5 Mar 2003

I had come across The Trunk in my early years as I traveled the high and low roads of Eastern Europe. It had belonged to a Pennsylvanian Lord who had lost it to my trickery in a game of poker. It was made of silver and the contents inside made mostly of fine Bavarian pine. There were all kinds of instruments that were designed to bring harm to those that roamed the earth in a state of death. They ranged from the standard two-foot pin-sharp stake to a jointed wooden gauntlet with four mini stakes protruding from the knuckles. Although I imagine they had once looked new, fresh and wholesome in their woodiness, now they were dark and stained and gave off a slight aroma of doom. There was essence of garlic, a small vat of holy water and all the weapons could be combined with each other to create crosses. It was all devilishly well designed by someone who must have had a strong reason to hope that it all worked. To this menagerie of material I had added just one weapon of my own design. It was a petrol powered chainsaw but instead of a metal blade I had constructed one made of serrated hard wood with one hundred and twenty teeth. The lubricant that I used to keep the wood from igniting was a special jelly that I had developed with a Patagonian priest, consisting in large parts of holy water. Up until this point in the late sixties I had not yet had the opportunity to mark its full effect of the flesh of the dead.

That balmy evening in May knocked on my bedroom window and dared me to come out and experience what she had to offer. I packed the weapons into a large leather bag, slung it over my shoulder and decided to sample the wickedness in the air and the state of affairs about the Montemarte. The streets were deserted. I knew that, what had started as a relatively small disturbance (some chaps were not too happy that damsels were being brought into their dormitories) and had spread even to the citadel of French learning, Sorbonne, with my help, was burgeoning into a full on student revolt. The time was right for it. The backend of the sixties with Vietnam and disillusion in the minds of the youth, spreading to as far away as Mexico and Japan, had materialised into mass discontent throughout the students of Paris. I also knew that ten million French workers were striking in collusion with the distempered youths. To add to the fever of distability, the economic machinery of France had ground to a standstill. The booming post war economy was crippled. There was no mail, no banking, no transportation and dwindling food. The students were fighting with the police on the streets and the President had fled to Germany. As I closed my front door it occurred to me that the only people that would be enjoying this situation and with plenty to eat were the vampires. I smiled to myself. They had it coming.

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