V A M P I R A S de MÁLAGA
("Female Vampires of Spain"-Rated PG. For Adult Version, click here for to request email book)
(©Copyright 2006, Euro-California Esoteric Books, Ltd.)
Page 3
Pedro poured the three women’s’ glasses almost to the brim, and likewise his own, then raised his snifter in a toast.
“To many more lovely summer evenings with beautiful tourists!” He proclaimed loudly.
“I’m not a tourist, I’m a native!” The Spanish woman, seemingly the queen of this room, asserted.
They all laughed.
“Yes, sorry, but almost a foreigner, so mysterious, senorita!” Pedro reasoned.
She tipped back her head of long black hair and laughed deeply, exposing her graceful neck and, mouth open wide, a wonderful set of teeth.
The only anomaly in those beautiful rows of teeth was two sharp, but not extraordinarily large, fangs!
Pedro didn’t seem to notice.
The evening drifted into night, and although nearly 12, the room remained unusually warm, as the heat of August was little relieved by the lack of ventilation in that dark tea house.
Pedro, sweating, fetched some bottles of spring water from the kitchen and offered them to the ladies.
“Very good. It is getting a bit stifling in here,” said the Spanish woman.
A glaze of perspiration shone on the candle-lit faces of the three females.
Pedro put a hard rock LP on the record player. It was from some group called the Electric Purple Crow Association, and two small speakers belt out a raucous driving beat full of twanging, distorted guitars and thunderous drums and chilling organ backdrop.
From a diamond-studded black purse, the German woman lifted out a water bong, and a large foil packet of hashish.
“Just what we needed for this party!” The French girl yelled.
“Bravo!” shouted the Spanish woman.
Pedro took the bong to the kitchen to fill with water.
The three women started disrobing.
The Spanish woman unzipped the French girl’s rather boring brown and green dress, while the German woman did the same to her white top and black skirt. Soon they all stood in nothing but their *** and bras among the lustrous delirium of candle flames.
Pedro returned with the bong.
“Jesus Maria! It is too hot in here?” he exlaimed loudly.
The girls laughed.
“Me, too!” Pedro stripped to his underwear, revealing a muscled abdomen and a hard-pectoral, slightly hairy chest.
The music rose in volume, blocking out all random street noise of Malaga.
They partook of the bong by turns, inhaling the sweet hashish in a ritualistic daze.
The Spanish woman started dancing, her small, firm *** bouncing underneath a black bra. The French girl took off hers, and her lovely bare senos****jiggled gaily. She joined the dance, twirling wildly to the beat. For Adult Version, click here for to request email book
And, the fraulein, she completely disrobed, her creamy beige, mildly sun-baked body gleamed *** in the orange light of the candles and lamps, abundant ***** strikingly prominent against a pure white bikini tan line.
The large black spider dropped from the web onto the floor and remained motionless.
Then a whirlpool blur of colors and lights and echoing rock music, alternating slow and fast, loud, screaming.
The room was now empty, except for Pedro, who lay on the stone floor.
Blood dripped from several small holes on his neck. His bare stomach and **** glistened moist.
When I awoke the next morning, I felt a need to call Pedro; and, of course, then I realized that it had all been a dream.
It wasn’t August. And outside it was cool February. I shaved and put on my jacket and went down to the café.
(©Copyright 2006, Euro-California Esoteric Books, Ltd.)
“Hola,” I said to Jaime the waiter as I entered.
“Hola. Que tal?” he asked what’s new.
“Fun night at Phelas’. Some odd people. A mysterious Spanish woman was there. Once saw her in Teteria Bakala in Malaga. Maybe she’s the woman you saw with the German girl that day.”
“Maybe,” Jaime said and went to get my usual café au lait and grilled toast doused with olive oil.
I glanced at El Diario del Sur, a local newspaper. Another murder. This time at Playa de Burriana, a beach north of Malaga. A young Englishman had been found dead on the beach yesterday morning. More puncture wounds like the last murder, this time many, all over his neck and two holes at the base of his ****. And again, evidence of sexual contact, “activity”. Blood alcohol was high. He’d been drinking all night. Further drug tests pending.
Jaime in his white waiter’s shirt appeared before me with my breakfast.
“Tourists are dropping like flies,” I said in English.
“Excuse me?” Jaime said.
I tried to translate in Spanish. He laughed.
“Oh, these hippie foreigners. Probably drugs,” he reasoned.
“No, he was killed. Like he’d been bitten by wild animals…or, a group of vampires!”
“Jesus Maria!” he exclaimed and went to another customer.
After a meeting with client, who I was sure wanted to buy a fine apartment in Marbella, and from which I would earn a nice commission, I decided to go up to Burriana to check out the vibes.
It was long ride, about two hours, and an unusually warm day, so I stopped off in Malaga to see Pedro at Bakala.
I stepped into the narrow, alley-like street with buildings on both sides so close together that one mama could reach out and share a new recipe for paella with the other without leaving her flat.
I stepped inside the shadowy teahouse, which was full at this time of day. School kids were in the back room, furnished with only large pillows and low tables, to romance and neck. In the front room were businessmen and secretaries having after-lunch tea and pastries.
“Scott, glad you’re here,” Pedro said greeted me in Spanish.
“What’s new, Pedro. I decided to stop here on my way up to Burriana,” I announced.
“Burriana? Going sunbathing?” he said from the kitchen, where he was fetching me a glass of iced chamomile tea.
“Yeah, you know there was another tourist murder up there. I wanted to… snoop around,” I tried to explain in “Spanglish”.
Pedro gasped and stared at me. “Come back to the kitchen,” he whispered.
To mask our conversation, he turned up the radio: Iron Butterfly’s “In Da Gadda Da Vida”.
“It’s her. The lady you saw a few weeks ago here. The vampire. The old lady on Trinidad Grund. She came here to do a séance-type thing and read Tarot for the teahouse, see about our business prospects and stuff. She asked if a woman with long dark hair and purple dress had been here. She felt her presence,” Pedro explained, breathless.
“Oh, you mean that chick… you think really was a vampire?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes. The old lady did the Tarot and we were doing a séance and she felt this chill and she started talking in a low, rough, evil voice. She said she was here and she was coming back!” Pedro was trembling.
“Pedro, you been smokin’ too much weed?” I almost laughed, then I realized that I had the same suspicions.
“She did Tarot also and hesitated, said there would be death. She didn’t say where or when or here or wherever, just cut it short and then we did the séance and the bad visions came again and she started speaking in the weird vampire’s voice!” Pedro turned down the radio.
“OK, I have to wait on some customers. You can believe me or not.”
I sat at a table near the door alone and drank my ice tea. Some of the businessmen and secretaries were looking over at me confused.
A blond-haired man, probably a tourist, sat at the other end of the front parlor and drank a beer and read a map.....CONTINUE>
(©Copyright 2006, Euro-California Esoteric Books, Ltd.) All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or transmited in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. (Publishing enquiries, serial rights, film rights contact here.)
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