Came your welcomed letter to my door in the hands of a sprightly young man of twenty years or thereabouts, hair tossed in long thick bog-black strands across lean angular shoulders, eyes most clearly bitten with the unmistakable signs of inherited poverty. And with long damaged hands outstretched to me for the moment that lingered between us at my door, I found myself tempted to receive more than his dark delivery.

Later, having laid for awhile your beautiful dispatch to me in a safe place alongside other treasures which shine and twinkle from my parlour cabinet, I sat captivated and alone, watching the dying light flutter and fade in his round, brown, once-expressive eyes. I had not wanted to take his life Casper, but I ‘do’ become so childish and excited on a day upon which your letter arrives!

It has never been said about me that I am one for tears, for I have always and ever so far evaded the slightest shedding of saline-water. Only when I am alone and my memories of human emotions return, on rare occasions have I allowed myself an indulgence to weep. So, as I scrubbed his warm bones down to a sandpaper texture, (all the while remarking on how well formed the structure of the impoverished can be!), a thoughtful tear or two ‘was’ shed for that there, laid bare Messenger. Having neatly recycled his remains to the satisfaction of European Union regulation, I further mused that he indeed was a poor unfortunate soul to have, so early in his blessed life, discovered…that not ‘every’ opening door presents an opportunity.

So, my Dearest Casper, to your Letter and its curious contents I then advanced! And how loud with wonder and revelation your quill this time she speaks! For the fullest of effect, (for I am, as you know, always keen to cast about me the most dramatic ambiance for such occasions), I slipped into a silk-thread gown and lightly meandered out upon tip-toe into an ever-approaching Evening’s Death to read your freshly woven words. After certain shifting in my seat upon the warm wet grass, I finally satisfied my young (yet old) body by resting it under the arms of an elder oak tree which stands before the last gate of a local park nearby. She as yet gives birth to summer foliage, the oak. Across from me, upon a park bench, two lovers spoke of travel and trade and triviality. What tripe, I thought.

Your kind opening explanation of your last letter’s reference to ‘The Queen of Sheba’, and your full tutorial to me of ‘meanings-idiomatic’ has brought slight embarrassment to this your egocentric companion of afar! Therefore I defend my ‘initial’ comprehension of this and these and all those references you have ever, so far, made to that Grotesque Aged Dung-Tip Trollop, by presenting to you herein an explanation of sorts:

I had viewed it this way. That, as one forms a figure of speech, one can find oneself selecting a subject either close to one’s own heart, or at least choosing a subject ‘the likeness’ of whom reminds or resembles in one way or another one’s very self, or at most referencing a subject who’s identity reflects, in one way or another, one’s Timely State of Mind, in order to draw out the specific idiom. Hence, armed with a maturing knowledge of your penchant for fashioning strikingly unique phraseology, my ‘reading’ of your idiomatic collocation at first brought me to doubt your sanity! “Did somewhere in Freake’s mind linger an alter-ego-likeness to The Queen of Sheba?”. “Does The Bitch’s languid loon-tune linger somewhere within Freake’s ears, playing?” “Why might Freake draw upon The Queen of Sheba at all, for idiom’s sake? Unless of course his very soul had been tainted from within by her Devious Presence, either in full or in part.” For these my first concerns I do so reverently apologize.  But as you know, she has, this Queen, impaled upon the heart and soul of many a man and woman a brutal piercing scarab that, in time, by steps so subtle and inch by inch, makes its way to the center of a victim's soul, inducing a most ferocious form of insanity. The true meaning of Madness! She deals not with short cuts! ‘Twas a worry of mine that you had, by such a spell, been smitten! I am delighted Dear Casper to hear that you are as sane as sane can appear!!

Now…shall we agree to plummet that war-wrecked, rage-ragged, bilge-blotched and bunion-bloated body of The Queen of Sheba back into the gaping peat hole beyond the Pale from whence she was most irreverently reefed by your good self, for uses idiomatic!? I chide to myself now in reflection, for you have provided me with much sought-after laughter on this, what I shall pen for posterity...'‘The Sheba Affair’!

And from one Legend to another, what with your mesmerizing tale of IIehu Ballou, ‘The Bloodhound of Baltimore’! What a cracker he must have been! Perchance you have a photographic image of this chancer? Your vibrantly coloured portrait of this striking man of years now dust, I must say, has summons to the surface from a depth within me a personal memory of one Lord and Lady Dunsink who, for a term of forty or so winters, operated a boarding house charity of considerable ill-repute by the name of Dunsink Manor on the outskirts of Dublin in the latter years of the last century, possibly beginning in 1882. I have since consulted historical archives here in Dublin with a view to pinpointing the precise year in which they purchased The Manor, but seemingly no such records exist. ‘Tis no surprise Casper. And here is why:

Dunsink Manor operated under the guise of a ‘just and worthy’ charitable cause, taking in ‘orphans’ of the time. Quite a conspicuous word really, Orphans. What might it mean, altogether? The true ‘nature’ of these children, I discovered myself many years ago. These were the illegitimate spawn of the upper classes, the mishaps of covert sexual practices between wealthy, most consenting chamber-hopping families who expressed more of an appetite for penis than pudding, and for clitoris than clambake. Homosexuality was rampant, and why not. Incest, equally as commonplace, but as yet quite curious to me. But sometimes, among the throbbing fleshpots well veiled behind Georgian and Victorian window shades along Merrion, Fitzwilliam and Mountjoy Squares, an occasional pregnancy would occur. “Oh dear, such bother! But not to fret!” Lord and Lady Dunsink could only be described as a merry pair of waste disposal merchants. Dunsink Manor, to all in the nod-and-wink clique, surely was the perfect city dump. To avoid the horrors, and in many cases a possible death resulting from an abortion, (for at the time the procedure was significantly more dangerous), under certain highly-protected arrangements, the child could be born, and afterwards…be simply rid of.

Little did any of the women (who had thrust with considerable haste I imagine these tiny beating hearts out into the darkest of worlds) imagine what fate lay lurking for their unwanted babies yonder at Dunsink Manor, and at the scaly gray hands of our two inconspicuous vampires-in-residence.

Might a mother utter in passing any concern whatsoever for the future of a newborn, (not that she gave a damn, but for appearances she might say something coy) Lady Dunsink would 'bellow' from deep within! “Well of course Pigeon! All our children receive well-appointed care and consideration! We have ‘no’ favourites at Dunsink! They shall 'all' be  'consumed' by our love!” And her shrill, hideous laughter would thunder, grate and scrape along the lofty walls as she swiftly ushered each hooded mother out. And that would be that, the very end of it. Beyond admittance to Dunsink Manor, children would never again return to the outside world, nor would any parent ever, from that day, dare snap apart the seal under which these secret understandings lay, and to which all parties had committed themselves most utterly. The matter would close upon the slamming shut of two heavy mahogany doors, and eventually these children would be forgotten about. But there is more, for Lord and Lady Dunsink were highly strung, and could only survive the human world they lived in by Constant Re-invention. As with your IIehu Ballou, Dear Casper, The Dunsinks were a rather ‘curious’ breed of vampire, even to you and I.

As you say Casper, we vampires, at will, dispense from source-within the very timing of our reflection, the very moment at which we cast, upon the eye of the beholder, the ‘shapeliness’ of our form, be it to varying intensities, whilst vollying ourselves to the exacting foothold to which our mood jaunts us at any one moment. With me, as you, the image never changes utterly, although a combination of timing and speed can indeed effect the most opposing and oftentimes dramatic results, as you well know! I have perfected a rather ‘comfortable’ and ‘trustworthy’ apparition of myself to which the human minds-eye can focus upon for a mere hair’s-breath, only to doubt itself instantly upon my disappearance. The human therefore experiences nothing solid or tangible of my presence whatsoever at first, nevertheless he or she is left feeling warm and at ease with, at most, the room in which they stand or the strip of boulevard upon which they stroll. As I slow the process down, and ‘come in’ for the take, I shall appear in full view, or shades thereof. A technique which renders my subjects stupefied at first! This skill of course always jigs itself out to my advantage. Play the music for a fraction of a second…rewind….then slam that diamond-head into a groove! Motion...as we know it! And a most dramatic stage entrance it can be.

For Lord and Lady Dunsink, this ‘gift’ to manipulate vision was brought to a very dizzying, most heightened level indeed! These two well rounded, physically robust pillars of Dublin Society had ‘one’ trick ‘too many’ for the locals to, for a ‘good-run’ of years, out-smart them! This particular gift, as you know Freake, stems from the rare presence of an additional preternatural gene in place, allowing the vampire-host an ability to, with ease, shift physical form instantly, and in essence swap ‘one apparition’ for a ‘unique other’ at will! And to an exacting, most accurate result at end of shift! I have often dreamed of such a power! What mischief I might make with it! I might be one person one moment, another...another! Hence, The Dunsinks were not ‘just’ Lord and Lady Dunsink, sitting perched on the balcony of  Dunsink Manor, sipping Cork Distillery Gin from fluted crystal, whilst waving crusty kerchiefs to local passers-by. They also assumed a wide variation of ‘other’ roles in the community. Completely separate identities, and always within the confines of Dublin’s elite family network. A description of their physicality has proved most difficult for me to impart throughout the years, for I recall many sightings of the pair, and each description can clearly contradict the other.  It must be said Freake, that whilst in and around their company, they ‘not once’ detected me. I often wondered why this might be. Perhaps such cognitive ability was denied them both. Perhaps, and most plausible to me, they were too consumed in their various masquerades to ever notice me sneaking about in the background. But not once, between the years 1897 and 1922, during which I was aware of their presence in and around Dublin, did they approach me.

I am quite sure that Lord and Lady Dunsink were the very same Kennelly’s of Castleknock. Undoubtedly they were The Calverts of Clondalkin, for that unbearable stench was my way of copping them upon their arrival, and I have unearthed documentation which points to them as being none other than Lord and Lady Pritchard-Rice! Constant shape rendering was undoubtedly a past time of sorts for the two! This folly seemingly exhausted them to no end, providing the pair with a means to, not only purchase vast quantities of prime estate in and around the Counties of Dublin, Laois and Wicklow, but also to immerse themselves collectively in a river of blood which gushed and plunged for over half a century through the rooms of their various mansions! They exercised this gift with as much force and gusto-blusto as one might exert whilst clawing oneself out of the lethal collapse of waist-level quicksand! And all the while, their one guise as Lord and Lady Dunsink remained intact throughout.

Most cunningly, the attended in ‘rotation’ many public appearances to which they were invited… invitations to attend the annual Trinity College Ball as dignitaries, or the annual summer 'tea-and-bun' charade at the Mansion House on Dawson Street to where one successive Mayor after another would attract the remnants of British Aristocracy in Dublin for the sole purpose of securing a second term in office by threatening one fat bastard after another with a war-chest of well-rehearsed gossip. The Dunsinks themselves were rarely taken to attending these poisonous functions, and in lieu, would turn up in the guise of their alter egos. “My Good Wife and I simply cannot attend! Duty appoints us to our work here at the Boarding House!” Lord Dunsink would scribble, leaving his short note for the porter to deliver by foot to the invitee. Oddly enough, not one of the humans attending these events seemed to note over the years how peculiar it was that The Dunsinks, The Calverts, The Kennellys and Lord and Lady Pritchard-Rice had never appeared, anywhere, together! Rumour might have gone a stretch to plugged these unexplainable gaps in fact.

It transpired that all this coming and going eventually caught up with our Dunsinks. I believe The Manor itself was torched by a merry band of assailants who emerged from a well-fed fire of insurrection against all things British in 1922. I was knocking about in Italy at this time, and upon my return to Dublin I learned of “The most atrocious blaze one ever might see!”. Fire, as you know Freake, burns all, you and I included. Lord and Lady Dunsink could not apparently scale the rooftops to possible safety when the fire got wicked, and both tumbled with a likeness to deadweight through charred rafters into the all-engulfing inferno below. Remains were discovered. Both had politely landed next to each other on an old couch in a room below. They were hand in hand. And that was that, but what ‘that’ was…no one but my good self understood. And later, as a modest burial took place in the lashing rain, I lingered back behind a church gate for a time, and reverently bade farewell to at least eight mesmerizing vampires!

To other matters. Casper! My swift, yet attentive review of a new collection of notes received from site, which were in silence delivered to my back door by a crouching Hoar of Ages only this very morning (for I saw her, bent over like a wet trout in efforts to avoid my all-watching eye, as she sneaked off in plague-like poise down the courtyard path!) had me writhing in sickening, most unpleasant mannerisms, after a flighty read!

To be consistently quizzed on vampirism by this illiterate pack of dribbling youths, (who’s notion of our nature presents itself at our very door so often now as churned up second, third, fourth-hand dross, if not a thousand times the recycle), is beginning to truly nibble upon my wick! ‘Twas to that Godforsaken outpost in close proximity to the City of Angels to which the dregs of European society dragged their crotchety old wares during the great Wagon Trail, was it not? Settled they did, and began throwing up that horrid wooden structure which humans, for reasons that as yet baffle me, most reverently crawl to and pay homage to.

Hollywood…what a pisser! Such shanty towns would have been raised to the ground by your Mordi Kildare eons ago, were I to have had at my disposal then an army of men upon horse-back, torches raised high upon hefty arm and fist! And to the deserts’ cruel dismissal of breath’s very own thirst for moisture, I would banish every last one of these self-named Creators of Contemporary Folklore and Myth. Do what, these cretins, with their lives? Sit in plush tower blocks and come up with arse-wipe theory upon shit-odorous theory of Our Nature! I have burned, and whittled down to a high pile of cinders, every reel of old celluloid from that made-from-paper town! The Hoar of Ages will answer these ridiculous queries from this day on, I suggest.  I shall continue to answer sophisticated inquisitions, but nothing more. What say you Freake? Do I grow too dull a shade of dark for this matter?

I long to spend a time with you Casper Freake! These advancing days shall see me take flight to northern Italy, where I have dined before. These old bones thirst for new adventures once more, and whilst I am abroad, I shall write. For now, ‘tis a humorous ditty I leave you with, whilst I look forward ‘once again’ to your anticipated reply:

In flight one night, betwixt and ‘tween the stars,
Spied mine left eye, below, a flaxen head!
And as I lunged for luncheon, (so I thought!)
‘Twas all but fair to find that Lunch was Dead!
And so, from that night on, I shall demand,
When thirst she rides by heady tongue’s devise,
And just before me boots to wet turf land:
“Hey you there! Might I ask? Are You Alive?!”

Everlasting (yawn),
Mordi Kildare.

Mordi Kildare, Christchurch, Dublin, Ireland. 1 June 2001