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Vampire, whole no. 7, September 1946
31858063101335_007
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--he bit the words out -- "I find you have secretly appropriated the marijuana-scorched brain of that clarinetist whom I, I -- understand me -- ran great risk in procuring from that same Blacklodge. His should be mine as well. "Honre,"Jules accused, pointing a finger at his brother, "you sin by cheating your own blood. Your promises are like the melting snows." He stamped his foot helplessly and moved his gaze from Honre's face to a cabbage-like growth which grew lushly on the surface of the pool. Moisture began appearing on his round, hairless head. Honre Duprée did not resemble Jules greatly. He was lean and his dark eyes gave the appearance of being continually shuttered. His hands were long and vital looking, suggesting the hands of a surgeon--which he was. He operated on brains. Mostly because it amused him. He could do anything with living tissue. "Ah, my Jules," he said oilily, "you do not understand. Please forgive me, but in all frankness, I consider my work vastly more important than yours." He smiled before adding: "At least I can show results for my endeavors which you cannot." Jules trembled, lips white. "My experiments involve the thought process of the mind and cannot be seen like -- like that monstrousity you have made," he said tensely. "My notes on mental pathology will advance the treatment of insanity beyond anything as yet dreamed of. But that bird . . pfffttttt . ." Shaking his head, he started toward the house. "Wait," Honre clutched his arm. "I have taught the bird a new trick. But for a portion of the poet's brain, it would have been impossible. He tittered evilly, then gave a high-pitched whistle. Presently there appeared from the think and [[illustration]] -7-
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--he bit the words out -- "I find you have secretly appropriated the marijuana-scorched brain of that clarinetist whom I, I -- understand me -- ran great risk in procuring from that same Blacklodge. His should be mine as well. "Honre,"Jules accused, pointing a finger at his brother, "you sin by cheating your own blood. Your promises are like the melting snows." He stamped his foot helplessly and moved his gaze from Honre's face to a cabbage-like growth which grew lushly on the surface of the pool. Moisture began appearing on his round, hairless head. Honre Duprée did not resemble Jules greatly. He was lean and his dark eyes gave the appearance of being continually shuttered. His hands were long and vital looking, suggesting the hands of a surgeon--which he was. He operated on brains. Mostly because it amused him. He could do anything with living tissue. "Ah, my Jules," he said oilily, "you do not understand. Please forgive me, but in all frankness, I consider my work vastly more important than yours." He smiled before adding: "At least I can show results for my endeavors which you cannot." Jules trembled, lips white. "My experiments involve the thought process of the mind and cannot be seen like -- like that monstrousity you have made," he said tensely. "My notes on mental pathology will advance the treatment of insanity beyond anything as yet dreamed of. But that bird . . pfffttttt . ." Shaking his head, he started toward the house. "Wait," Honre clutched his arm. "I have taught the bird a new trick. But for a portion of the poet's brain, it would have been impossible. He tittered evilly, then gave a high-pitched whistle. Presently there appeared from the think and [[illustration]] -7-
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