Moulin Jewels (part 3)

When last we met, dear readers, my fangs were about to penetrate the jugular vein of a … let's call him a … janitor, in the Moulin Rouge. So let us return to that blissful moment. Ooh … makes me hungry just thinking about it.(1)

***

An eternity passed.(2) Exquisite dreams flowed through my veins. Shadows of memories … his … mine … blurred into a melange of moments until I knew his every dark secret.

I found myself exposed to voluptuous moments with gaudy, brassy ladies of the night, which blurred into images of haggard, chubby women with five o'clock shadows prickling his chin. A blonde lady, slight, fragile, sliced through the throat by his vile, murderous hands. As his evil revealed itself, my hunger grew.(3) His blood was intoxicating: dark, rich and spiced by his misdeeds. My senses became heightened as his wicked life and soul(4) flowed into my body. My lips caressed his skin and my tongue lapped hungrily as my teeth ripped deeper into his being. As his body weakened, his heart gave up its final secret - the most disturbing sight of all.(5) My Gabrielle, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, seemingly in ecstasy. I had seen enough. Jealousy bit into me like a rabid dog. Savagely, my jaws snapped closed like a mousetrap and his worthless, loathsome corpse sagged in my arms. Disgusted, I threw him onto the ground.(6)

Gabrielle. I stared at the lifeless corpse, its empty eyes stared back. I hated her for that, hated myself. Patience. I had to be patient. She would be mine soon enough. I just had to wait–

And then I saw her. My Gabrielle. I would impress her. Gracefully, my arm extended, the light rebounding off perfection in all its toned glory. I was a god.(7) My legs were divine. The paragon of – how dare she look away?! That sassy–

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, I stared after her. Her cherry red corset and voluminous skirt accentuated her perfect curves and complemented her milky white skin. She was exquisite. I watched as she strutted, oozing confidence, in the direction of the stage. Had she even noticed me? Surprised at my sudden shyness, I shook myself. Come on Eddie, my snarling subconscious growled at me.(8) Eventually, I would ensnare her in my web of love. Eventually, she would regret her foolish decision to walk away from me. She would pay with her heart and her soul. Eventually.

“Stardust!” a sharp, arrogant voice shocked me back into the room. Beaugarçon. I sneered to myself, before turning to face him. What did he want? I turned to face him, forcing a façade of a smile onto my face. He looked angry.

“Ah, Monsieur!” I beamed. “How are you?”

“Stardust, get your gorgeous ass onto that stage,” he growled, spanking my behind. I grimaced on the inside as something within me stirred, but my face was a picture of seduction.

“Do that again, you naughty boy,” I purred, longing to tear his throat out. Visions of crimson spraying into my mouth left me shivering. Glancing down, I could see I had awoken something in him. I raised a cheeky eyebrow and strutted off, wiggling my hips to tempt Beaugarçon in just the same way as my Gabrielle had lured me. He hadn't a hope in hell.

Lights … dazzling wonderful sparkling lights. Beyond them, hidden from my blinded view: my public. They had no idea what awaited them when the music began.

The music began – a slinky, sexy number. I swirled my hips and gazed into the audience, lowering my lengthy lashes, before sashaying across the stage.

A whirling dervish of glitter and satin, I pranced and danced, a pirhouetting pirhana disguised as an angel fish(9), I wowed them, hynotised them, entranced them. Entranced them with my prancey dance, how they would desire my lance(10)… I was a sexy god in a dress.(11) I heard my public sigh and breathe in with shock and anticipation as my lithe and slender form twisted and bent into shapes of wonder: I was a wonder.

Far too soon, it was over. The music ceased and I took up my position at the centre of the stage to take a bow … or on this occasion, to curtsey.

The crowd roared and cheered, applauding me; applauding my fabulousness. I had made my debut and they had loved me. It was as well for them. I beamed before turning sharply and striding from the stage.

Backstage, a familiar and oh so dear face greeted me; and this time, she smiled at me. The fire in her green spread to my loins, quenching and igniting my need to feast. This diva; my rival, my desire. This goddess. Gabrielle.

***

“Je suis Stardust.” I breathed, her scent filling my nostrils, my lips. “Say it again. Tu es...”

A small, almost girlish laugh croaked from her parted mouth, her hand batting mine away as I caught her fingers in my kiss. Her eyes chose not to leave mine, enticing, appraising, wholesome... consuming. As hungry as my own?

“Sweet thing.” She purred, her accent shifting so abruptly the spell was shattered. She had been listening to Sharon! “'ow iz zat, eh monsieur? I can English, oui? And you, you 'ave a voice most magnifique. Mon dieu, zose legs; zose hips. Oh, zose hands, zose dainty fingers, and zat neck; it 'as the swan's envy, non?”

I bit her.

“Oh, you bad boy.” That purr was back, low, angry, and she sank the tips of her teeth along my neck in mimicry; her tongue flicked out. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, even as she dragged her canines to my shoulder, then to my corset's frills. She buried her nose in my bosom. Twin droplets of blood trickled down her porcelain neck. Her fingernails tore into my stays, my skin; scarlet ribbons broke against the dank air. “I can be your kitten, oui? Your... tigresse?”(12)

What had possessed me? My fangs had stopped short, merely grazing her. I found myself at a loss for words, my kiss smoothing her blood away. Its taste fanned the wildfires of passion in us both. Her breathing quickened, matching mine.

“Are you a bad-tempered bull, my passionate duck. Coo, coo.” The devilish twinkle in her stare sent shivers down my now-rigid spine.(13)

This time, my teeth pressed deeper; I felt her body heave against mine, her blood surging as her breasts lifted and crushed me. The heat in her rose, mixing with sweat and perfume; I inhaled the taste, that glorious cocktail of salty, coppery lavender-rose.

My arms ensnared her waist; her fingernails clawed, gouging into my back. It was intoxicating. I felt delirious, alive. Her breath was in me, filling my nostrils, my throat. I barely contained my greed; she knew, and pulled back, teasingly. Teasingly! Me! Like a snake, she coiled around me, leaning close, withdrawing, and finally, striking. Her nails bit deep, piercing, stabbing; her foot gliding against my calf. Our dance effortlessly surpassed my debut; our shameless audience of two. It was sordid ecstasy; that dirty, grimy 'nightclub encounter', a tryst behind the curtains, a...

She purred for me. Purred my name. In the masculine. For a moment, I remembered what it was to be mortal again. Her tongue traced my jugular; her hand crept up my thighs and squeezed; even as my eyes rolled back, she seized me, squeezed me. It was like a song. Then her hand found her way inside, beneath my skirts, between my...

“Your derrière, she is handsome, non? You like this, oui?” That smile was wicked; self assured, faux-innocent, a pretty little... I moaned. Me! I, the greatest –- I could not repress myself. Her fingernails gripping me, her legs coiling as she hoisted herself up and ground her hips to mine. Her guiding hand, the press of her through her most intimate garments, her own skirts lifted. She leaned in and took my earlobe between her teeth. “Is this what you wanted, mon chat? I can always tell the princesses from the queens.” I could no longer formulate words. “Let me crown you; my empress of swans, you soar over ze ungainly geese.”

“Ough...”

“Oui, like that. Oh oui. Oui mon chat, oh, oh, oui. Ride higher, ascend with moi. My dark panther-”

It was an act, too heavily dramatised; it was filthy. It was everything I wanted. More. Did she know what I was? What I really was? My heart stopped; I felt faint. This song, our song: this ballad of rearing swans. The climax would end in death, throes beyond measure. Her lips creased; she knew, she had to. My feral instincts warred with the promise of the next time; a time that could never be. How could I be so short-sighted?

“Oh mon dieu. My Stardust. Tu es- Oui … you remind me of my sister, my Abi.”(14)

She had to go there. Why did she have to go there? This was not part of our dance; our song had no room for another. Did she not understand what happened to men who were compared to their lover's sister, during the act of love?(15) Was she stupid? No, she was trying to arouse jealousy within me. Inadequate? Moi? Jamais! I sealed her mouth with mine; nothing, not even her, would ruin my moment.

She was mine. But was I hers? I had what I wanted. I desired her; now the urge to consume her consumed me. I threw her down; she landed with a low cry. Not of pain or fear, but of joy; her fishnets parted, her thighs inviting me to tear apart their satin prison. Her toes curled, those slender feet reaching to ensnare my neck. Her fingers tore at my neckline. My hands seized hers wrists. The smut that this place breathed was infectious. Now she would pay. Not as a woman; for calling me out, I-

She did not give me the chance, but drew me down. Crotchless beneath that flap. My mind was an open book; I could not accept it. My teeth bit into her thigh, her belly. Her leg lifted and as I made her my own, her right hand thrust mine inside her, and her left forced my teeth into her artery. My vision descended to the scarlet haze.

I screamed in anguish, distant to my own ears as I slowly came, then came to and stared down; as the light began to fade from her eyes, she wore a small, triumphant smile. She had won. Questions coursed through my mind. Somehow, I had lost. I had lost her, and more.

Her hand sank to her sumptuous breast.

This theatre would burn. I would make a pyre the likes of which none had seen since 1666.

As I thought about seeking matches, I stopped for a moment and watched her body wilting under the hand of Death. I wanted to puke. At the final, fatal moment, she had opened her mind to me and I had seen something, something that left me hollow. What I had just done?

Green, swirling like liquid, filled with tiny bubbles. A beautiful young lady – her emerald dress and necklace adorning a figure of such exquisite beauty that my breath caught in my throat. Her slight features and alabaster skin were pure and unmarked. She was familiar to me but from where?

Then the memory of a single word came to me. Abi. ABI! Gabrielle's sister(16) was Ma Belle – how could I have forgotten her: my one true love, the light of my life, the wonder in my wonderful? What had I done? Ma Belle had been banished from me for more years than I could count(17) and I had feared I might never find her, indeed, I had long since been deprived of her memory by some most unwelcome magic. Having remembered my one true love, I could think of nothing else. I had to find her. I had to. The only trouble was that I had eaten the one person who could have helped me to find her. Worse still I had just … with her sister …death would be a merciful blessing if she found out.

Oh God I was distraught. As I screamed Ma Belle's name aloud, I covered my eyes with one hand and stretched my arm out into the middle distance.

It was too late. I couldn't raise her to our ranks. Even if drained the blood from the entire audience and emptied it from my own veins into her husk, it wouldn't be enough. She was... gone. I stared as the simile of Ma Belle's face cracked into a grotesque grin. There was nothing for it: I had to destroy all evidence.(18)

Igor's footnotes:

(1) You glutton. Your insatiable diet of blood is enough to turn the appetite of anyone who is fool enough to read this drivel.

(2) Again with the... why do I bother? I can correct only so much! You poetry and theatrics are misplaced, overused, and as boorish as you. No ghost writer should be forced to suffer this much! And to think, it only gets worse.
(3) See point 1.

(4) Uh huh. Soul eater? Really? Are we to believe you keep a cache in that empty heart of yours? 'Inspiration' for your absurd personas? I suppose you think a silent audience is an audience that approves? That might explain your misplaced confidence regarding the 'popularity' of your ravings.
(5) There are far, far more disturbing sights. For example, the sight of your pallid gormless vampire countenance could turn the bravest of knights to jelly – and not in the way you think. What you do with “Royal Jelly” is beyond description.
(6) And no doubt, after gorging on him, you probably violated his still-warm body, you disgusting vermin.
(7)What is your obsession with being a god? You, my dear nemesis of the mind, are as distant from godliness as the necrotising bacteria which dwell in the depths of your festering armpit, you animated corpse.

(8) Subconscious? You? I can only assume you are referring to the 'voices' in your head. Voices you made up; who else could you narrate to and be congratulated by? You make me sick to my stomach.
(9) Seriously, I wish you would allow me to teach you about metaphors. The idea is to use descriptions that actually make the point you are aiming for. Disguising a pirhana as an angel fish is like comparing a pirhana to a pirhana, you tasteless cockwomble! They're both as bitey and as vicious as you.

(10) Seriously? A lance? You have a very skewed concept of length. Your readers should be thankful you decided a 'unicorn horn' lacked impact.

(11) See point (8)

(12) I'm going to be sick. You disgust me.

(13) Clichés you moronic slab of dried vomit. If I have told you once, I've told you a thousand times, clichés do not make good reading. (*He won't understand that one, readers!*)

(14) Gabi and Abi – oh how very original. *rolls eyes*.

(15) You have never committed an act of love in all your many days on this earth, you narcissistic bastard. I think what you're unsuccessfully euphemising, is an unadulterated act of fucking.
(16) How in the - not even your demented mind can miss the impossibility of this, you witless numpty. According to your drivellings, that green harpy you drool over is older than you are. How can you fail to recognise this paradox? You aren't even making any semblance of sense, or is this your idiotic idea of a metaphor?

(17) See point (13)

(18) You moronic oaf. If you had a single ounce of grey matter between those thick ears of yours, you would have scrapped this entire segment. If we are following your inane narrative, that imaginary green witch of yours can read, which is more than I can say for you.



---

A Christmas Shanty by ye olde Willy Dickespeare

Dear readers.

Behold, the dreadful mess, which ensues when I dare take a brief respite from my ghost writing duties, to recover from the writer's cramp, induced by NaNoWriMo. These are the words of Eddie Stardust himself. You have been warned.

A Christmas Shanty

By ye olde Willy Dickespeare (aka the magnificent Eddie Stardust)

Christmas Eve

'Twas the night afore the Mass o' the Christ when all through ye olde house,

not a Yorrick was stirring, he was stuffing a grouse.

Mama's stockings were hung on the airer with care.

Not for her, being dead, she was no longer there.

As for Yorrick, the grump, he awaited with glee,

The moment to pull mama's stockings to his knee.

You are the worst kind of moron, Stardust. How does this awfully written piece reflect either of your literary heroes? You will never be a troubadour or a bard. Give it up. It's already too late. Furthermore, I'm not Yorrick. I'm Igor. IGOOOOOR!

Methought I heard a voice cry “I'm Igor! I'm really sore! Don't write anymore.”

Stardust doth murder writing, therefore Dickespeare shall write some more! Yorrick shall sleep no more!

Yorrick, Yoooooorrick. Thy stocking doth lie empty, bereft as thy soul.

How shall we compare thee? To a midwinter night's dream. Thou art more grumpy and more grim than any I have met. Torrid gales doth shake the rancid leaves of death from thy branches but yet thou remainest, winding me the hell up.

That's right, Stardust, take the sonnet and destroy it, why don't you?

Just write my damned memoirs Yorrick, you snivelling dimwit. I am the diva, not you.

Nay, a nightmare, forsooth! Thou art a miser, Yorrick. Alas, I knew you at all. That I shall yet sup on the green liqueur from thy cranial cavity is my one solace. That sweet sweet nectar, tainted with thy brains. Thy pantry standeth stocked with the most rancid of stores: bitterness, bile – a vile draught to swallow! Thy breast's milk is tainted, you cow. Hast thou no charity for a poor and weak disco gimp vampire? Thy heart is as empty as thy body.

But I digress.

Yorrick standeth in the graveyard, looking disgruntled, wishing he could join the ranks of the gruntled … if that's even a word. (Yorrick, get on it!) It matters not. Yorrick will never be worthy of gruntling, therefore the point is moot.

He is approached by his downtrodden employee (NOTE TO SELF: Clearly this is a work of fiction – Yorrick will never be the employer), Edward Gimlet (Hamlet, you moron!)

“Mr Yorrick, work is over. My son little Gimlette wishes a word with you,” sayeth the tragic Edward.

“Please, Sir, spareth me a bite to eat. Spare some bread?” addeth little Gimlette, who dreams only of tinsel and fairy dust, he's a bit fabulous, you see, like his old man.

“Bread?” Yorrick yelleth, indignant rage furrowing his brow. “Bread? Thou shalt rob an old git of his only sustenance? Thou art a villain, Little Gimlette and your father, well, he be fired. Let me fetch the matches.”

“Thy heart is as empty as my stomach, thou plain dealing villain, thou rancid scoundrel. I will leave you now, and henceforth, thou shalt forever walk this earth, holding thy pieces, as thy dead yet living corpse rots around you.” Alas, Little Gimlette's words startled poor Yorrick somewhat. Such words should never have issued from the mouths of babes or urchins.

Later that night in the Hippodrome, Colchester ...

“When shall we three meet again?” Les Fates of Christmas trois croon.

“In snow shower, fog or just in pain?” Fate 1 – the Fate of Christmas past giggles into her eggnog and babycham cocktail.

“When the weekly shoppe is done.” Fate 2 – the Fate of Essex Christmas Present drools.

“When the Lotto's lost and won,” Fate 3 – the Fate of Christmas Riches Yet to Come, heavily pregnant and even more heavily made up, whines, examining her lottery tickets. “That will be ere the dreadful pun.” Fate 3 goes on.

“Where the place?” Fate 1 cries out

“Ow 'baat in Lakeside?” Fate 2 whines on.

“There to meet with Yorrick's fate,” Fate 3 jumps up and down with fake excitement.

“I come, dear tanning salon man,”

“Towie calls,”

“Anon”

“Yorrick, oh Yorrick, wherefore art thou Yorrick? Awaken thou thy broken body. Haunt not the season to be merry. Make a cake like Mary Berry, Thou never shalt bestow thy cherry. Really, thou art far too hairy.”

“Maybe have some coal instead, lest Eddie drinketh from thy head.

Blah blah blah, Yorrick dies.

The end.

... Ho ho ho!

And so you see, poor, long suffering readers, exactly why Stardust needs my services. His writings truly are the ramblings of an insane person. Be grateful. Should I depart this immortal coil, this is what you would be stuck with.

Merry Christmas.