You do not give your name, but I know who you are.
I make no apologies for who I am or what I have done in my life (or my afterlife).
It is true that I am, as you say, a “prettyboy”, and am almost as beautiful
as mon frère mort-vivant, M., but what of it?
We can, none of us, change our birth or the circumstances thereof.
You say that my “brand of poor was rich.” Again, true, I suppose,
but as M. has already alluded, the wolves, our need, and my deeds, were real.
I have felt pain, longing, and despair.
My creator, my vampire-father,
stole me from my mortal lover and catapulted me into the realm of the undead.
Once the deed was done, he immolated himself, leaving me with no teacher or
mentor to help me harness or completely understand my new, incredible powers.
You will recall that Magnus had created no fledglings before me, in his 300 year existence;
consequently I began this undead life more powerful than many a vampire older than me.
Magnus also left me with more wealth than I had ever imagined.
Combine my looks and aristocratic upbringing (read “cock-suredness”),
my new limitless powers and wealth, and is it any surprise I was arrogant and headstrong?
I am not called the “Brat Prince” for nought (nor am I called Wolf-Killer for nought, either).
It has taken me quite a while to be able to admit that fact, but I do so, freely.
I was a rebel when I lived, and I sure as hell have been (and will remain) a rebel as one of the undead.
I do not wish to remember or discuss further, my time in the swamp. Suffice it to say,
I survived it, and came out stronger for it, but also further “damaged.”
(I slept long after that, and early for one of our kind.)
My initial reaction was to dismiss your retorts
as the drunken whinings of a jealous wannabe,
but now I begin to see you a little more clearly, I think.
You came from nothing. You had nothing and no one.
Like myself, you learned to turn your feelings inward
and your hatred and contempt outward.
You speak eloquently of the vestiges of death:
its horror and grimness. Its necessity.
I begin to think we are perhaps not so different as you wish to make us.
You asked why I didn’t just fly right on down to
the Saturn Bar and ask you what was what.
I’m outside right now, but I choose not to enter.
You may have this round, this fight, this war.
It is not mine.
You said this bayou is not big enough for the two of us.
Well, you were right. You may keep the bayou.
I have had enough of it for several lifetimes.
I’m heading back to my penthouse.
Bonne chance, mon ami.
P.S. It pains me that you do not enjoy my music;
but there again you have me – I am a musical poser
(but I did awaken the Queen of the Damned – not too shabby, that).
I have nowhere near the talent and skill of my undead friend, Xan
and his wonderful companion, Sasha.