When Vampires and Brownies Run Newspaper Routes

 Enjoy this excerpt from Ruthless by Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara.

The boo0k is part of the BryonySeries and is based on Ed's experiences (real and imaginaries).

When it’s my turn, I back my van to a large cloth bin reinforced with a light metal frame. Each bin holds about a ton of scrape paper. In no time, I’m dumping the baskets into the bin and throwing the empty basket into the back of my van, where the brownies can reload it without being seen. Unloading alone might take me four hours and a sore back, but this way, I filled the first bin in minutes. The recycler gave me an empty bin before taking the full one to be weighed with a forklift. I’m out of papers when I filled that one. The brownies peek through the rear window as the man in a jump suits counts out two twenty-dollar bills.

I jump in the van and speed off, lest the other people hear the brownies raging at the unfair payment for so much paper. Explaining that this paper is actually money would take hours. In their time-scape money, valuable metals are worth only what the metal is worth. I’m tired of explaining it. It took my hours to explain “writing,”  so I capitalize on that.

“This paper says, brownies get breakfast,” I announced. “This other paper says, Steward gets breakfast.”

My mythical friends are skeptical.

I know where to feed them, a place where I can bring them in and let them pick out what they want without having to explain anything. Eircheard’s Emporium in Jenson (thirty minutes west of Munsonville) is owned and managed by a powerful leprechaun that easily passes for a human, down to his clay pipe and broken teeth. He’ll know how to please brownies for a double sawbuck. My companions have nothing to fear from Eircheard, but to me, it’s “buyer beware.”

I made sure no other customers were in the store before I let the brownies in. Eircheard scolded me because my small friends were making him close his door to other, more promising patrons, but close his doors he did. I gave him the twenty and kept close watch on the value of what he allowed and disallowed.

Eircheard also kept watch as he sat behind the counter, puffing away.

“There are twenty-four brownies,” he reported. “Shouldn’t there be twenty-five?”

I actually don’t know what became of the last brownie. He was there when they were using their unearned brownie points. Eircheard listened to my denial suspiciously. He’s not from the same realm as these brownies, so he doesn’t trust them. He’s from a later time in Tara, when humans were less respectful of magical creatures and sacred hills of Tara in favor of other human structures.

“Does paper say brownies get honey?” they asked the Eircheard after selecting butter, soda bread, and jam. He nods that it does. To my count, even the small jar of honey left two dollars and thirty-three cents.

In the back of my mind, I hear a little angel ask about the breeders. What do they get? Aren’t they worth at least the change? Isn’t bad enough for the females that they are called ‘breeders’ rather than wives?

“Oh, look at pretty rocks!”

A brownie noticed a bag of aquarium stones in the back of the store. To his ancient eye, they looked quite valuable.

“Those magical stones are not for brownies but breeders. They make breeders more beautiful,” I fudged. Then looking at Eircheard, I added, “But that’s the last thing the paper gives.”

Eircheard nodded, “I can deliver them myself, if you give me the coordinates to the time-scape.”

Now Eircheard could use the portal here instead of traveling so far. I, of course, decline. There are only two beings I fear, and he’s the other.

Joyful and jumping, the brownies take their treasures into the big white wheel box. Honey over bread is like steak and lobster to the sidhe.

We were on our way to Munsonville when it hit me. Do I have a place to live? Homelessness is common among new vampires but it’s hardly a problem. I somehow know that if I can’t find a place to lay my undead head, I can always return to the place and time when I died and stay put until it’s time to wake. Time-scape required memories always seemed to come as needed, but it’s hard to make long-term plans.

Short term plans…did I have money? A vague memory nagged of someone stabbing me with a knife and taking my wallet. Wasn’t I shot? I should eat. I look to where I left the other double sawbuck, but it’s gone!

“Steward too fat!” Ramon poked his finger at my belly.

His fingers seemed to puncture the very memory. I wish it were the way it happened, making me guiltless in the eyes of my Little Angel. I’m bleeding, and I look down. This Thornton Times is too bloody to deliver. Where would I get another Thornton Times? Where are my Daily Posts? Or my Munsonville Weeklies? I heard the voice of John telling me not to worry, but it’s Ramon.

“Paper should say, ‘No food for Steward.’ Ramon should keep paper till Steward not so fat.”

“Maybe another time,” I told myself, then glanced off the road long enough to look at Ramon, “There once was a brownie quite bad. His greed got the Steward real mad…”

“No! No pretty words. Steward gets paper. Brownie no steal babies.” Ramon put the twenty on the dashboard.

That’s how you do ruthless. I haven’t forgot about you there, still spying on me. I’ve already told you, if you really want to understand Ed Calkins, you have to read, and then reread, Robert Frost’s poem. And if you want to believe in Ed Calkins, you have to step through the mirror. Instead, you’re going to follow a man and his brownies delivering papers? Can you see why I think you have too much time on your hands?

OK, I’ll be merciful. If you really want to, I’ll let you watch me eat without making fun of you. Not so with the brownies, I realize. So before I can head to Sue’s Diner in Munsonville I have to drive in the opposite direction to the Happy Hunting Grounds funeral parlor in Thornton, about an hour west from Jenson.

By the time I get there, it’s afternoon and the place is conducting a funeral, but brownies are really good at sneaking in somewhere. They know where the portal is (in the door mirror of the women’s restroom), which might be a problem if anyone was ever brave enough to use it. I pull up under the pretense that I’m redelivering a newspaper. The funeral staff waves me away before I can get out of the van, but the brownies are gone.

Now, you get to watch me eat. Are you happy? I drive back to Munsonville and parked in front of Sue’s Diner. Once inside, I realized I don’t want to be seated.

“Hello number eleven,” I charmed the hostess/manager, whom I married when she was waiting tables. See what happens when you marry Ed Calkins? But don’t underestimate her. She used to work for a veterinarian in Shelby (this is her retirement job), and she is very, very smart.

“Hello husband three, the only husband I don’t hate now. Can I get you a seat? I’ve got something to tell you and I think it’s important.”

“Actually, I wanted a ‘to go’ order, liver, hold the onion. Could I possibly get it raw? I’m going to cook it much later.”

“Ed, I can’t sell raw food.”

“Extra rare then?”

“That I can do. You’ve been working on that program too hard. Are you getting enough sleep?”

Suddenly, I knew where I lived. It’s a studio apartment within walking distance from here. I also know the apartment is somehow bigger on the inside then on the outside. I know, too, that I am hiding the location from everyone expect Ruthie, wife number eleven, and even she is not to see the inside.

As I’m standing there, she’s telling me about a man on the phone waiting for his food earlier this morning. She heard the name, ‘Ed Calkins’ and started eavesdropping. He was bragging that he busted me, something about Shoppers found in a dumpster in my area. She’d heard him say, “We’re going to make an example out of this guy,” but his boss was objecting loud enough to be heard, saying that anyone can dump anything in someone else’s area and that only the serial numbers could prove it was Ed. Later a phone call came while he was eating. Apparently, they sent someone to check those papers and it was a different account, so they dropped it. The guy, who must have been deaf because his phone was turned up quite loudly, tried to insist that Ed was also dumping for other accounts and this was one of them. The other voice called the man Jake, and said it was too far of a reach, that if police were going to get involved, they would want evidence.

“Watch your back, husband,” Ruthie concluded. “These guys are really out to get you. What did you do to them?”

“I know too much.”

When I was alive, I feared Jake would have to disgrace me, not just get rid of me. But now that I was a vampire, I could easily deal with him. I wouldn’t bite him, he’s not my type, but I could bite his wife or mistress, change them into vampires, and compel them to make his life miserable. I would have much fun exposing him as the hypocrite he always was. I can only wish Trudy would be here to see that happen.

But the voice of my Little Angel is as much a part of me as my being a vampire. She wouldn’t approve. More than that, subjugating people into vampires isn’t healthy, as most vampires are killed by other vampires and no one has better a motive then a subjugated vampire. Better I write his limerick in every bathroom stall I find until the words became so popular that when historians seek its origin, they will trace it to the ruthless Ed Calkins, and Jake’s name will live in infamy. Yeah, let history right things. I’ll set the brownies to writing in bathrooms…after I teach them to write. I’ll have to teach them what writing is first. I’m in no hurry.

Ruthie gave me a hug as she handed me my food. I smelled her neck and felt an urge stronger than I’ve ever felt. Hell, if I maul her, I’ll be “Ruth-less.” Listen, ye who spy on me. When I make a joke, you laugh. Never mind, I can’t even laugh at that one.

Almost reflexively, I drove to my secret studio apartment. After parking the van, I closed my eyes so you can’t see where this apartment is. I’ve dreaded this moment, for I’m about to learn who is missing from my life in this time-scape, which will be my home in hiding for the rest of my existence. I won’t remember people unimportant to me, but those that have become a part of me, such as my Little Angel, Trudy, my son, my long time roommate, and any that I really could call close; they would be free of my vampire time disruption. I will be very lonely, I know.

John tried reassuring me as he drained my blood. Vampires throw great parties, he said, and I’ll meet new friends and enemies. As a vampire, the enemies will be more fun than the friends. But I know already that I don’t have time for parties right now; that I’m working on something so secretive, it’s a secret even from John.

I looked around my one-room apartment and saw nothing but a bed, dresser, and closet with few clothes. I know I have more things than this. Then I see the full-length mirror. Well, to you it’s a mirror, to me it’s a portal. I can see the desk and computer tower on the other side. Oh yeah!

With hesitating, I stepped into the mirror, a narrow, flashing prism with bouncing rainbow light waves against tens of transparent sides. Walking through the portal made the view of my bed go away, but I’ll find it when I need it. Eventually a hole of illumination appeared at the portal’s far end, a chasm that expanded and brightened as I neared the exit.

The computer is off. I cold booted it and the monitor displayed “HHG”. I know exactly where I am and it’s not “now.” I’m in the basement of Happy Hunting Grounds, which has equipment for embalming, but what it’s actually used for would surprise you.

There’s a vb6 editor and compiler on this machine with a recent project in the cache. The code refers to subdirectories with pictures in them. What kind of demented pervert is working on this? My God, this is disgraceful!

“Vampires need to feed,” some voice in my head is defending itself or something else. I compiled and ran the user interface to learn more, and then I blushed at my shameful arousal. The graphic interface shows the pornography - for psychopaths.

But what’s this other code? It’s another front-end graphic interface. Programs of this type have a front end and a back end, but why two front ends? What kind of darkness is this?

A particular evil is …well, very particular and evilly wants me to rule the Kingdom of the Damned. As king, I would bring peace and harmony to all the vampires of the world. I alone could create a vampire utopia. Ending the petit feuds among them, I could unite all undead creatures to a common cause and create a standard of living that would enrich all among the shadow realms as a benevolent overlord would naturally do.

The program I’m writing will ensure that never happens.

My ruthless smile widened. I bit into my very rare liver like it was the very neck of Ruthie.