~~~~*~~~~

"J'aime ces types vicieux, qu'icimontrent la bite."

"Whaat?!"

Taylor repeated himself, grinning lasciviously. Kirke shook his head & chuckled. That Tay knew full well what he'd just said was a given; since he'd been turned he'd lived his whole unlife in paris, & unlike Kirke & Dave, had gone somewhat native. In spite of Taylor's assumed stupidity, Kirke knew the fledgling grasped things fairly well. He could & would read, & that the quote was from William S Burroughs writings was not lost on Kirke. But it was that Taylor meant what he'd said was the source of Kirke's amusement; Tay's bloodthirst had inevitably cured him of his homophobia, & he dined now on both males & females with the same sensual abandon.

Taylor yowled, & ran around. "Grrrrrrowll!" he hissed, "je suis un vampyr MOYEN! J'ai de grandes griffes, et j'execute vrai rapide...."

Kirke chuckled again. Well, yeh, to be sure, Tay's claws WERE big, & he did run fast, but mean?! He suspected his perky flegling didn't have a mean bone in his body. Taylor must've picked up on Kirke's skepticism-
"Quittez se'lectionner sur moi!", he said, surly.

"You quit talkign that goddamn French then, first." Kirke replied, "com'on, let's go to Pere Lachaise."

Taylor made a face. "That old boneyard," he said, "I get tired of hunting for Doors fans with you. How many old hippies can you eat?"

Kirke smiled. "The advantage of hunting for hippies," Kirke said, "is you get a wicked buzz from that THC tainted blood....actually, I wanna see if the rumour's true."
"& what rumour is that?" Taylor asked, attentive now.
"Well," Kirke replied, "they SAY you can only lease plots in Pere Lachaise, not own them. s'a stonebitch for those with no next of kin if it's true, btu anyway..., um, the rumour has it they're supposed to exhume old Jimbo, actually. His time's up, & these snooty Frenchmen don't want him here anymore..."

"J'aime l'amusement!" Taylor said, then hastily corrected himself, "I like fun. Let's go see this. He was like, what 1971? Bet he's all bones by now..."
Kirke could see how that would appeal to Taylor; the fledgling lived in the catacombs, after all. Rint, the mad monk of Sedlec, could take lessons in good housekeeping from Taylor, who made the best of what he found below.
"This could be good fun for all," Kirke mused,"we should bring the whole family. Where's Davey-boi?"
"On the roof." Taylor replied matter-of-factly. This information gave Kirke momentary cause for alarm; Dave had never taken well to his having been Embraced. Not that Kirke had ever regretted turning him, but he knew how traumatic it had been for Dave. Taylor must've picked up on Kirke's distress; with an overly theatric hand to his head, Taylor now did a canny imitation of his boss having a case of suicidal vapours.
Taylor tottered on an imagined precipice.- "Personne n'aime la haine de me i moi-meme et veut MOURIR." he lilted.

"Baisez-vous." replied Kirke, amused. It was the only French he knew, & probably an inaccurate translation at that, but he flipped Taylor the finger to make sure it was understood.
"Embrassez mon ane." Taylor responded a beat later.
"What's THAT mean?" Kirke queried, hoping it was off-colour. He prided himself that the only things he knew in any second language were all obscene, & he wanted to add to that vocabulary. Taylor had now obliged him.
"It means, kiss my butt." Taylor said. He had to repeat it not less than 7 times on the way to the cemetary, so Kirke could learn it.

~~~*~~~

Dave tho, it turned out, was not on the roof, but on the boulevard. Had either his sire or his drummer paid more attention to his personal habits, or at the least asked Josin, they'd know he went there regularly. There was an expensive cafe, the kind the bluebloods of Paris loved to be seen at. Dave would sit on the patio and order the special of the evening, then sit there for hours, brooding. If the waiters bothered him, & they rarely did, he would pretend to eat, but the food was more or less a prop, its price his rent on the table he had chosen to haunt that night.

And Dave, who as taylor had surmised was never happy with his lot in death, had much to brood about.
"Heyy, Fleep," he called out after awhile, what does je t'ador mean?" Phillipe was one of the few waiters who spoke English, & one of the even fewer Dave spoke to. Dave called him Fleep, because, due to the garcon's accent, this was the name Dave believed he'd introduced himself as. "Oui, m'sieur Grohl?" Phillipe hurried over to refill the water glass Dave never drank from. "Je t'ador." Dave repeated. Phillipe blushed. "Means I love you, m'sieur Grohl."
"ahhh...."Dave muttered dourly, & lost himself in thought again.

So, she had LOVED him, that was it? Dave winced, remembering his latest victim. Oh, but she'd been SHARP-dressed, tight Lycra shirt, wraparound skirt in a pattern so precise it had to've been cut to look that way. She was so uptown, it was hard to believe any woman could look so classy. "Je t'ador." she had said at the sight of him, the stalker come straight to her balcony at last and revealed himself, & he, not knowing French, thought she'd said "shut the door", & so he did. Indeed, a mosquito-y night. No doubt she'd want the litle winged varmints closed out for this tryst, not knowing when he'd shut the door, she'd been shut in with a far deadlier form of bloodsucker...

"I'll be brief." he promised her, & she not understanding, but moving closer to kiss, & they had, & her breath was chocolate, she'd been eating choclates, & her tongue was a hot point teasing his, & her skin he was pulling the lycra apart with his claws, was the colour of coffee with cream, & salty, & warm, and he was too strong for her, & she was breathless, too breathless to resist, & warm with life & the promise of blood just below brown skin, and he was tasting her, fangs piercing sensitive throat, & she tensing, shuddering, fighting back now but oh so feeble,& he was in the thrall of it, swallowing it by coppery, yolky mouthfuls, his lips pulling at the tear, and his own throat muscles working as he swallowed, and she was too classy to be believed, far too classy, yes, as his hand on her now cooling thigh closed on her limp secret, & she was a he, in fact, a well dressed and now very dead drag queen, and her moist, limp, cold cock was in his hand in that brief moment of revelation, & then he tenderly took her down to the floor, lowering the well cut skirt- your secret is safe for now- & laid him out.

& took his leave. and now, it was only memories, in one tortured & frightened fledgling vampyre's head, & it was Dave's turn to shudder- "je t'ador." he muttered in revulsion, & lifted his glass of water to his lips, touched tongue tip to water in pretense of drinkign it, & unexpectedly, burst into tears. One blood-tinged brinedrop found its wasy intot eh glass. Dave watched its descent thru blurry eyes, then got up to go. Almost as an afterthought he emptied his pockets to tip Fleep, poor bastard's had to sit thru how many nights of this now? he wondered, turned the corner, & was gone.

~~~*~~~