MST3King the First Chapter of Blood Canticle

Wait a second. What the HELL am I talking about?

Do you know who I am? Bow before me!

I'm thinking maybe you're a new reader and you've never heard of me. How dare you!

Well, if that's the case, allow me to introduce myself, which I absolutely crave doing at the beginning of every one of my books.

I'm the Vampire Lestat, the most potent and lovable and BESTEST vampire ever created, a supernatural knockout, two hundred years old but fixed forever in the form of a twenty-year-old male with features and figure you'd die for and just might. I'm endlessly resourceful, and undeniably charming. Death, disease, time, gravity, they mean nothing to me.

Only two things are my enemy: the NYPD & Louis's framethrower, daylight, because it renders me completely lifeless and vulnerable to the burning rays of the sun, and conscience. In other words, I'm a condemned inhabitant of eternal night and an eternally tormented blood seeker.

Doesn't that make me sound irresistible? It's been done to death by now, Lestat.

And before I continue with my fantasy let me assure you: I'm high as a kite right now!

I know damned well how to be a full-fledged, post-Renaissance, post-nineteenth century, post-modern, post-popular writer. I don't need no stinkin' editers or publicisers! I'll sell my own books if I have to! I don't deconstruct nothin'. ya'll! That is, you're going to get a full-dress story here--;with a beginning, middle and end. I'm talking plot, characters, suspense, the works. Ya know..words & stuff.

I'm going to take care of you. That's not very reassuring. So rest easy and read on. You won't be sorry. You think I don't want new readers? Actually I sorta need them after all the lawsuits.. My name is thirst, baby. 'Thirst Lestat Awesome' I think it's rather catchy as my new name! I must have you! Like it or not I'm turning you into a vampir..No, wait. Sorry, force of habit.

However, since we are taking this little break from my preoccupation with being a saint, let me say a few words to my dedicated following. Write one unflattering review about my books & I will murder your entire family! You new guys follow along. It certainly won't be difficult. Why would I do something that you find difficult? Hell, I can barely dress myself! That would be self-defeating, right?

Now, to those of you who worship me. You know, the millions. Oh dear..

You say you want to hear from me. Or Louis for a change. You leave yellow roses at my gate in New Orleans, with handwritten notes: "Hey blondie, meet me for a good time in the broken stall at the Leather bar downtown." "Lestat, speak to us again. Give us a new book. One that doesn't suck this time. Lestat, we love the Vampire Chronicles. But what is this crap you & David have been writing? Lestat, why have we not heard from you? Lestat, please come back."

But I ask you, my beloved followers (don't all stumble over yourselves now to answer), *Cricket sounds* what the Hell happened when I gave you Memnoch the Devil? Gave? I remember having to buy a copy..What, did everyone ELSE get it for free? Hmmm? That was the last of the Vampire Chronicles written by me in my own words. Before David became the Kitty Kelley author of vampire tell alls.

Oh, you bought the book, I'm not complaining about that, my beloved readers. Oh ok..So what are you complaining about? Point of fact, Memnoch has outsold the other Vampire Chronicles completely; Granted I had to buy most of them.. how's that for a vulgar detail? But did you embrace it? 'Embrace it, Embrace it!' Did you understand it? Not really, Lestat. Did you read it twice? Is that what your whole self-worth is based on? Did you believe it? I thought it was fiction!

I'd been to the Court of Almighty God and to the howling depths of Perdition, boys and girls, and I trusted you with my confessions, down to the last quiver of confusion and misery, prevailing on you to understand for me why I'd fled this terrifying opportunity to really become a saint, and what did you do? You complained! And now you're complaining about our complaining. Two wrongs don't make a right.

"Where was Lestat, the Vampire?" That's what you wanted to know. Where was Lestat in his snappy black frock coat, flashing his tiny fang teeth as he smiles, prancing a bout in skin tight leather pants, striding in English boots through the glossy underworld of everybody's sinister and stylish city packed with writhing human victims, the majority of whom deserve the vampiric kiss? That's what you talked about! That and the OJ trial.

Where was Lestat the insatiable blood thief and soul smasher, Lestat the vengeful, Lestat the sly, Lestat the . . . well, actually . . . Lestat, the Magnificent.

Yeah, I like that: Lestat, the Magnificent. I shall become a MAGICIAN! That sounds like a good name to me for this book. That or 'How Lestat Got His Groove Back' And I am, when you get right down to it, magnificent. I mean, somebody has to say it. And everyone else has grown to loathe my company for some reason.. But let's go back to your song and dance over Memnoch.

We don't want this shattered remnant of a shaman! you said. We want our hero. Where's his classic Harley? Let him kick start it and roar through the French Quarter streets and alleys. Let him sing in the wind to the music pumping through his tiny earphones, purple shades down, blond hair blowing free.

Well, cool, yeah, I like that image. But I like ALL my images, alcourse! Sure. I still have the motorcycle. Some no good kids stole the hubcaps through.. And yeah, I adore frock coats, I have them made; I like to pose infront of the mirror & play dress up! you're not going to get any arguments from me on that. And the boots, always. Want to know what I'm wearing now? Nothing. I'm N-A-K-E-D! With no clothes on!!!

I'm not going to tell you! Take THAT, person reading my book!

Well, not until further on. That alone will take up Chapters 2-4

But think it over, what I'm trying to say. I like ME & CLOTHES.

I give you this metaphysical vision of Creation and Eternity here, the whole history (more or less) of Christianity, and meditations galore on the Cosmos Big Time--; Preach ON, Brother Lestat.. and what thanks do I get? "What kind of a novel is this?" you asked. "We didn't tell you to go to Heaven and Hell! We want you to be the fancy fiend!" Or atleast if you're gonna have little adventures that don't translate to good novels, keep it to yourself. For example, no one would enjoy 'Lestat's AWESOME Adventure to the Super-Market!' much either.

Mon Dieu! You make me miserable! You really do, I want you to know that. I will kill you first! Much as I love you, much as I need you, much as I can't exist without you, you make me miserable!

Go ahead, throw this book away. Spit on me. Revile me. I dare you. Cast me out of your intellectual orbit. Throw me out of your backpack. Pitch me in the airport trash bin. Leave me on a bench in Central Park! Sell me on ebay with no reserve price!

What do I care?

No. I don't want you to do all that. Don't do that.

DON'T DO IT!

I want you to read every page I write. Good, but threatening usually doesn't help. I want my prose to envelop you. I'd drink your blood if I could and hook you into every memory inside me, every heartbreak, frame of reference, temporary triumph, petty defeat, mystic moment of surrender. And all right, already, I'll dress for the occasion. Do I ever not dress for the occasion? Does anybody look better in rags than me? Well, back to discussing fashion..

Sigh. This is like reading someone's LiveJournal blog.

I hate my vocabulary! Good, now we're on the same page!

Why is it that no matter how much I read, I end up sounding like an international gutter punk? You think it's possible that 'Mother of the Year' might have dropped you on your head a few times as a kid?

Of course one good reason for that is my obsession with producing a report to the mortal world that can be read by just about anyone. You underestimate our reading skills, Lesat. I want my books in trailer parks and university libraries. Discount bins & lining bird cages. You know what I mean? I'm not, for all my cultural and artistic hunger, an elitist. Have you not guessed? I'm hip I'm down!

Sigh again. Lestat REALLY needs a blog of his own.

I'm too desperate! A psyche permanently set on overdrive, that's the fate of a thinking vampire. I should be out murdering a bad guy, lapping his blood as if he was a Popsicle. Popsicle?! Lestat, where are drinking this blood from? Instead I'm writing a book. Poor You..

That's why no amount of wealth and power can silence me for very long. Desperation is the source of the fount. What if all this is meaningless? What if high-gloss French furniture with ormolu and inlaid leather really doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things? Don't forgot CLOTHES, Lestat! You can shudder with desperation in the rooms of a palace as well as in a crash pad. Not to mention a coffin! But forget the coffin, baby. Baby? I'm not what you'd call a coffin vampire anymore. That's nonsense. Lestat is like one of those people who stop liking an underground band after they become mainstream. Not that I didn't like them when I slept in them, however. In a way, there's nothing like it but what was I saying: I HATE YOU!

Ah, yeah, we're going to move on, but--;. I'M AWESOME!

Please, before we proceed, let me whine about what was done to my mind by my confrontation with Memnoch. Oh, PLEASE do..

Now, pay attention, all of you, new readers and old: I'M BETTER THEN YOU!

I was attacked by the divine and sacramental! And it hurt my butt! People talk about the gift of faith, well, I'm telling you it was more like a car crash! It did sheer violence to my psyche. And my PERM! Being a full-fledged vampire is a tough job once you've seen the streets of Heaven and Hell. And you guys should give me some metaphysical space. So stop reading my book!!

Now and then I get these little spells: I DON'T WANT TO BE EVIL ANYMORE! And then I rip someone's head off..

Don't all respond at once: "We want you to be the bad guy, you promised!" Lestat, didn't you already sugercoat your whole 'Evil Image' with your first book?

Gotcha. But you must understand what I suffer. It's only fair. To hell with writing a good book, I NEED to bitch!

And I'm so good at being bad, of course, the old slogan. If I haven't put that on a T-shirt, I'm going to. You've started a Cafe Press account? Actually, I really don't want to write anything that can't be put on a T-shirt. Actually, I'd like to write only on T-shirts. What extactly are you writing on now? Catskins? Actually, I'd like to write whole novels on T-shirts. Lestat, honey, think about it! It's just not gonna happen, shirts aren't big enough to do that! So you guys could say, "I'm wearing chapter eight of Lestat's new book, that's my favorite; oh, I see, you're wearing chapter six--;." Lestat lives in a very interesting fantasy world..

From time to time I do wear--; ..Woman's clothings? Oh, stop it! What? I wasn't doing anything!

IS THERE NO WAY OUT OF THIS? You can delete your file & start over!

You're always whispering in my ear, aren't you? Lestat..(concerned) are you hearing voices?

I'm shuffling along Pirates' Alley, Is that at Disneyland or Disneyworld? a bum covered with morally imperative dust, and you slip up beside me and say: "Lestat, wake up," "It's time for school!" and I pivot, slam bang! like Superman dodging into the all-American phone booth, and voila! There I stand, full-dress apparitional, in velvet once again, and I've got you by the throat. We're in the vestibule of the Cathedral (where did you think I'd drag you? Don't you want to die on consecrated ground?), and you're begging for it all the way; Woah! Lestat between this, your rape of the girl & David in Tale of Body Thief, you're coming off as kinda creepy. oops! went too far, meant for this to be the Little Drink, don't say I didn't warn you. Come to think of it. Did I warn you? No means No, Lestat!

All right, okay, yeah, forget about it, Easy for you to say. so what, stop the hand wringing, sure sure, knock it off, cool it, shove it, eh? You've lost me..

I surrender. Of course we're going to revel in pure wickedness here!

And who am I to deny my vocation as a Roman Catholic storyteller par excellence? I mean, the Vampire Chronicles are MY invention, you know, Louis de Pointe du Lac, who? and I am only NOT a monster when I'm addressing you, I mean, that's why I write this, because I need you, I can't breathe without you. I'm helpless without you--;. You have now crossed into 'Stalker Boyfriend' territory, Lestat. Tread lightly.

And I am back, sigh, shudder, cackle, tap dance, and I'm almost ready to pick up the conventional frame of this book and fix its four sides with the infallible super glue of sure-fire storytelling. It's going to all add up, I swear to you on the ghost of my dead father, Oh, the one you had Louis kill.. there's technically, in my world, no such thing as a digression! All roads lead to me.

Quiet. Peace out, Yo.

A beat.

But before we cut to Present Time, let me have my little fantasy. BOTH Louis AND Nicholas at SAME time! I need it. I am not all flash and dash, boys and girls, don't you see? I can't help myself.

Besides, if you can't really bear to read this, then cut to Chapter Two right now. Go on, get! Why couldn't you tell us this AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS CHAPTER?!

And for those of you who really love me, Oh boy.. who want to understand every nuance of the tale that lies ahead, I hereby invite you to go with me. This is why David & Louis left you, Lestat. Please read on:

I want to be a saint. I want to save souls by the millions. I want to do good everywhere. Oh, NO! He's starting OVER AGAIN! I want to have my life-sized plaster statue in every church in the world. Didn't Michael Jackson try to do something like this with statues before? Me, six feet tall with glass blue eyes, my dark roots not showing, in long purple velvet robes, Purple velvet? Sure people won't mistaken you for Prince? looking down with gently parted hands on the faithful who pray as they touch my foot. And take pictures of their friends doing obscene things to my statue.

"Lestat, cure my cancer, find my glasses, help my son get off drugs, make my husband love me." Lestat, STAY AWAY from other people's husbands!

In Mexico City, the young men come to the seminary doors clutching small statues of me in their hands, while mothers weep before me in the Cathedral: "Lestat, save my little one. You've killed his father & now we're starving to death! Lestat, take away the pain. Stop biting my neck! Lestat, I can walk! Look, the statue is moving, I see tears!" A moving statue that cries..Real classy, Lestat.

Drug dealers lay down their guns before me in Bogota, Colombia. The way you talk about killing evil doers, I would had figured the world wouldn't have drug dealers anymore. Murderers fall to their knees whispering my name. "Lestat, how can we kill as much as you?"

In Moscow the patriarch bows before my image with a crippled boy in his arms, and the boy is visibly healed. FAKER! Thousands return to the Church in France due to my intercession, people whispering as they stand before me, "Lestat, I've made up with my thieving sister. but unfortunely you killed her for being an evil doer. Lestat, I renounced my evil mistress. YOUR life of monogamy has shown me the way! Lestat, I have exposed the crooked bank, this is the first time I've been to Mass in years. Lestat, I am going into the convent and nothing can stop me. provided you can give me a ride there..? "

In Naples, as Mt. Vesuvius erupts, my statue is carried in procession to halt the lava before it destroys the seashore towns. In Kansas City, thousands of students file past my image pledging to have safe sex or none at all. I'm not even gonna touch that. I am invoked at Mass for special intercession throughout Europe and America.

In New York, a gang of scientists announces to the whole world that, thanks to my specific intercession they have managed to make an odorless, tasteless, harmless drug which creates the total high of crack, cocaine and heroin combined, that would actually kill someone, Lestat, and which is dirt cheap, ,but they would raise the price on it like any other drug, totally available and completely legal! How? Will Lestat be in charge of the Food and Drug Administration?! The drug trade is forever destroyed! And hence everyone will walked around stoned, THANKS LESTAT!

Senators and congressmen sob and embrace when they hear the news. "CHEAP DRUGS, YEAH!!!" My statue is immediately put into the National Cathedral. It wasn't there already? Lestat, you're slacking off in your own fantasy!

Hymns are written to me everywhere. I am the subject of pious poetry. Copies of my saintly biography (a dozen pages) Only 12 pages, me thinks some less holy details will be pushed aside. are vividly illustrated and printed by the billions. People crowd into St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York to leave their handwritten petitions in a basket before my image. And while the Dixie Chicks sing my greatest hits album, a crown will be placed upon my golden mane, swearing me in as the OFFICAL King of the Universe!

Little duplicates of me stand on dressing tables, countertops, desks, bobbleheads in cars, computer stations worldwide. "You haven't heard of him? Pray to him, your husband will be a lamb afterwards, Lestat, I don't know what you're planing to do, but STAY AWAY FROM people's husbands! your mother will stop nagging you, 'cause she'll be dead, your children will come to visit every Sunday; then send your money in thanksgiving to the church." Thanksgiving money?

Excerpted from BLOOD CANTICLE by Anne Rice Copyright 2003 by Anne Rice. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

..opps.

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