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Vampire, whole no. 7, September 1946
31858063101335_009
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sometimes savored strange and ecstatic impressions. Always this was the finale of some experiment. Long straws protruded like blades of grass from little holes made in the skull. From these straws, the brothers could draw out any thought essence, any mind residue that might have remained. Sometimes they were great painters, imagining bizarre landscapes and outre color schemes; sometimes, they felt the divine impulse behind epical composition of music and tonal blending. If the subject happened to be a little mad-- the greater the thrill. Yes, Malaloi's witchcraft was dark . . dark . . But things were not quite right today. No. Jules had had no opportunity to pursue his psychiatric delvings into the mind of the one whom he had obtained from Blacklodge. It appeared that only Honre had benefitted. Greedy Honre . . . Jules recognized the head immediately, as it reposed on the silver platter. "So," he shouted to the already seated Hore, "so, I am cheated again. I get the specimens and you ravage them. And where do I profit? Le bon Dieu!" His eyes ate hotly across the table and into Honre's mask. The shuttered eyes lifted and fell. "Come, come, mon frère, let us not quarrel. It was important that I Have monsieur the musician. I have made a fine addition to the bird. Come, sit down and partake of what Malaloi has prepared for us. At least we can share what is left and perhaps escape this world for the nonce." Jules whitened. "The bird, the bird," he shrilled, "that is all I hear from you. So you have made an addition,"he mimicked. "I will not have it. Honre, you are ruining me. I . . I must have a whole and living brain for my work. Not scraps." Viciously Jules plucked the straws from the head on the platter and flung them into Honre's face. Honre calmly enjoyed Jules' wrath. Finely he said as if explaining to a child, "You shall have them in good time. Pray be patient. Malaloi just told me--" Then he stopped, averting his eyes from Jules' face. Jules caught the implication. It was too much and he stalked from the room, coffin-colored. Behind him he heard a giggle and faintly but clearly: "Touché mon pauvre." As he walked across the garden, Jules' anger became a weighty shadow. It was a solid thing, almost wall-like. His mind was formulating ways of stopping Honre -- and Malaloi too, for that matter -- from any more senseless experiments. There also crept into his thoughts several little schemes for revenge. They were not of the pleasant variety. Lost in this mental labyrinth he did not hear the flapping of clumsy wings as he stared into the depths of the pool. And Jules Duprée died with horrid thoughts in his brain. Malaloi served the head on the silver platter and the head stared unwinkingly at Honre, who sat with lips a-pucker. A slight puff -9-
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sometimes savored strange and ecstatic impressions. Always this was the finale of some experiment. Long straws protruded like blades of grass from little holes made in the skull. From these straws, the brothers could draw out any thought essence, any mind residue that might have remained. Sometimes they were great painters, imagining bizarre landscapes and outre color schemes; sometimes, they felt the divine impulse behind epical composition of music and tonal blending. If the subject happened to be a little mad-- the greater the thrill. Yes, Malaloi's witchcraft was dark . . dark . . But things were not quite right today. No. Jules had had no opportunity to pursue his psychiatric delvings into the mind of the one whom he had obtained from Blacklodge. It appeared that only Honre had benefitted. Greedy Honre . . . Jules recognized the head immediately, as it reposed on the silver platter. "So," he shouted to the already seated Hore, "so, I am cheated again. I get the specimens and you ravage them. And where do I profit? Le bon Dieu!" His eyes ate hotly across the table and into Honre's mask. The shuttered eyes lifted and fell. "Come, come, mon frère, let us not quarrel. It was important that I Have monsieur the musician. I have made a fine addition to the bird. Come, sit down and partake of what Malaloi has prepared for us. At least we can share what is left and perhaps escape this world for the nonce." Jules whitened. "The bird, the bird," he shrilled, "that is all I hear from you. So you have made an addition,"he mimicked. "I will not have it. Honre, you are ruining me. I . . I must have a whole and living brain for my work. Not scraps." Viciously Jules plucked the straws from the head on the platter and flung them into Honre's face. Honre calmly enjoyed Jules' wrath. Finely he said as if explaining to a child, "You shall have them in good time. Pray be patient. Malaloi just told me--" Then he stopped, averting his eyes from Jules' face. Jules caught the implication. It was too much and he stalked from the room, coffin-colored. Behind him he heard a giggle and faintly but clearly: "Touché mon pauvre." As he walked across the garden, Jules' anger became a weighty shadow. It was a solid thing, almost wall-like. His mind was formulating ways of stopping Honre -- and Malaloi too, for that matter -- from any more senseless experiments. There also crept into his thoughts several little schemes for revenge. They were not of the pleasant variety. Lost in this mental labyrinth he did not hear the flapping of clumsy wings as he stared into the depths of the pool. And Jules Duprée died with horrid thoughts in his brain. Malaloi served the head on the silver platter and the head stared unwinkingly at Honre, who sat with lips a-pucker. A slight puff -9-
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