— Posted in Always into Darkness, Nosferatu, Vampire Noir

Nosferatu, Chapter 03

Luc vs. Luce vs. Loose

 

Little Lucy is due July 15th. As we use her name more, we’ve found ourselves using the nicknames ‘Loose’ and ‘Lucy Goosey’. However, we’re not sure how to spell it. We’re afraid Loose may lead to bad connotations. Suggestions?”

“I would stick with Luce.”

“This reminds me of the song Crafty by the Beastie Boys. I think Luce works but she probably won’t like it come middle school. Lucy Goosey is cute and after she is born other little nicknames will appear.”

“Start over with your naming process.”

“I definitely would not spell it Loose … I think if you were putting it in casual writing, like ‘Hey, Luc, make sure to do the dishes before we get home!’, ‘Luc’ would make the most sense even though phonetically, Luce or Loose would be correct.”

“Definitely Luce!!!!”

“Why should she start over the naming process? Goodness gracious, I vote ‘Luc’ or ‘Luce’!”

“Luce.”

“Luc makes me want to pronounce it Luck or Luke. You will probably not write it down very often, but Luce is best.”

“Use Luce!”

“Have you thought of naming her Lucia instead of Lucy or Luce? Lucia as in Loo-cee-ah.”

“I agree with comment three.”

“I adore the name Lucy. Shortening it to ‘Loose’ probably comes naturally, but I wouldn’t use it as the kind of nickname you actually write down, so I wouldn’t worry how to spell it. You could also shorten it to Lu, which is cute and casual and easy to spell.”

 

They are born, not made, Nosferatu. Therefore, they are both considered to be pure breeds. Socially, there is no distinction made between made and born. And. A Nosferatu who was born human and then later turned is genetically indistinguishable from a pure breed.

Nosferatu are one of several parallel dominate supernatural species. Some supernaturalists [humans who study supernatural beings] would even go so far as to say that Nosferatu are the oldest, and therefore, the most powerful of those species. Chronology is power in the supernatural world.

“Now that you’ve had a chance to examine her, what do you think?”

“The girl will need to stay in twilight a bit longer than you thought.”

“But. Will you two help me?”

“We will, on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“My master The Master and I will need to use the girl from time to time.”

“Of course. That goes without saying. But. It must be with the girl’s express consent.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes. There is harshness to her pretty face that complements her deep blue eyes and generous mouth. The Master and I can make great use of one such as her, once she has been turned and gives her consent … And … We will need to test drive her, at least once, before she’s turned.”

“My thoughts, exactly.”

“You cannot know beforehand if she will give her consent once she has turned. Of course, we fully understand that. Therefore, our help isn’t contingent upon her consent. Our deal is simply that … you will not block our use of a Nosferatu her if she gives her consent to be used by us.”

“Yes. That is our verbal contract.”

“Excellent.”

“We have a deal?”

“Yes.”

Babs is in the kitchen, seated across from a skinny, frail-looking, old woman. A woman with the face of a Halloween witch. A woman much older looking and much older chronologically than Babs. Her name is Mrs. Huff, Mildred Louise Huff. She is filthy and smelly, and so are her ruined clothes. Mildred looks like what she is, a feral baglady who lives in the sewers and eats garbage when she’s not eating human beings. Her large teeth are so filthy, they look rotten—big teeth with receded gums, but, not a razorblade smile. A long, facile tongue that whips about in her mouth like a snake, when she’s not talking, but, not a killer tongue. Long dirty ragged fingernails and toenails. Heavy, unbecoming, pancake makeup. No shoes or stockings, and no underwear for that matter. Floppy, pendulous tits with disfiguring stretch marks and disgusting stringbean nipples. Tits that hang down almost to her waist. Fetid breath. Head lice, fleas, and crabs. Lily-white skin that is so dirty, patches of her skin are black. Reeks of urine, feces, cum, and jism. A junkie, a whore, and a drunk—i.e., avocations, not vocations. Filthy and infested. Zero personal hygiene. A tortured, insanity-ravaged face. Long dirty greasy geriatric hair that drapes her shoulders. The list goes on and on.

“And. She will not remember I was here?”

“No.”

“But. She will rekall (pronounced: recall) everything, before she willingly and willfully makes her decision?

Babs pauses, then answers, reluctantly.

“Yes. The choice will be of her own free will after full and complete disclosure, per ROE. No monkey business, whatsoever.”

“Excellent. You risk exile or even worse … you risk destruction, otherwise. And, I can’t stress this enough: The Council will not tolerate a repeat of what happened with that Sheba woman.”

“I understand, fully.”

“By not going to the authorities, forthwith, with what we know, The Master and I are clearly in violation of human law. We’re complicit. But. We are not in violation of ROE, although it could be argued that we’re splitting hairs.”

“You’ll be informing The Council, posthaste, of what’s going on?”

“Of course. That goes without saying. And. Know this, also. Strict safeguards will be put in place, this time. So that no amount of chicanery on your part will prevent disclosure of any deceit or treachery of yours.”

As previously mentioned, Mildred is feral. Ferals aka skinners aka Skinwalkers are formally known as Bohemians. Away from the mainstream. In their native habitat. They wear the uncured skins of their human victims—i.e., faces, torsos, hands, feet, etc, both as decorations and as articles of clothing. At times, they are lucid and sane, and are quite learned, in point of fact. At other times, they are completely and utterly insane. The kind of mind-shredding, foaming at the mouth, ranting and raving, shrieking at the full moon, straitjacket and shackles in the looney bin, despicable, deranged, filthy and infested, homicidal insanity. As such. They represent a dichotomy. But. They do not represent what it is to be Nosferatu in its basest form—that dubious honor is reserved for The Master.

On one end of the spectrum are Aryans, like Babs. And, on the other end, is The Master. In-between are The Bohemians. The Trinity, of this world—i.e., three distinct incarnations of what it means to be undead, in this universe.

If the very existence of The Bohemians doesn’t finally and utterly debunk Bram Stoker’s Gothic, Victorian ideal of the romantic Nosferatu, then surely the existence of The Master does? No bare-chested Twilight fantasies of Jacob and Edward? The answer to all of those questions and others like them is a resounding “yes”. Now, doesn’t that take the starch out of your knickers, so to speak?