Insufferably hot. Hot like the blood that poured out of my ruined face that summer years ago. Hot like the tears of childhood after my father, on a drunken binge, had beaten me. Hot like the warm life I drank from them. Hot like feeling I got the first time God spoke to me in my head, urging me to clkeanse the sinners.

Summer in New York is a blessing for me – everything stinks and rots in the streets, making my smell less noticeable. It was a busy night of stupidity, and the heat of summer had the neighborhood fuckwads all wound up. The stupid Irish started some trouble, committing random acts of violence and degradation against a woman ( I am certain that she was a whore and likely asked for it in some outfit that exposed all of her ‘assets’). I made certain that the young and brash Ricans didn’t let this pass, trying honey and then fire to inspire them to revenge. They purgesd a liquor store of its sinful wares while I purged the owner of his blood.

There was much deviltry going on here under the watch of the previous vassal. I don’t know what demon he summoned but it has the power to take the bodies of the damned and use them against them. While I am sure that the Lord has reasons for this, it escapes my feeble immortal brain to divine the message he hopes to deliver. Perhaps a warning to the damned that even their sins are not beyond notice or punishment.

Stupid fucks summoned something horrible and then cringed when they couldn’t force it back into its cage. The Lord allowed it to punish them and send them on to a well deserved hell. One of them has left behind a pride of ghouled felines, and the whore insists that we should keep them to protect against something called the unholy. The old man and the heathen believe we should kill them off. The hypocrite sided with the whore. I am unsure where I stand as God has not offered any hints on what to do with cats that eat the Damned. Surely it can’t be a bad thing as long as it isn’t his servant being eaten. And even then, perhaps I would have deserved it for my pride in being an instrument of his wrath.

No amount of self-punishment can free me from the wrongs I have done. I question sometimes whethere God speaks with me or if I am really as mad as the others think. Doubt is certainly a counter to faith, and I have some at the moment. Perhaps my brain just could not handle the familial abuse and then this damnation. Or perhaps the Lord simply tests me to see if I am truly worthy of redemption or if I will just slide into sin as so many before me appear t have done. I shall pray more on this and perhaps offfer up some personal suffering as penance for my doubts.

The city is sick. There is disease spreading and threatening our stock. If this festers, we’ll soon find ourselves starving. I’m sure that one of us has already infected some of the locals and this neighborhood is not exactly know for its impulse control. Our only option is a cull.

Luckily the Doctor has found a way to purge our bodies of the virus, its not pretty, but it works.
I hope that the boys can keep me from rampaging too bad when they have to drain all the blood out of me. I’m not exactly known for my impulse control either.

Every day I start to dislike the brass around here a little bit more.
It’s one thing to reprimand and another to embarrass. The repercussions of catalyzing
a vengeance that may potentially last hundreds of years should be enough to deter even
the most elevated of monarchs. I would have rather taken a beating right then and there
instead of being forced into some sycophantic little game. I swear here and now, one day
I will have that bitches unbeating heart between my claws.

The last few nights have been very revealing. Our ongoing investigation into the fate of our predecessors yields more clues. Something was possessing them. At this point, it could be anything (Kindred, demons, ghosts, etc.) but were I a betting man, I’d wager ghost. I may have already felt its presence while sensing echos at Tatyana’s former haven. I look forward to talking to one of The Family’s experts on the insubstantial departed.

I’ve also found what appears to be a new virus. It seems Katherine and I were carrying it. I’m certain I caught it from a kiss-addict I indulged at the Limelight opening. Kat could have gotten it anywhere. Some of my fellow Vassels have guessed that it could be GRID, but it’s too early to say with any certainty. In any case, I found a way to purge it from Kindred. The process is very unpleasant, but effective. The carrier is restrained and burns off all Vitae. Then the carrier must wait at least 20 minutes before feeding again. Because of the likelihood of frenzy, this should only be attempted with great caution.

I tested this first on myself, and the test was a medical success, though our restraints proved less effective than we would have liked. Kat will be difficult to restrain, and if we aren’t very careful, I fear we may find ourselves chasing her through the streets, or possibly fighting for our unlives. I in particular need to take care to avoid even the faintest hint of unnatural interest in restraining such a pretty and apparently-young girl. I must not linger on the thought of her, bound and frenzied. I must remain clinical and focus on my true aim: to protect the herd.

Dr. Vitale

The outcome was not one that I had considered. Given enough time to research and investigate, I may have been able to anticipate it. The lack of forethought and planning on part of my fellow Operators has already proven a liability – that I did anticipate. The Fraulein is shrewd, and the way that our Regent deferred to her hints that she’s a power player. It took a fair amount of careful consideration before I reconsidered my refusal of the retribution. It still doesn’t sit well with me, despite the fact that it was the most beneficial arrangement for the unit. It has potential benefits for me. I am weighing out the benefits of learning to ride a horse, as Fraulein suggested. I have experience from my time in the desert, though outside of their function as a mode of transportation I have no interest in them. Animals without a function are just one more liability. Speaking of animals with a function… in light of recently pinging the radar of every Operator in Brooklyn it may be wise to look into a dog. A functional pet, a breed appropriate for and training in guarding my safe house. Progress on the communication front – a number of the Operators are now carrying pagers. The situation is unsat, however – each and every Operator should have a method available for immediate contact. My altered state was an asset in coming back up to operational readiness after the beating – I was out of commission for ten weeks after the incident in Dushanbe. Another advantage to my altered state is that I don’t scar. Expanding my base of resources, from financial assets to local operators and influence, continues to be priority. I need to secure the services of additional proxies to advance the leverage I can exercise over his territory. This will allow me to delve into the sensitive mission-specific investigation that only I can perform.

I am punishing, being punished, eating the corpse of some unfortunate wretch. The images come to me in the daytime hours, and I cannot quite get rid of them. They are the scabbed over parts of my brain that I keep picking at and worrying. These surely are not messages from the Lord, but from Satan perhaps. It must be so as I seem to be quite enjoying myself in some of them. I am ashamed to even have these thoughts, awake or asleep. I must atone.

This vile shithole apparently hides a lot of things, including secrets. It appears that at least one of the last group of vassals here went into the light and fried herself into crispy bacon…I can’t even begin to think of why? The ‘good’ doctor said she appeared possessed, and I suppose that’s fucking possible, but why? More importantly, how do we keep it from happening again? I have no illusions that we are damned, but I have God’s work to do yet here, and no desire to have it cut short.

I have atoned by offering myself as sacrifce for our actions recently. The Duchess took offense at our violation of her domain; though strangely, not of her childer and grandchilder. We were beaten into torpor, to be revived later by Dominic. The dreams came to me in there as well, which means I have not atoned enough. Perhaps I will mimic the monks of old and beat the sin out of my own flesh.

Blasphemous fuck – who hangs a girl upside down on a cross at a nightclub opening? He may be vassal to our regent, but I will someday bring the Lord’s retribution down upon the shitstain that dared to mock Him, and whatever punishment may be given, I will accept. Such abomination must not be permitted.

I know not what to make of the Lance. The majority are clearly corrupt and know no more of what God wants of us then the spiders infesting my haven. Dominic’s sire, on the other hand, seems to actually have some faith. I am also interested in this Testament of Longinius, though it seems to want to replace the rightful Testaments of my Lord, yet some of what was mentioned during the service gives credence to the manner of my feeding. It also suggests that there is no reconciliation with the light for us, which I cannot accept. God, even at his mightiest and most wrathful, can offer forgiveness.

I did a bad thing tonight, but before I get to that I’ll need to rewind a bit. Late last night, not long before for the greedy Summer sun made its early rise, I ran afoul of a group of Damned. Four Succubine punks (two niggers, a spic, and a white trying hard not to be) dressed like rejects from the Beat It music-video, were strutting down our street, yelling, beating on trash cans, and generally asking for it. They’re in Hell’s Kitchen, our turf, acting like it’s their private annex of The Rack. Unacceptable. Now, I knew better than to think I could best these fools—all four of them at once—if things got physical, but one thing I learned in prison is that if you’ve got a line you’re not going to let people cross, sometimes you’ve got to take some licks. If you drop trousers and spread, you’re going to get fucked, not once but every night. If you fight back, you’re going to get hurt real bad, and you’re going to get fucked, but probably not as often. And if you can come back later and make them wish they’d stuck their dick somewhere else, that’s better still.

So I walk up and explain that they’re on the wrong side of 8th Ave. They could tell I was alone, and all five of us knew that I had placed my unlife in their hands, and yet I was telling them to fuck off back to The Rack. The predicable ensued, leaving me starving and soaked in urine. But it was getting too late to do much about that, so I went home. Bad call. I should have hunted right then and there, but the way this all turned out, I figure this is just part of God’s plan.

So, tonight I woke up ravenous. I could barely concentrate on putting my shoes on, much less putting one in front of the other, visions of feeding coursing through my head. Of course, I step outside and what’s the first thing I see, but a group of kids playing in the gushing stream of an open fire hydrant. I stood there and stared for a moment. Those cute little bloodbags. That gushing stream. You remember when you used to pee, how the thought of running water might as well have been an enlarged prostate? Same deal. And these were kids, right out in the open. I already knew if I touched a kid, I’d be done. That’s the rule. The Family won’t have me return to my old horrors, and that’s fine with me. I’d rather sleep in an urn than go back to that. So I tore myself away and started my usual alley circuit.

I didn’t get far before I found a bum laying by a trash can. I slowed my pace, drew my Liston knife, and fell upon him. I put my knife to his throat and told him to be cool. He started to babble some kind of mush-mouthed nonsense, but I was gums-deep in his arm before any of that mattered. What came next was easily the best feeling since my wedding day. If you’ve never fed on some worthless low-life kine while you could barely contain yourself, well, it’s like almost overdosing on morphine; I don’t recommend it, but it’s the most amazing experience ever. Now, I knew I’d kill this poor piece of shit if I didn’t pull myself away in time—and The Angel¹ wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight—I was going to cause some grief for the maybe one other person in the world who even knew who this failure was, and I was probably going to save the taxpayer a few bucks. He tasted like cold water on a long hot day, and before I knew it, that glass was permanently empty.

What had I done? I’d completely exsanguinated a man whose life had led him to sleep alone in a Hell’s Kitchen alley, like the discarded trash he’d made of himself. And look at him now! Pale, cool-skinned, slightly damp with sweat, and sweetly still. That’s one of the subtle reasons statues are so beautiful, I think: the perfection of their form, unmarred by motion. This one was a keeper! I know, I know. This is a weird thing, and they told me this was probably going to happen eventually, but from the moment I held that corpse in my arms and pulled my lips away from his skin, I knew I’d found something new and magical. So I took him home, sat him on my couch, and put a glass of limoncello in his hand. I decided not to name him. He’s got a name after all, and with a little more study, I can discover that. A toast! To finally making something of yourself, whoever you are!

Oh yeah, those punks from yesterday? We took care of them, too. I got the rest of the Hell’s Kitchen Vassels, and we went to Queens to pay them a visit. We left three torpid and the fourth in fox frenzy. Hopefully that’s the last we’ll see of them. I hate to imagine they’d be foolish enough to raise the ante.

All in all, a pretty good night.

Dr. Vitale

¹ Most Damned call it The Beast, but I think Angel is more appropriate. Not the kind of guardian angel they tell you about in Sunday School; the kind that stalked the streets of Egypt, consuming firstborn on Passover.

So I’ve just moved back into the old neighborhood after the last group of Damned up and bailed without a trace or clue, making my home in the subbasement of a shithole tenement where an elevator is nice enough to bring the other sort of damned to me for reconciliation with the Lord. It’s nice and dark here with an opening into the sewage system. I am sure it smells like piss, shit, and all other manner of human excretia that I do not notice. Apparently on one of the floors above, the previous vassal of this state engaged in some rudimentary Satanism.

I detest this hole and the fact that I am unable to find my food with more ease, but I must assume the Lord has some purpose in making me master of some small hell amongst a much larger one. I eat what is brought, never so much as to kill but rather to warn them of the damnation that awaits should they continue along the path they tread. It is unfortunate that I had to subdue my last companion in such a manner, but the birth control I found on her person indicates that she was a woman of loose character and morals.

So O’Brien incurred the rightful wrath of God, and left no trace behind of himself or his coterie. I assume that God punished them all. Were it not for that crazy Wop doctor, even that would not have been revealed to us. Had the regent not asked us to find out what happened; I wouldn’t really have bothered. One slice of hell is pretty much the same as the next, and at least in this one, I get to choose what and where I eat.

The doctor strikes me as odd. I know I saw him amongst those of the Lance, and that alone marks him as a lunatic in some way. But the Lord is not with him in the way he is with me, despite all his attendance to the rituals of holiness. I suspect he has perhaps given in to vices that are better left alone. His bravado certainly did him no good. The others I have not had time to pray on, but I am sure the Lord will reveal all in time.

Two months now we have been carving out this little niche of shit, and some stupid jackoffs decided to come over and piss on our pile – and our doctor, apparently. So we sallied forth on a righteous crusade to show them that we did not suffer such vulgarities. Something set them all off running; I expect that perhaps one of us is far older or has done something unexpected in the past that caused this. I know this because I did not, and ugly as we are, we can scare fuck-all out of everyone if need be. I know the doctor and the well-dressed fellow both make my hairs crawl (which is a fucked up sight if you are unfortunate enough to witness it), but the doctor shit himself when he got jumped, so I have to assume it was Dominic. Just what are we hiding there, old man? Retribution was swift, just, and should give those dumbass pieces of shit something to think about.

The Lord assured me those young men were sinners, and I have no doubt of it when we surprised them in their revelry with two very much too young for them girls. The Lord gave his blessing to our wrath, and we very quickly had doled out righteous punishment. Let that be a lesson that God protects his own, and this coterie, as much as I expect them all to be sinners, are my family of sorts and thus worthy of the Lord’s favor.

Hell’s kitchen is what I can only equate to a pig pen without walls. The pigs wallow in their own filth while the chickens sneak by to peck the fallen scraps from around their bulk. The mob dons instill the Irish to run the town and keep the money or drugs flowing while the vermin scurry to get a piece of the action without getting stepped on. The place is overrun with filth and misery from all sides, and that makes for a perfect opportunity for the foxes to nab a hen here an there when no one is looking.
My daddy always said that if you can’t take care of yourself you deserve whatever you’ve got coming to you, I used to think of that whenever I took down a vagrant or small timer over the last few months, I used to even get a tear in my eye. Now I just realize that if no one did, eventually the pigs would starve and the whole barn would come tumbling down.