Path of the Vampire forum

Boundaries could be divisive. They could act as shackles, restraining people, keeping them hemmed in like sheep in a pen, preventing any escape. Conversely they could be barriers, hurdles restricting entry, borders that cannot be crossed, keeping people out. Since time began, people, armies, whole countries, had fought over boundaries in an attempt to increase their territories, influence, and wealth. A boundary was definite, having exact and discernible limits, clear, not vague. Boundaries took many forms. They could be physical like the English Channel or The Alps, providing natural, tangible divisions, or social such as points of etiquette and knowing when not to “cross the line” with language or gestures. Other boundaries simply took the form of dots or lines on a map, chopping up land into countries, states, or counties. These borders could change over time, perhaps through war, or via new government policies. An example of this fluidity was the introduction of metropolitan counties in the UK during the 1970’s.

Grant Stonehouse had lived and worked in Greater Manchester, a metropolitan county than had “stolen” land from, amongst other places, the county of Cheshire. Fabled for its wealthy inhabitants, such as several high-profile footballers from the likes of Manchester United and Liverpool, and their suitably glamorous wives, Cheshire was regarded as an incredibly posh area of the county. Lifestyles were lavish, Champagne flowed frequently in the prosperous small towns of Wilmslow and Alderly Edge, and sports cars were ten a penny. But perhaps the most famous son of Cheshire was no footballer; it was a cat. Lewis Carroll, the author of “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”, was born in Cheshire, and therefore it’s not surprising that one of his most celebrated characters was the Cheshire Cat. The county boasts numerous dairy farms, filling the plains of Cheshire, creating wonderful creams and cheeses. Although the exact origins of the Cheshire Cat are not 100% clear, most locals believe that the abundance of luscious milk and cream ensured that the feline population was blessed with a constant smile. The magnificently mischievous grin of the Cheshire Cat was reproduced across the faces of hundreds, thousands, of domestic pets as their whiskers were constantly coated with cream. The tabbies of Cheshire were more like the tigers of China, purring joyfully as their hunts yielded the liquid treasure. Cats were not the only creatures to hunt the lands of Cheshire and wear excitable grins.

Stonehouse was a social animal. He enjoyed the big game hunting that was available in the salubrious bars of Cheshire. Attractive girls who talked about how much money daddy had made, or how expensive mummy’s latest pair of shoes were, roamed freely and made excellent targets. Stonehouse networked like a god, always finding himself with an invitation to the swankiest party at the polo club or the opening of a new restaurant. If an invitation wasn’t forthcoming, then he’d happily gatecrash an event. Simply asking people the whereabouts of Emma, Sophie, Olivia, or indeed any other posh sounding name, would usually convince someone that he knew the hosts of the affair. Stonehouse was a charmer, a born salesman, and could craft a story to enable doors to be opened, boundaries to be relaxed. He once pretended to be ranked ninth in the UK at tennis, mentioning than he knew Tim Henman who, at the time, was Britain’s leading player. He even namedropped Andre Agassi to get the special attention of one rather gullible girl named Charlotte. New balls please.

Boundaries were malleable, there to be manipulated, twisted, bent to the point of bursting. Stonehouse was not a rule-breaker, just an extreme rule-stretcher. He would not cross the proverbial line, but would lean over it, examine everything that he could feast his eyes upon, and if he liked what he saw, he’d go all out to redefine the lines. But things were different now. The lines had been redrawn for him.

There were no parties any more, no extravagant soirees, in fact rarely any contact with another soul. Dinner guests were now a couple of spiders and half a dozen rats, and the venue was a sewer tunnel rather than a VIP lounge. Stonehouse had become the sheep, the helpless lamb caged in the pen of shadows and darkness. Fortunately he’d acquired a phone, but Stonehouse didn’t use it to make calls in case he could somehow be traced. Instead, he spent hours whiling away his isolated existence playing the card game “Solitaire” which had been preloaded onto the device. But where was the fun? A game should be interactive, played with others. Solitaire was the loneliest of games, a challenge for the single, outcast player. Each victory was hollow and meaningless. Once the initial wave of excitement following a win died down, the player was left alone with nothing. Solitaire was the gaming equivalent of a microwaveable meal for one. Five minutes, a “bing”, followed by instant gratification that was quickly forgotten, leaving the recipient momentarily satisfied but ultimately empty. Culinary masturbation.

Stonehoused craved interaction. Each time that he broke into a warehouse to steal loot he contemplated deliberately running into a guard so that he could at least indulge in some form of communication. Barring a few brief encounters with strangers, the only significant dealings that he’d shared with anyone else were skirmishes with zombies in the Quarantine Zone and fights with the hunters who diligently patrolled the sewer tunnels. Grappling with an undead beast was as intimate as life got nowadays. A gash from a sword’s blade, or a hole given by a rifle’s bullet were, strangely enough, signs that he was still… alive. Stonehouse almost welcomed the injuries that he’d suffered as the pain focussed him. His latest wounds were particularly interesting.

Leaning back onto a faded red couch that was currently offering him comfort in a deserted cafe, Stonehouse removed the black hat that he was wearing. Hats generally didn’t form part of his look, but this evening he had chosen to adorn his head with the accessory in an attempt to add disguise in case anyone recognized him after last night’s escapade. Despite the softness of the sofa, Stonehouse could sense the scratches that had been raked down his back by ravenous razor-sharp fingernails. Peering down towards his tie, and shuffling it aside, Stonehouse popped open a couple of buttons on his crisp, white shirt. His thoughtful eyes gazed at the bite marks that littered his chest, and the trail of teeth scrapes that meandered down his stomach. An uncontrollable grin, wider than the mouth of the river Mersey, spread across Stonehouse’s face like creamy Cheshire butter across a hot, toasted crumpet. Stonehouse was the Cheshire Cat, the cat who got the luxurious cream. He wondered how many boundaries had been destroyed, and just how far he had crossed - leapt over - the line during the crazy adventure of the previous night. Maybe Stonehouse would see the woman again to ask her?