Aaron wasn’t a gambling man, but if he were, then today would be the day to place a bet. Since his arrival from LA, he’d developed a small circle of friends, just a few rocker types that he’d met through work and his band, but the likeable guy didn’t really know too many people in Harper Rock. He was still finding his feet, adjusting to his new life. Obviously, there was the redhead, Eureka, who had become more than simply a “friend”, but that was about it, save for a few casual acquaintances. That meant that his new blood family was becoming increasingly more important as he found his way in the crazy world of vampires. Vampires – he still found it hard to say. What a stroke of pure good fortune that the first member of the clan that he had really tried to bond with, happened to like drums. It was definitely the ideal day to buy a lottery ticket!
An overblown nod of his head was a clear indication to the drum maker that Aaron was ready to follow and take a look at the fruit of his craftsmanship. As Kitchi had just pointed out, their respective playing styles may prove to be worlds apart, but their mutual interest would be the glue to bind them together.
“Lead the way, big guy,” said Aaron enthusiastically. At some stage, a name other than “big guy” would be needed, even if it did suit the giant of a man rather perfectly. “I’m looking forward to trading some ideas with you, mixing up some crazy beats.”
The pair slid effortlessly through the crowd of shoppers. Aaron felt like his boots had sprung ice-skating blades, allowing him to carve a path through the gathered mass of capitalist Christmas consumers. His face glowed beneath the mask of dark stubble, as Aaron mulled over the realization that one of his adoptive tribe shared a similar passion. Every conversation needs an icebreaker, something to get the words flowing. Aaron had decided to bravely steam headlong into the iceberg, hoping to smash through the barrier, and not sink, like the Titanic. So far, at least, the plan seemed to be paying off. No need to man the lifeboats just yet.
A familiar face gazed at the blood brothers as they approached the exit to the emporium. The young girl, Lisa, with her optimistic, sprightly demeanour, offered Kitchi some kind of seasonal goodie-bag, to which he redirected her towards Aaron.
“Thank you, most kindly,” said Aaron as he accepted the festive gift bag from the cheerfully determined young worker. “I hope that you have a wonderful festive holiday.”
The cheap paper handbag, depicting the happy face of Father Christmas, was guaranteed to be full of useless tat like balloons, and flyers for the numerous discount sales that were already taking place throughout the shopping mall, but Aaron took it out of politeness more than anything else. Poor old Lisa had probably been slogging her guts out all day trying to maintain her fake smile, with her whiter-than-freshly-laid-snow teeth constantly on display. Her face was going to be frozen in a permanent expression of excitement by the end of her shift, like she’d stood on a Botox landmine.
Aaron skipped his way through the portal that had been created by Kitchi into the outside world, his stubbly face greeted by the cool evening air. Without even realizing, he was humming the tune of “Jingle Bells” as he danced through the doorway, like a contestant on one of the numerous TV shows where yesterday’s stars try to rekindle their dying careers. The subliminal joys of advertising and music.
“So, you don’t believe in Santa?” enquired Aaron as he waited for his gentlemanly brother to follow him through the exit door. “Did you hear the one about the dyslexic devil worshipper who sold his soul to Santa?”
Did I really just say that, thought Aaron as he nervously fiddled with his scarf, hoping that his kinsman hadn’t heard the pathetic joke? Storytelling probably wasn’t the affable rocker’s strong point. He was hardly shy or retiring, but neither was he some kind of charismatic raconteur. Maybe one of the reasons that Aaron was a drummer rather than a frontman, was that he didn’t crave the limelight, and was happy to have his place behind his beloved drum kit. The fact that he possessed a growly singing voice that resembled a croaking bullfrog as opposed to a tuneful blackbird also played a part in his musical calling!
The fortified position at the back of the stage enabled to Aaron to scan the audience, watch their reaction to each song, to gauge their level of enthusiasm. His drum kit was his citadel; the cymbals acting like turrets at each side of his walled fortress. From the throne that was his spinning stool, Aaron was king, ruling the rhythm with his drumstick sceptre. The band marched to his beat, and the crowd were his citizens, under his musical command.
“Maybe you don’t believe in Santa,” added Aaron, brushing over his terrible wisecrack, “but do you believe in fate?”
The creative drummer had so many questions to ask. Basic ones like where are we going? How far is it? How many drums do you have? But there were other questions. Unanswered riddles still toyed with Aaron’s thoughts, mysteries surrounding the Acheron family, their patriarch - a man known as Ambrose - and the rest of the clan. Aaron didn’t really believe in fate, but up until recently, neither did he believe in vampires.
An overblown nod of his head was a clear indication to the drum maker that Aaron was ready to follow and take a look at the fruit of his craftsmanship. As Kitchi had just pointed out, their respective playing styles may prove to be worlds apart, but their mutual interest would be the glue to bind them together.
“Lead the way, big guy,” said Aaron enthusiastically. At some stage, a name other than “big guy” would be needed, even if it did suit the giant of a man rather perfectly. “I’m looking forward to trading some ideas with you, mixing up some crazy beats.”
The pair slid effortlessly through the crowd of shoppers. Aaron felt like his boots had sprung ice-skating blades, allowing him to carve a path through the gathered mass of capitalist Christmas consumers. His face glowed beneath the mask of dark stubble, as Aaron mulled over the realization that one of his adoptive tribe shared a similar passion. Every conversation needs an icebreaker, something to get the words flowing. Aaron had decided to bravely steam headlong into the iceberg, hoping to smash through the barrier, and not sink, like the Titanic. So far, at least, the plan seemed to be paying off. No need to man the lifeboats just yet.
A familiar face gazed at the blood brothers as they approached the exit to the emporium. The young girl, Lisa, with her optimistic, sprightly demeanour, offered Kitchi some kind of seasonal goodie-bag, to which he redirected her towards Aaron.
“Thank you, most kindly,” said Aaron as he accepted the festive gift bag from the cheerfully determined young worker. “I hope that you have a wonderful festive holiday.”
The cheap paper handbag, depicting the happy face of Father Christmas, was guaranteed to be full of useless tat like balloons, and flyers for the numerous discount sales that were already taking place throughout the shopping mall, but Aaron took it out of politeness more than anything else. Poor old Lisa had probably been slogging her guts out all day trying to maintain her fake smile, with her whiter-than-freshly-laid-snow teeth constantly on display. Her face was going to be frozen in a permanent expression of excitement by the end of her shift, like she’d stood on a Botox landmine.
Aaron skipped his way through the portal that had been created by Kitchi into the outside world, his stubbly face greeted by the cool evening air. Without even realizing, he was humming the tune of “Jingle Bells” as he danced through the doorway, like a contestant on one of the numerous TV shows where yesterday’s stars try to rekindle their dying careers. The subliminal joys of advertising and music.
“So, you don’t believe in Santa?” enquired Aaron as he waited for his gentlemanly brother to follow him through the exit door. “Did you hear the one about the dyslexic devil worshipper who sold his soul to Santa?”
Did I really just say that, thought Aaron as he nervously fiddled with his scarf, hoping that his kinsman hadn’t heard the pathetic joke? Storytelling probably wasn’t the affable rocker’s strong point. He was hardly shy or retiring, but neither was he some kind of charismatic raconteur. Maybe one of the reasons that Aaron was a drummer rather than a frontman, was that he didn’t crave the limelight, and was happy to have his place behind his beloved drum kit. The fact that he possessed a growly singing voice that resembled a croaking bullfrog as opposed to a tuneful blackbird also played a part in his musical calling!
The fortified position at the back of the stage enabled to Aaron to scan the audience, watch their reaction to each song, to gauge their level of enthusiasm. His drum kit was his citadel; the cymbals acting like turrets at each side of his walled fortress. From the throne that was his spinning stool, Aaron was king, ruling the rhythm with his drumstick sceptre. The band marched to his beat, and the crowd were his citizens, under his musical command.
“Maybe you don’t believe in Santa,” added Aaron, brushing over his terrible wisecrack, “but do you believe in fate?”
The creative drummer had so many questions to ask. Basic ones like where are we going? How far is it? How many drums do you have? But there were other questions. Unanswered riddles still toyed with Aaron’s thoughts, mysteries surrounding the Acheron family, their patriarch - a man known as Ambrose - and the rest of the clan. Aaron didn’t really believe in fate, but up until recently, neither did he believe in vampires.
