It woz a woman wot brought the crew tagether, ya know, and it woz a woman wot tore it apart. The first one's name woz .... well, can't says I even remembers now ... if I e'er knew it at all. She woz perty, though, that I recall right well! Blonde, a course. Wif skin the color a fresh cream — I knew wot that looked like once, back when there woz such a ffin' and I 'elped milk the cows fer it, back afore there woz chemicals in e'ryffin'. Chemicals in the water, chemicals in the cartons and the jars and the cans. Even chemicals in the bottled blood 'ey serve down at the Raven ta keep it from lumpin' up. I don't know 'ow 'ey stand that stuff. Gor, it's disgustin'! Can't even tell it's 'uman no more — least ways, I can't — so wot's the point? Gets yer blood from the source, that's wot I says. Takes wot's easy ta catch and won't be missed then no one'll bother ya! Rats — that's the ticket. Ain't no place in this great, round world wot doesn't 'ave rats a some sort in plenty. 'Umans on the other 'and, well, there're too few wot won't be missed sooner or later. Ain't easy bein' a vampire these days, in the days a Big Brother and the mighty Internet — can't make a bloody move wiffout 'avin' it broadcast all o'er the "Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World Wide Web." Not that it woz e'er easy bein' a vampire. No. And it's the fool wot'll tell ya otherwise. A different time — a very different time — wif different problems, but problems just the same.

People used ta believe in us, ya know — vampires. Used ta ffink we woz the Devil's workers — but me, I don't work fer nobody ... well, not anymores. A course I did when I woz mortal. 'Ad ta. E'ryone did. Gotta do yer share ta grow wot ya need ta eat. And there woz always those wot thought 'ey 'ad more right ta yer life 'an ya did, just cause ya wozn't some bloody relative a the gor-damn king. Took me right off the street, 'ey did. Wozn't doin' nuffin' 'cept barterin' some cheese wif the ale-maker. Afore I knew wot 'it me, I woz bagged and dragged onta a ship and put out ta sea. Couldn't even swim back then — most a us couldn't — and 'ow do ya ffink I felt bein' so far from shore that I couldn't even see it no more, wif no 'ope a escape? Perty dern pissed, I'll tell ya! But all it takes is one good keel-'aulin' of a matey-captive ta set ya right in line. Eight years I spent on that ship. Eight years a sun burns, rope burns, and powder burns. Eight years a shinnyin' up masts and across yardarms. All in the name a 'Is Royal Majesty, King a England, wot didn't care a bloody pimple if I e'er saws me mum and dad agin. A course, when it all came right down ta it, I still 'ad ta work just as 'ard fer the same miserably small portions a food, and I still 'ad ta answer ta someone wot thought 'e knew better 'an me. So, do I really care now? Naw. Wot's the point? Got ta be a vampire in the end, which ain't such a bad ffin' ta be. Not like I done anyffin' in me mortal life which would a gotten me inta 'Eaven anyways. This ways, purgatory can just bloody-well wait fer eternity afore it gets its 'ands on me. Ha!

Not that I'm afraid ta die — 'aven't really thought about it much, actually. Not like some. Not like some wot'll do anyffin' ta keep 'emselves alive — no matter wot it costs anyone. That woz this perty lil' MarySue wot tried ta drag me inta her mess — me, wot she didn't know from Adam. Tried ta gets me all sympathetic ta 'er plight. She didn't know wot I woz, a course. 'Ad no idea, 'cause if she 'ad she would a been askin' fer more 'an she did. Ya find those types e'ry now and agin — the ones wot actually wanna be vampires, wot says that 'ey've thought it thru and know wot 'ey're gettin' inta. Trust me, 'ey don't. And — if 'ey even make it past the initial fang-bangin' — it's rare that 'ey last out a year. Annoyin' lot, 'ey are, and I can't says that I'm sorry fer a single one a 'em — got wot 'ey deserved, in me 'umble opinion.

Anyways, so she tries ta gets me ta 'elp 'er out, right? "Please, sir" — she called me 'sir,'  she did, and that woz the first ffin' wot tipped me off — "please, ya 'ave ta 'elp me!"

"I don't 'ave ta do anyffin'," I told 'er and kept right on walkin'. Didn't even look back until I saws 'im: Vachon. 'E woz walkin' the other way, comin' towards me ... and 'er. I knew 'e woz a gonner — 'ad "bleedin'-'art sucker" written all o'er 'is perty face. But wot did I care? Not like 'e e'er done me no favors, right? So, I watched as she pleaded wif 'im, took 'is arm, smiled up inta 'is face wif that pitiable look women gets when 'ey're leadin' ya straight down the path and inta the flames a 'Ell. And off 'ey went.

Didn't ffink twice about it after that. 'Ad me own life ta worry about: ffin's ta do, people ta lighten, rats ta nibble on.... But, then I 'eard it: a commotion, like. Don't know why I stopped. Don't know why I turned 'round or went back ta be nosey. Ain't like it's a 'abit a mine or nuffin'. But there 'ey woz: the girlie-girl wif blood runnin' down 'er lily-white neck, Vachon layin' across 'er wif a scrap a wood thru 'is shoulder, and 'er pimp wif a really pissed look on 'is face and a big f'n knife at Vachon's throat. Wot could I do, I ask ya? Wot? Turn me back? Or not, and watch that whale flay the poor guy? Well, I could a. Probably should a. Would a, actually, if I 'ad known about the damned Inca back then. But I didn't. Nope. I saved 'is skinny Spanish arse, and we've been like this  e'er since.

Go figure. Me and Vachon. Like two peas in a piss-pot. 'Ad some good times, that we did. Right good times. Mates. Compadres, as 'e's want ta say. Like broffers, 'cept we actually like each other when we don't 'ave ta. Bourbon complicated ffin's when he showed up. The Three Musketeers we wozn't. 'E ne'er did exactly approve a me taste in meals. Thought 'e woz above me, just 'cause 'e'd been a royal soldier ta da King a France — like I 'adn't done me time under Fat 'Enry 'undreds a years afore 'e woz even born. And Vachon woz no better — just a foot soldier 'imself, sent off ta some gor-forsaken country ta gets slaughtered by the natives — but Bourbon ne'er seemed ta see it that way. Don't know quite wot it woz about those two, as Bourbon ne'er liked ta be told wot ta do, yet 'e let Vachon lord o'er 'im when the mood struck. 'Passive aggressive' 'ey call it these days, I ffink — gotta label e'ryffin', 'ey do. (And legend says vampires are obsessive-compulsive. Ha!) But there we woz: two points short a pentagram and masters a our own destiny.

Then came Ursie. Blonde, a course. And perty! And Vachon brought 'er across, like the besotted lil' puppy-dog 'e is. Gettin' 'is knickers, and ours, in a bind 'cause 'e couldn't keep 'is fangs ta 'isself. Deceptive that one is, Vachon. Quiet — ya know? — like 'e's deep in thought. But 'e's not. 'E's deep in emotion. Can't pull 'isself outta the whirlpool long enough ta gets 'is 'ead screwed on straight and ffink ffin's thru.

She woz trouble right from the start. I knew it. 'Eld 'is attention just a wee bit too long, sparked that odd chivalrous streak in 'im, which I've ne'er quite been able ta bleed out. The 'elpless female ... wot ain't, 'cause she wraps ya round 'er lil' finger as she's wormin' 'er way inta yer 'art. The long-lost, childhood sweet'art. The lil' sister ya ne'er 'ad. The mother wot comforted ya and luved ya no matter wot as she tried ta reshape the way ya woz growin' up. The one wot gets ya ta do exactly wot she wants ya ta do by makin' ya ffink it woz yer idea. The only problem wif Ursie woz she ne'er realized that it woz 'er  idea. Any a 'em — startin' wif not dyin' that night, not steppin' inta the light. It woz 'er choice — same as it woz ours in our turn — but there's no convincin' 'er a that. Ne'er 'as been, ne'er will be. Vachon, like the deeply-shallow 'ero-type that 'e is, ne'er noticed, but I did. An' so did Bourbon. Ursie didn't wanna die. She wanted 'er childhood back. She wanted someone ta takes care a 'er like 'er daddy woz ne'er round ta do. Ta hug 'er, and luv 'er, and buy 'er ffin's. Ta make the 'ard decisions so she wouldn't 'ave ta be responsible fer 'er own fate.

And, let me tell ya, does Vachon e'er make a lousy first impression. If 'e didn't she would a realized 'ow flighty 'e really woz. Runnin' from the Inca woz just an excuse. I figured that out right quick. Sure, the dude woz out ta gets 'im; 'ey 'ad a few close calls o'er the years, a few run-ins. But that woz all 'ey e'er amounted ta. A big, bloody siblin' rivalry, wif neither willin' ta be the first ta make amends. Wot's a stake 'ere or there among brothers anyway, eh? Amazin'ly bad luck those lads 'ad o'er the years as far as that went — near-on five 'undred years — and one ne'er managed ta gets the jump on the other? I don't buy it. One a 'em would a killed the other long afore this if 'ey really wanted ta. Nope. Vachon's bad luck woz just an excuse ta skip town. It woz 'is own personal, lil' power-trip: keep us afraid a the dreaded Inca — oooh! — and we'd follow 'im anywheres, do wote'er 'e said. Until Ursie came along. Perty, blonde Ursie, wif a voice that could charm a snake ... or shatter glass.

"But Javi-aye," she'd chortle. "I like it here. Can't we stay a little longer? Please?" Then she'd do that ffin' wif 'er fingers in 'is 'air and it would be all o'er. Good-bye 'art, good-bye common sense, good-bye coherent speech. A course, it ne'er worked on me — got no 'air fer 'er ta tangle wif. Ha! But, Bourbon ... 'e 'ad 'air. Oh, I don't ffink she did it on purpose — that she in any ways 'ad 'er motives all neatly pressed — but she did it just the same. 'E wanted 'er from the beginnin'. We knew this — all a us. Bourbon always wanted the ones 'e couldn't 'ave, the girls wot fell effortlessly, and very willin'ly, inta Vachon's waitin' arms. Bourbon, though dashin' in 'is time, always lacked that someffin' which just seemed ta infuse Vachon. There woz so many eras Frenchie 'ad trouble blendin' inta, but ne'er Vachon. There wasn't a time when 'e couldn't find a way ta meld inta wote'er layer a society 'e chose: the ruffles a the 1600s, the tricorne hats a the 1700s, the frock coats a the 1800s, and the denims a the 1900s. I'd a envied 'im, if I'd cared about that sort a ffin'. Bourbon cared — and Bourbon envied — long and 'ard, until one night 'e just took 'er, the only ffin' 'e could take that was Vachon's.

Ursie screamed so loud I thought she'd brin' the roof down on us. She could a fought 'im — as a vampire she 'ad more 'an enough strength — but she didn't. She let Vachon run roughshod ta 'er rescue. 'Er knight in shinin' armor, 'er 'ero, 'er luv. Only problem woz, 'e didn't luv 'er back. Cared about 'er, sure. Would protect 'er wiff 'is life, certainly, but then 'e'd do that fer any a us — even Bourbon. Ursie thought she'd finally snagged 'im that night, after Vachon kicked Bourbon out on 'is arse — alive, but a bit worse fer wear — but she 'adn't. She'd come between Vachonetti and a friend 'e'd 'ad fer almost two 'undred years; even if 'e couldn't put it in so many words, even if 'e could ne'er bring 'isself ta actually blame 'er, 'e still knew.

Then we skipped town — the first time e'er that the age-old excuse a the Inca 'adn't been used — and came ta Taron-to. Then 'e said it, finally, like it woz actually 'is decision, that we wozn't gonna run as a crew no mores. I took the news just fine. I knew wot it meant. Meant that Vachon needed a lil' time, wanted ta be alone fer awhile. Meant that we woz still friends and that 'e'd be 'round, which woz fine and dandy wiff me — didn't change ffin's much where I woz concerned. But Ursie — poor, sweet, unintentionally-calculatin' Ursie-lamb — didn't understand. From 'er point a view, she'd lost 'im — she 'adn't, cause she ne'er 'ad 'im ta begin wif.

She boo 'oo'd 'er lil' green peepers out on me shoulder fer weeks, and I let 'er. Not that it did either a h'us any good, but 'ow could ya not feel sorry fer 'er? And then one cold Toron-tippy-toe winter night 'e showed up on 'er doorstep. 'E woz lonely, and she obliged, a course. Ffinks she's got a chance wif 'im now, she does. Ffinks ffin's might change, that 'ey might stay 'ere fer awhile all cozy-like. But I knows better. Vachon's been gettin' restless agin. It's been too long since we 'ad a change a scenery. Same old, same old. No excitement 'ere in picture-postcard-perfect Bore-onto: no fights fer 'im ta gets mixed up in: no perty girls ta rescue. Just a bar downtown wif vampire-wannabes and a ice-queen owner wot won't give the old V-man the time a day.

If 'e wozn't so torn up about Bourbon, I ffink 'e would a gotten 'is arse in gear a long time ago. Wonder where 'e'll 'ead off ta this time? Don't matter. Ursie might care — she'll probably go right on after 'im once 'e gets settled — but me? I ffink I'm gonna 'ead off ta Vegas fer awhile, just as soon as I can scraped enough coin tagether ta make it worth me while. It's truly amazin' ta me the quality goods people leave lyin' about — and wot am I ta turn down a lil' bit a loony at the swap meet, eh?