by Todd Gregory
As the insatiable screw raged on, Dónal lay defeated in a pile of clerical cum, his own production. Casting menacing curses into his ear, Fionn broke the sacred seal and poured his peasant load into the ecclesiastical orifice. Fionn bit Dónal’s ear and snapped his jaws wildly while successive loads descended into Dónal’s asshole, soiling the future saint for all eternity. No din of metal was heard, no hoarse shout of Norman invasion. Only the profound murmur from between the monk’s legs as two spirits collided and Fionn came.
Then, while their bodies struggled in rapture, Fionn’s teeth bit the monk on the nape of his neck and tore an opening. Dark blood of the spine emerged and Fionn licked it. They became blood brothers then, Young Fionn and Brother Dónal. An eternal door had been opened to the Celtic gods; henceforth, their spirits were welcome to enter and exit as they pleased, occupying Dónal and assuming his body to fulfill their appetites. Fionn had one, a marked opening beneath his right ear. The baker’s daughter had sucked his neck one night after he fucked her on the cliff. She had bestowed the Celtic charm onto him; and now Fionn bestowed one upon the monk.
Satisfied and strong, Fionn threw his clothes on, a glint of triumph on his brow. The oratory door banged in the wind as Fionn escaped to the lowlands. The youth had liberated the oratory of its prayerful properties; and through the swinging door, the dead chieftains from the cemetery entered under the guise of a salty breeze and paraded about the oratory, laughing at the monk. They would never again be barred from this soil and found dark corners to wait and watch.
After an hour or more of tears and shame, the monk lifted his head from the loose ground. He weighed his soul in his stained hands and found it wholly corrupted. He had been fooled. The innocence of a young farmer had seduced him and he had surrendered to a Celtic blood-spirit. Or to put it more simply, he made love to a horny youth.
Dónal sat up, wrecked. His only real weapon lay between his legs like a rinsed rag. He looked around his monastic stronghold, the oratory walls, the domed ceiling, the shelves of manuscripts, and the candle extinguished by his own renegade breath, and everything disgusted him. They were the trappings of honorable employment and nothing more. Worse, he was bleeding, no longer from his spirit, now from his neck.
“Where are the Normans?” he cried. “Why haven’t they invaded?”
They might have protected him from the assault. Or better yet, they might have killed him, hammered a spike through his heart and saved him from the blood feast.
But the Normans were in the East, landing on Banginbun. The West Coast was too isolated for conquest by boat, but not by male ravishing. The barren parcel surrounding the oratory was the only battlefield this night, Dónal’s battlefield, and he had fallen into its abyss. Tonight, he had rejected his pious beliefs in favor of Celtic cum—half-Nordic cum!—and his faith had been consumed. At last, the avenging ancients had sent a deliverer, Fionn the Cocker, and indoctrinated Dónal into their unearthly order.
As he sat on his stool, Dónal had nothing to pray for, nothing at all, except the fleeting hope that Fionn would return the next day and resume the rituals of his ancient tribe. With palms steeped in semen and pagan blood coursing through his prick, Fionn would feign elaborate tears and the monk would yield. Dónal would administer to Fionn like before, wipe the young farmer’s cum-soaked hands, and exclaim his universal love for the handsome youth. He would offer his blood at the sacrificial opening and patiently await another Celtic confession.
Long in the Tooth
Nathan Sims
“Did you see the finish on that coffin?” Victor scoffed. “Frankly, I’ve had outhouses with better craftsmanship.”
“That’s what you get for letting your attorneys plan everything,” Trevor replied. “If you’d let John do it as he asked—”
“No thank you. John would have had a horse-drawn carriage, a twenty-one gun salute, and a national day of mourning if I’d left it to him.”
The funeral service was at an end, and the two men were tucked away safely in the backseat of the limousine heading out of the city and back toward Victor’s estate in Potomac.
“And you would have complained about that just like you’re complaining over a silly box,” Trevor said. His words were dry and cracked, like wind whipped through the desert. The old man resembled no more than a dried husk, susceptible to the first breeze that blew his way.
By contrast Victor looked like a fresh bloom, fragrant and lovely. “Silly box?” Trevor’s oldest friend asked. “A silly box, is that what you call it? Well, I’ll be sure to use the same mortuary when it’s your turn.”
“No thank you,” Trevor grimaced, “that place was a dive. Did you hear the canned music they had piped through the speakers?”
“Mmm-hmm, that’s what I thought,” Victor said triumphantly, patting his friend’s wrinkled hand. Its paper-thin skin barely covered the brittle bones beneath. Trevor noted with embarrassment the liver spots and other signs of age he lugged about like so much excess baggage these days. He cast an envious glance at Victor’s reborn hand. It had been so many years since he’d known the feel of fresh, unscarred skin wrapped tight against muscle and bone he could barely remember how it felt.
“You know,” Victor said as he watched tendons dance their way up his arm, “I think Celeste might have the right idea here.”
“Victor, placing Celeste with the words ‘right idea’ in the same sentence has only ever led to disaster. What ever possessed you to turn that woman in the first place I’ll never know.”
“Say what you will about her—and Lord knows I’ve said it all—I can understand why she kills herself at the first sign of a wrinkle.”
“Please! Using our gifts as a form of plastic surgery is so plebian.”
“I don’t know. This feeling can be quite addicting.”
Trevor hated to admit that Victor (and by proxy Celeste) was right. He always loved that time of life when everything was new and full of promise, when, like unscarred flesh, there were no mistakes yet, only a lifetime of opportunities.
“Well, you haven’t told me yet what you think,” Victor said, interrupting his musings.
“Think of what?”
“You know perfectly well what! How do I look?”
“You’re quite handsome.”
“Quite handsome? Quite handsome? That’s all you have to say?”
“Victor, you look exactly as you have after all your other rebirths. What do you want me to say?” There was no recrimination in Trevor’s voice. After nearly two hundred and fifty years of friendship, it was impossible to take Victor’s railings seriously.
“That I’m beautiful. That I’m as handsome as I’ve ever been. That you want to rip this Fioravanti suit off my body and ravish me here and now.”
“Victor, the days of you wishing me to do anything to your body ended three lifetimes ago.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t at least want to,” Victor said. He turned a pouting look out the window to watch River Road pass by smoothly on the other side.
Trevor shook his head and sighed. He hated getting dragged into these petty squabbles with Victor. He’d learned to avoid them as best he could. Yet like the prodigal son returning home, he always found himself returning to these well-trod paths in the midst of some superficial debate. He wasn’t even certain why he was being stubborn about the matter. It would be quite easy to give Victor the accolades he craved and to mean every word of it.
His friend never looked better than when he was fresh-born: his luxurious black hair offset by those rich blue eyes; his sharp cheekbones cut into a face sweeping down to a chiseled chin; and that lithe, compact body housing such potency. A lifetime of memories came flooding back—of doing exactly what Victor had suggested and ripping his expensive suit off to find the pleasures hidden beneath. Trevor shifted awkwardly in the limousine’s leather seat as recollections of their mutual, mounting blood lust caused more than just his fangs to grow.
No, complimenting Victo
r on his appearance would be as simple as acknowledging the sun was setting. Yet try as he might, he didn’t have the taste for that particular game. Not today. Instead, he attempted another tactic to soften his friend’s mood.
“So, regrets or resolutions?”
It was a tradition each time one of them closed another volume in their long life. Trevor wasn’t sure if any others of their kind ever played at this, but it had always fascinated the two of them: to take a step back from their previous life and gauge their mistakes as well as their victories; to see the whole of a new life, rich with possibilities, spreading out before them; and to find the courage to take the first wobbly, tentative steps into that new life. It was always a heady time—heady and a bit disconcerting—well, for Trevor at any rate. Victor always seemed to adjust more readily to the idea.
“Oh, well, definitely no more stock market or hedge funds,” Victor said, instantly warming to his favorite subject: himself. “I’ll pay someone else to do that this time, thank you. I think I want to do something with my hands,” he said. Trevor watched him admire his long, manicured fingers. “I was thinking maybe a surgeon.”
“Victor, you always say you’re going to be a surgeon.”
“That’s because I always want to be one.”
“And what, pray tell, would happen the first time the thirst hits you during the middle of an operation, and you decide to bend over for a little nip from your patient? It might raise a few eyebrows.”
“Well, after three hundred years I should hope I have more self-discipline than that.”
“True, you’ll just saunter down to the blood bank for a little pick-me-up after surgery, where you’ll only end up ruining that three-hundred-year streak of anonymity.”
“Fine, then, perhaps I’ll be an attorney.”
“Aren’t most court proceedings held during daylight hours?”
“Why do you always feel it necessary to dash my dreams?”
“Why do you always feel it necessary to put me in this position?”
“Because you’re nothing but a damned realist.”
“And you’re nothing but a hopeless dreamer.”
“Fine! Then maybe I’ll just enjoy the fortune I’ve spent the last five lifetimes amassing. Maybe I’ll jet off to the Riviera and revel in the life of a playboy. Or maybe that’s too impractical, too?”
“I have no complaints. I only wonder what John might make of it.”
“Oh, John,” Victor sighed, his tone instantly softening. “The poor boy—this has all been so traumatic for him.”
“The first time always is,” Trevor agreed.
“You know, he actually wanted to go to the mausoleum to see me off, the dear.” Victor smiled, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.
Trevor wasn’t sure he would use the word dear to describe Victor’s most recent partner. However, he could say with certainty: “He’s going to want to join you quickly now.”
“Mmm-hmm, he’s already mentioned several ways he might hasten his demise.”
“Already?”
“Well, he’s so young—only ninety-three. You remember what you were like at that age.”
“I remember how terrified I was the first time I died.”
Victor took Trevor’s hand and leaned over, kissing him on his weathered cheek, and said, “You cried like a baby. And there I was beside you, telling you everything would be all right.”
“And it was. I went to sleep and when I woke up I was young again.”
“Young and beautiful.”
Trevor smiled at Victor’s tender lie and patted his friend in appreciation.
In response Victor slapped Trevor a stinging blow across his knuckles.
“What was that for?”
“That’s how you compliment someone!” Victor snapped. “Not ‘you’re quite handsome’!”
Trevor grinned. “Victor, you know I’ve never laid eyes on anyone more ravishing than you—not in four lifetimes. From the moment I saw you standing on the docks in the firelight chucking those crates of tea into the harbor, I never wanted anyone more.”
Victor clutched Trevor’s aged hands and nodded. He turned to look out the window and said quietly, “Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to say it once in a while.”
Trevor chuckled and cast a glance out the window as well, watching the world slip by the darkened glass. The memorial service had been scheduled for near dusk, making it safe for Victor, Trevor, and John to attend. They needn’t have worried, though. The weather had been more than accommodating as thick storm clouds spent the day blocking out the sun.
He looked back at his friend and chided him. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how deftly you diverted the subject from John.”
Victor sighed at his latest lover’s name. “John is wonderful. He’s all I could ever ask for. Gentle.”
“Always attentive,” Trevor offered. He supposed it sounded better than clingy or possessive would have.
“Handsome as hell. The first time I saw those green eyes—ugh!”
“And that laugh of his.”
Both Victor and Trevor were silent for a time.
And then: “How are you planning on breaking it off?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Victor stretched, spreading his legs out as far as they would go. “He really is a dear and I do love him—”
“But you need your space.”
“Precisely!” Victor said, tapping the older man’s knee for emphasis. “There’s so much for me to discover. I just need to be unencumbered for a time—to breathe freely and on my own. I need to—”
“To spread your wings and fly?” Trevor asked with a glint in his eye.
“Oh, well, if you’re going to be maudlin about it, Ms. Midler, then yes. That’s precisely what I need. I need space.”
“Just do me a favor. Pull the bandage quickly this time. Don’t alienate him until he’s so frustrated he storms away and won’t speak to you for a hundred years.”
“I would never—”
“Celeste?”
“Well, how would you have dealt with that impossible woman?”
“Archibald?”
“One lifetime with my dreary, old sire was more than enough, thank you very much.”
“Gilbert?” The name was past Trevor’s lips before he could stop himself. It hung in the air between the two of them like a bomb reaching its final second of life. Trevor saw Victor bristle but moved on quickly before his friend had a chance to respond. “And me.”
“No!” Victor said emphatically. “No, my oldest and dearest friend, never you.”
“How quickly you forget.”
“Forget what?”
“You fled to Europe to be rid of me! You never even told me you were leaving. I just woke up one night to find you gone. I didn’t hear a word from you for over fifty years. By the time I saw you again Grant was in the White House!”
“Well, you just said it should be quick.”
“Use your words, you silly old man.”
“And say what? That it’s over? That I need to move on? That a lifetime with him was heaven, but now I need to wallow in hell for a time? Please, spare me a poet’s ramblings.”
“That you can’t commit to any one person for more than a few decades—”
“I can so commit!”
“Really? Can you?” Trevor studied a defiant Victor for a moment as the limousine pulled through the iron gates and onto the estate that had been Victor’s home for the past hundred and fifty years. Finally, Trevor said, “Victor, my dear, I am a member of a very elite club. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. We call ourselves ‘Victor’s Formers,’ and very shortly now we’ll be inducting a new member.”
Victor opened his mouth and shut it again. It opened a second time but no words came out. He made a final attempt and then withered in his seat. “I really am a miserable old letch, aren’t I?”
“Now, don’t start that.”
“No, it’s true. I promise someone an eternity
of bliss but give them only a handful of years.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call all of them blissful.”
“No, I can’t even provide that, can I?”
“Your eye does tend to wander a bit.”
“I’m hopeless.”
“Now, now.”
“No, it’s true. I should just ban myself from the human race.” Trevor saw a light dawn in Victor’s eyes. “That’s my resolution—no contact with humans this go-around. I’m taking myself off the market.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You think I’m joking, but I’m not. No trysts. No affairs.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“No promises of eternity. No youngling to turn and then train.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“You don’t think I can do it, but I can. I’ll have none of it this time. Oh, what are you waiting for, Trevor? Hurry with this life, won’t you? Take a page from Celeste’s book and be done with it. And once you’re reborn we’ll travel the world together—you and I. Separate, alone, above all the twaddle of day-to-day life, beyond the affairs of man or beast. We’ll take our rightful place near the realms of the gods and look down on the rigors of daily life, thanking the heavens we’re no longer caught up in this sorry existence of humanity. Promise me, Trevor, promise me we’ll do that very thing. What do you say?”
The idea was a tempting one. Victor painted a lovely picture, and as Trevor studied the other man’s eyes, he believed his friend meant what he said. He believed Victor might truly change. He believed that perhaps it wasn’t too late to travel a path different from the one he was on now—one with Victor at his side. As the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the house—a vast thing of brick and stone and columns—Trevor took Victor’s hand and said, “Victor, if you truly mean it, then ye—”
“Hello, what do we have here?” Victor interrupted, his attention drawn to something outside the limousine.