2003

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As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life and realize there's none left
'Cause I've been brassing and laughing so long that
Even my mamma thinks that my mind is gone
But I ain't never crossed a man that didn't deserve it
Me be treated like a punk, you know that's unheard of
You better watch how you talking, and where you walking
Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk
Gangsta's Paradise
I feel like that, I have spent years running and fighting. Having Molly 8 change my face, changing my name has given me space to breath. Space to find my humanity. I was a pretty evil monster for a while, with very little I wouldn't do to achieve the goals I wanted. Goals of revenge, of taking what was mine.
Now that I have begun to return to the edges of sanity, I am ashamed of some of the things I have done, and I wonder how I retain my soul while solving the issues in front of me. Can you battle monsters and not become one yourself? Can you destroy the creatures of the night and not find yourself stalking the shadows a danger to all mankind around you?
I am sure John would laugh at me, he has made peace with the demon inside, and rides it to full efficiency for his desires. But even there, can I knowingly work with a creature who I know is killing the population around me? Do I live with the blood of his victims on my hands?
Listen to me, a self righteous bastard. His victims. What about my own? What about the blood I take to survive? I don't feel bad about the flesh I eat, because at least it is from the dead who don't care. As long as I am not eating the living...I can console myself that I am not just some sort of zombie holding the population in check. Though I do during the day sometimes dream of that amazing taste of fresh, hot flesh, and the pulsing salty elixir that fountains forth when you bite deeply into a neck. The horror is that I have to push that part of me back, for it would be all to easy to feast on every human I meet, knowing the pleasure that would come from tasting their last moments of life.
Enough of the soul searching, I need to concentrate on the mystery that is Sancerique. Why did he or his partners attack my family? Do I need to return to Chicago to figure it out? Or do I man up and ask him straight up? All questions with difficult answers I am sure. Was the whole process designed to get me to come to New York? And if so why, and who set it up? What do I do if it turns out Donatello is behind all this? The thought has crossed my mind more than once. While he treats me like a lost son, I don't wonder if he doesn't feel disappointed in me that I don't step more willingly into the evil existence he leads. And what plots does the old monster have in mind for me? I feel obligation and nausea from dealing with him all at the same time.

May 26, 2003

I awoke to a silent house, the old teacher and the kids gone. Nothing seemed out of place so I didn't worry about it at first, but all my danger senses were on high alert. I tried to convince myself that I was just being jumpy, so I took a walk down the street to the neighbor lady's place that has been hitting on me. She thinks my name is Carter, I didn't want the kids to have to remember a fake name, so I am using their fathers. My family wasn't there, but I stood and talked with her and the neighbors for a while, like normal people.
Which is just weird.
There hasn't been anything normal for me in a long time, and I keep looking over my shoulder wondering when the FBI or someone is going to kick the door in and take the kids away. So far so good, and I act my way through a beer before pouring it into a plant. The Libbie Platt seems really bent on letting me know that she wants to get close. Reminds me of what John has been saying lately about getting the kine to love you before you feed on them...making it a beautiful hunt. She has no idea that I am a murderer many times over that drinks blood and eats flesh...

After an hour or so I decided that Ms. Stoddard and the kids were not going to show up. I extricated myself from the warmth of human interaction, turning my senses back on to watch for trouble. All was quiet in Middle Village, and I was beginning to think I was being paranoid when I checked my mail.

Inside the mailbox I found an envelope of expensive paper, with the name "Torsten Metz" in a flowing script, heavy ink. The back flap was sealed with wax, a strange little symbol pressed into the wax. Inside the paper was again heavy parchment, expensive.

Written in the same flowing script:

    Del Monico's at 10 PM. Dress is proper, suit, hat and tails.

Damn, that can't be good. I grab some weapons, then climb in my car. I drive into Manhattan, that rat maze of streets. I have a pretty good idea of where I Del Monico's is, and if I remember right that suit place where I ran into Donald Werther and Key Benjamin is only a couple of blocks away. I will need a suit, I have never needed tails and a hat. I get downtown and park in front of the suit store. Inside are the triplets who run this place. They are all medium height, athletically thin with a close cropped beard and mustache. The only real way to tell them apart in my perspective. Looks like tonight I can pick the brother with a red tie, a green tie, or a purple tie. They are all with customers, but a young man dressed in a very similar style comes up to me. He has a family resemblance.

We sure stepped in it blowing a hole in Olegs haven.Seems like everyone in New York knows we kicked the old bastard in the nuts, which wouldn't matter in the old days, but now I have hostages to fate.