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The glorified podium in the downtown Irish bar was hardly the Pyramid Stage at the Glastonbury Festival, or the main stage at Download, and trying to work the audience into a frenzy by shouting “Scream for me, Lancaster’s” was unlikely to evoke the same response as Bruce Dickinson yelling “Scream for me, Donington”. However, the wooden floor, with its tell-tale signs of previously acquired beer stains, was Grant Stonehouse’s rostrum from where he could reinvent himself. All the world’s a stage, according to William Shakespear in “As You Like It”, and for a few minutes at least, the world of the former businessman from England was held captive by the spotlights of the auction stage. Worryingly enough, The Bard also wrote in “King Lear” that: “when we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools”. Following his rebirth as a vampire, Stonehouse wondered how foolish he’d been by thrusting himself into the limelight and offering himself up as a lot in an auction. There was a distinct chance that the ultra confident Stonehouse might buckle under the weight of the sensory emotions that were pilling up in his head like Friday afternoon traffic prior to a bank holiday weekend. This was a genuine test of his mental strength, but his self-belief, verging on arrogance, would surely drag him through the mire. This shadowy creation of his former self needed to stop wandering around like a nomad in the sewers and rejoin civilization.

Spotlights were curious inventions. Although they illuminated their target, in this case the 6’2” smartly dressed man standing proudly in the centre of Lancaster’s auction stage, they often hindered the sightseeing skills of the recipient. As Stonehouse was introduced to the bidding crowd as the final lot of the evening, he found it rather difficult to see the faces of those vying for his services. There was a man near the back of the bar, but through the glare of the lights, Stonehouse found it difficult to focus on his face. Two women commenced upon a mini bidding war, one of whom looked vaguely familiar from brief encounters in the sewers. The other, for now, remained a mystery, despite the fact that she’d already taken centre stage earlier in the evening.

Of course there was another bidder, the one who would trump the others with her bid of fifty thousand dollars and secure victory in the auction stakes. Again, the lighting rig helped to preserve her masquerade to a degree, but some of her features, such as her luscious red lips, shone through like beacons in fog. Initially, it wasn’t her physical appearance that cut through the haze of the lights like a surgeon’s scalpel through the skin of their patient, it was her voice, more specifically her words. The woman’s delivery was icy cold, with huge overtones of sarcasm as she spoke, referring to Stonehouse’s “daddy issues” and how “we can help you work” on said issues. Stonehouse did his best to not respond to her strange comment, biting his tongue as a massive internal grin swept across his chiselled face like a Saharan sandstorm. What monumental irony that someone who had just bid fifty thousand dollars for the services of a man would be questioning his paternal relationship. The use of “we” also amused Stonehouse. People who thought of themselves as “we” rather than “I” usually had their heads – in this case a particularly pretty one – shoved up their own arses. Perhaps this was going to be more fun that Stonehouse had initially envisaged?

After acknowledging the hostess, Pi, and thanking her for her sterling work during the event, Stonehouse walked, casually, in the direction of his “owner”. Who was this mystery bidder, so desperate to acquire his services that she had more than doubled the previous bid to ensure her victory? Stonehouse mulled over her words and the tone of her voice as he slowly approached the blonde woman. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, something irritating Stonehouse like an annoying itch that couldn’t be scratched. With only a few words, this intriguing woman had managed to get under Stonehouse’s skin like a tic, burrowing into him. There was a bizarre familiarity about her, yet he’d never met her before.

Irritation was quickly replaced by infatuation as Stonehouse reached the table at which the woman was seated. She was beautiful, with a face that ought to have been advertising Moet & Chandon Champagne on a giant billboard poster in St. Mark’s Square, Venice, or a TV campaign for the latest fragrance from Dolce & Gabbana. She was motionless as he drew near, and remained so as Stonehouse stretched out a welcoming hand, hoping to make a good first impression. “Good evening,” he said politely, in a softly spoken northern English accent, deliberately toning down any exaggerated dialect. “My name is Grant. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I believe that you won, congratulations!”

Of course she won… she clearly wanted to win. The question that Stonehouse had burning through his brain like a raging forest fire, was why?

According to the mother of Forrest Gump, the fictitious film fool, “life was like a box of chocolates”, because apparently “you never know what you’re gonna get.” Naming a film after its chief protagonist, in this case Forrest Gump, was such a lazy thing to do, and Grant Stonehouse was sure that a cinematic adaptation of his life would be called something more exciting than simply his name, such as “The Master”, but that wasn’t his main gripe with the Oscar winning movie, and possibly its most famous quotable line. Forrest may have been a lovable simpleton, but his mother was clearly a ******* idiot. When choosing a chocolate from a box or shiny tin, you do know what you’re going to get because it always tells you on the box. There will be a chocolate chart, a mini menu for each tasty treat giving delicious descriptions of the sugary surprises. Where was the mystery? Where was the “you never know what you’re gonna get” factor? If the packaging showed a chocolate wrapped in purple foil, and the accompanying notes explained that this particular taste sensation contained a hazelnut, swimming in a luxurious lake of dreamy caramel, encased in a creamy milk chocolate shell, then it was pretty obvious what you were about to pop into your eagerly awaiting mouth. Unfortunately for an increasingly intrigued Stonehouse, the woman with the movie star looks who was holding his strong hand in a rather elongated and firm manner, didn’t come with tasting notes, but he was looking forward to unwrapping her and revealing what lay hidden inside.

Just who was this femme fatale? She certainly seemed to have the upper hand, knowing more about him than he knew about her. Was that why she had placed a huge bid on him like a bolt from the blue, did she have some secret information? For a strange, currently unknown reason, the blonde wanted him, wanted him enough to spend $50,000. Stonehouse possessed a methodical, scientific brain, and right now it was working overtime, attempting to solve the puzzle presented before him. The Hollywood heroine holding his hand, with her hourglass figure, husky voice and hypnotic eyes, was like a Rubik’s Cube, being mentally manipulated by Stonehouse as he twisted and turned her words and actions in his mind, trying to conquer the conundrum. The curious Englishman couldn’t place her country of origin; perhaps somewhere Mediterranean judging by her appearance - one that the girls back home in Manchester would, ironically enough, die for. Maybe she’d sold her soul to Satan to have a face and figure like that? By the tone of her voice and her general demeanour, Stonehouse could easily have been mistaken for thinking that the auction winner had traded in her manners and charisma for eternal youth and beauty. He was tempted to press forward with his Mediterranean assumption and kiss her on both cheeks like a flamboyant Italian. However, Stonehouse wasn’t sure if she would accept his greeting with open arms, dancing with him in the Trevi Fountain like Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg, or whether she would hurl him to the lions in the Colosseum.

Then it hit him like a concrete breezeblock in the face. If the alluring auctioneer was a poker player, then she may well have noticed Stonehouse’s tell jumping into life like a champion greyhound being released from its starter trap. His pupils dilated abruptly as the fingers in his mind slotted the squares of the Rubik’s Cube grid into place. A mental mish-mash of confused colours suddenly became uniform patterns of clarity as the woman’s rather curt words and brusque phrases set peal upon peal of bells ringing in his head, like a wedding ceremony on Christmas morning. Stonehouse did know this woman!

An extremely kind and caring human had helped to enlighten Stonehouse, filling in a few of the gapping chasms that had arisen when he initially found himself in Harper Rock, alone, confused… a freshly turned vampire. Stonehouse had uncovered that he was part of a clan - some kind of vampire family called Docere - and had subsequently attempted to make contact with his brethren though a messaging board on the internet. One annoying individual goaded Stonehouse, attempting to wind him up with her pathetic attempts at wit and banter. Stonehouse had labelled her “Mary Poppins” as she clearly had the ridiculous arrogance to believe that she was practically perfect in every way. However, when Stonehouse had invited her to put her money where her mouth was and meet up, she shirked the challenge. All talk, no action: typical of the keyboard commando type, hiding behind the computer screen, unable to go face to face for fear of utter humiliation. Yet here she was, quite literally putting her money where her mouth was, paying for the privilege of their “hot date”, about which Stonehouse had repeatedly teased her online. The highly confident businessman grinned internally like the Cheshire Cat after unlocking the door to the cream factory. She couldn’t resist him, curiosity had got the better of the pussycat standing inches away from him, and he was going to constantly remind her of that fact, rub it in, but not like salt into an open wound, no, Stonehouse had a far better plan. He was going to melt all the proverbial chocolates in Forrest Gump’s mother’s chocolate box and rub the sweetness all over her, giving her exactly the opposite of the abrasiveness that she would probably expect. But not just yet. Not until he gave her a warning shot across her bows. The champion greyhound needed to chase the rabbit.

Stonehouse leaned forward, lowering his eyes to the same level as her dark, glistening orbs, ensuring that their hands remained clasped together in their overdrawn greeting. “So you can’t promise that my groin will be in good condition when we’re done?” asked Stonehouse, a mischievous grin sneaking across his chiselled face. “I can’t promise that your groin won’t take a pounding either, but I’ll try to be gentle. I’m surprised that someone as attractive as you would need to pay, especially as you have the personality to match.”

An eyebrow was raised ever so slightly across Stonehouse’s forehead as the droll sarcasm left his lips. He knew full well that the woman was referring to shooting him, nothing more… interesting, but why not play with her words and have a little fun? The way that the mysterious woman had spoken over the message board, and the fact that she tossed off $50,000 at the drop of a hat without even blinking, lead Stonehouse to presume that she was an older, more experienced member of the vampire community, in which case the femme fatale could probably snap him in two by clicking her slender fingers. There was a real chance that he might find himself sprayed across the streets of Harper Rock like an inglorious work of graffiti, but he was prepared to go along for the thrill ride.

Stonehouse gazed deeply into her sparking eyes. “I’m not sure what the sodomy laws are like in Ontario,” he said, trying his best to maintain a deadpan delivery to his words, “but I’d say that there was a fair chance of you being arrested if you keep your head so far up your own arse.”

A smile broke out across his face like the warming sun rising in the eastern sky. “Perhaps we should go and discuss what you’d like to do with me before the cops turn up and throw you in jail?”

There was a glint in Stonehouse’s eye as he placed a hand gently on the woman’s hip and leaned even closer, losing eye contact as the pair almost became cheek to cheek with one another. He whispered softly into her ear, preparing himself for a swift knee to be planted between his thighs. “About the groin thing, I hear that a little bit of melted chocolate would add to the experience,” Stonehouse paused for effect, then continued, “after all, a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, doesn’t it… Mary Poppins.”

The labyrinth of life has many twists and turns, forks in the road bearing north or south, crossroads with multiple directions, or a simple left or right decision whilst walking along a corridor. Options are a great thing. They lend themselves to the idea of free will, to choice. Although the notion of destiny is often romanticized into some kind of magically fated pathway, it is actually an incredibly restrictive concept, a concept that says that one’s life is mapped out already, that each decision has been predetermined. Whatever one chooses, the outcome is preordained. So it shall be written, so it shall be done.

Grant Stonehouse was a free thinker. He liked to make informed decisions based on facts, evidence, and references, rather than gossip, hearsay, or a crazy whim. Stonehow needed to be the master of his own destiny, not a fool of fate. Although he completely trusted his gut instinct, due to his gut being fundamentally controlled by his brain, the control freak would much rather listen to the rational thoughts of his mind than the rumblings of his stomach. God forbid the emotional snowman should ever follow an unsubstantiated urge from his heart! That would surely cause Mr Frosty to melt into a pool of liquid nonsense.

Was it strange, then, that the oracle of organization had relinquished the reins and allowed himself to be put up for auction like a stallion at a county show? It was, indeed, uncharacteristic of the normally unflappable leader to effectively allow somebody else to take charge, but that was part of the fun, and was, in many ways, the ultimate irony of the whole situation. Stonehouse had chosen to get up on stage and parade around like a prize pony, he had chosen to sell himself to the highest bidder, he had chosen to permit a random stranger the pleasure of owning him for a few days. In essence, by choosing to allow such a chain of events to occur, he was still in control.

It would be a lie of mythical proportions to say that Stonehouse wasn’t incredibly happy about the outcome of his auction. Of all the “random” participants who could have placed a bid, it simply had to be the confrontational woman from the family message board, Mary Poppins, who was triumphant. Stonehouse’s epic ego dictated that the Mediterranean beauty had acquired his services because she wanted him, wanted him badly. However, it was crystal clear from their brief interaction that there was so much more than meets the eye about the vociferous victor. Nothing would to be taken for granted with this intriguing vixen, although Grant was certainly planning on taking something from the forthcoming escapade.

Despite being the boss, having put her money where her attractive mouth was, the woman had offered Stonehouse a choice, and an interesting one at that: your place or mine? It was an age-old dilemma, like debating between serving red or white wine with pork, but one which could have much more entertaining consequences. Ego aside, Stonehouse knew that the femme fatale had not simply thrown out the line like a drunken office worker at the end of the Christmas party. It was certainly not that kind of invitation. He was sure that it was said with a purpose, whether to arouse his interests and lure him into her trap like a fly into a spider’s web where she could toy with him at her wicked leisure, or simply to confuse him. Either way, Stonehouse was delighted to play her game and enter into her mysterious maze. The elegant creature standing dangerously close to him, allowing her captivating scent to sensually infuse into his nostrils, was the Mediterranean Minotaur from the island of Crete, while the tall, handsome Englishman was the hero, Theseus. The adventure was about to begin.

“I’m so very tempted to say my place,” replied Stonehouse, allowing a few seconds to pass after her questions had been asked, giving him further opportunity to soak up her alluring essence, “because my family silver could really do with a thorough polishing, and I imagine that you would look fantastic in a French maid’s outfit. You can be rough or gentle with my silverware; whatever takes your fancy. I’m sure that it’ll come up sparkling whatever you do.”

He allowed a wry smile to ease its way across his face, one eyebrow raised as he tilted his head ever so slightly to the right. Oh, this was going to be fun, perhaps even worth taking a bullet or two in the groin, thought Stonehouse before continuing his reply.

“Then again,” he added, almost apologetically, “I unfortunately didn’t win any bidding war. It was you who was so desperate to buy me, for whatever reason, so I guess that puts you in complete control. So let’s go to your place.”

In many ways it was the obvious choice to make. If Stonehouse were truly going to play the role of the heroic Theseus, then he would have to enter the maze of the mighty Minotaur and confront the beautiful beast on her terms. Stonehouse was still a scientist at heart, and this experiment was undoubtedly going to be one of his favourites, with the labyrinth the laboratory. Offering his left arm to his new, temporary mistress like the gentleman that he was, he signalled his attentions.

“Shall we leave, Mary?” said Stonehouse, still referring to the woman as Mary Poppins as he had not yet uncovered her name. “I’m sure that you have your flying umbrellas lined up outside.”

Offering another mischievous grin to his new companion, Stonehouse was about to wait for the inevitable witty repost, but instead elected to throw a grenade into the mix.

“May I say how stunning you look,” he said softly, his dark eyes not leaving the channel that lead directly to her own, sumptuous globes, hoping to capture her, even for just a split second. “Thank you for placing your bid.”