In seconds it is raised and control begins to return to my thoughts, actions and senses.
In an act of raw defiance, the remaining injured male member of the team of assailant’s attempts to flee through the spreading wall of flames at my door. In a flash of sequined lightning, he is intercepted and roughly thrown back into the foyer.
There is fire across the entranceway to my club, its flames the products of a young woman and an accelerant filled bottle, a cocktail of Molotov. This arsonist slut is in custody of the beast, he bears bullet holes and little else to mark the trials of a room filled with people wielding calculated hostile intent. Beyond the fire stands a man of medium build, his balaclava now removed, revealing the non-descript face of a Caucasian male in his 40’s. He calls for the whelp, naming her ‘Nadine’. Nadine tells him to leave “get the fuck out of here Dad”.
My doormen are injured and subject to the hungrily licking tongues of the flames, I am unable to master the deep-seated fear the fire presents, its threat to my Kindred nature too fundamental to overcome despite my love for those threatened by its presence. With a look that is part disgust, but mostly business, the bitch is handed to me, while Sebastian Doyle, survivor of assaults and master of fear, grabs the body of Ridley and drags him away from the fire. He is joined by the sequined, small but deadly Dr Freda Otto, who also having mastered her fear of fire, drags Thom out of the alleyway and into the safety of the foyer.
The doors are simultaneously closed, removing from sight the deadly fire, sealing us securely behind the expensive fire proof glass and tempered steel frames. Turning to stare at the bodies on the floor, and the remaining injured and cowed assailant, with timing that is near comical, we are doused by the fire suppressant sprinklers, extinguishing the small flames licking at the clothing of the staked, but still breathing, body of Riley.
The watery silence is now filled with thoughts…thoughts filled with questions, questions which will need answering, whatever the cost.
Water drips into my field of vision, and for the first time in the past 30 seconds, I blink.