Depraved, Flirtatious, Impulsive, Guileful, Artistic
Aged Vampire (502) | Maker: Biological Father
|※ Natasha refuses to imprison her breasts within a bra (giving her nipples free reign to stare through her blouse no matter how sheer the fabric may be).|
※ She almost regrets getting a chest tattoo because it looks like she has manly chest hair on her driver's license.
※ Despite being a "fearsome creature of the night" Tasha loses her absolute shit around ghosts. All thanks to a nasty poltergeist that tried to burn holes through her body using sterling silver jewelry while she was asleep.
※ She was the best housewife a man could ask for back in the day and can whip up the most droolworthy chicken fried steak in gravy. Only problem is she still insists on cooking—and eating—even though her undead body reacts violently to food and suffers bloody bulimic episodes that turn the nearest bathroom into a crime scene mockup.
※ Daron is one of her favorite progenies*
Natasha has hundreds of diaries and writes
several pages a day. Her diary is her personal
therapist. For some unknown reason these pages
(and more) are missing from their books,
torn out, scattered throughout Index.
- Page #1: This Family is Fucked Up, November 9th, 1989:
- Dear Diary,
Auntie Tia was in surgery last night for 12 hours because she had a number 2 pencil shoved up her ass. I had to sit in the waiting room staring at my ruby nail polish for 12 fucking hours and in crawls this balding janitor with a vomit bucket swinging at his side. He probably thought he was real slick but I could feel his crusty eyeballs on me, could hear him breathing heavy while he stroked his mop across the same tile over and over like he was jacking it off. When I glanced over at him and slipped my shades down my nose his face twisted into a smile that made Ted Bundy look like a saint. Diary, it took everything in me not to go over there and ram that shitty mop up his ass. Men are worthless these days. No, they've always been worthless. Like wasn't that fuck Toni supposed to be watching this chick? How the hell did Aunt Tia end up with a pencil speared up her ass? I don't see any African warriors stomping around the Bronx. Shit. The doc said it was glued to the rim of her anus like fucking cement diary. I asked her what the hell went wrong after I left to buy some lingerie on 5th avenue and let me tell you soon as she popped in her dentures I put my hands up over my ears. Was like hearing a Stephen King read out loud. All I can say is porn and Alzheimer's don't mix. And again, where the fuck is Toni these days? Worthless.
Diary, you're probably thinking Auntie Tia is some white-haired sweetheart who knits cat sweaters and pisses holy water, but no, I'm talking about a 35-year-old chick who stopped aging 700 years ago. Yesterday some stupid hunters lodged a silver bullet in her skull, almost killed her, cracked the back of her head right down the middle. Gave her Alzheimer's. She has to wear dentures until her teeth grow back after being poisoned with silver. Just a mess. Who knows how long until she heals from everything because I'm tired of being the goddamn vampire sitter. A woman can't even spoil herself with sexy clothes these days without comming home to her aunt using a pencil as a dildo. God.
PS I'm gonna kill the fuck who put silver fillings in our pencils
- Page #2: I am Natasha, Ides of March, 1498:
- Year of Our Lord 1498
Father hath said: Grace proceedeth a Hussie in Hand of a Memoire for her Vile Emotions are set to Page rather she acteth upon them. Bringest thou Pages in Honour of This Wit and I shall Bring My Legend: Am I Miss Bruno, of East Wessex, of House Sterlington. Fifteen Years With Our Lord art She. Mine Heritage sooner precedeth Even the Reach of the Holy Gospel, in a Times when our Tongue lie writ in the Saxon Runes, hence wherefore hath this Blood laid Crowns upon their Head and Hung Papal-Rosaries by their Collar in Realms of High Station as hath been Granted of Our Divine Lineage. Be We of such Esteem, what of it? Of All Achievements Great Our Greatest be the Waters of Everlasting Youth runneth in Our Blood. We, Blood of Æthelwulf, Do Bear Fruit when our Cheeks Blush with Youth, and were the Hour of Our Lives doth join its Third Decade we reborn as ᚹᚪᛗᛈᛁᚱᛖ. Our children too reborn thusly, and their children too reborn thusly by the Appointed Hour. Maketh this tradition did Our Great Father, He Who Hath Begat the father of my father of my father of my father of my father of my father of my father of my father of my father and Hath Begat the mother of my mother of my mother of my mother of my mother of my mother of my mother of my mother. Be our Blood share alike in his Countenance hath marriaged bond'd us, for great a Smite upon His Divinity it be to Father a Sire Not of His Make, to let meet his Blood with Lesser Blood, to which I Pity Bastard Sires as the lives of them be dash'd of them in a most heinous of dash'd.
Thou seest now Mine History but seest not the Passage of My Birth. Mother hath said the Occasion of My Birth Bringeth Terror Upon Her Soul. Strike upon a Great Tower did a Streak of God’s Wrath, did an Earthbound Bolt Crush Mighty Stone at the feet of Castle Lancaster, did only the Avalanche of Rubble out-thunder the Cries of Mother, for her Babe hath twist’d as a Snake within the Womb for a Devastating Hour before upon Blood-Drench Velvet had the Babe been Born. I remember not her Green Eyes burst with Joy at sight of her Babe, nor remember I if her oil’d Breast doth heave a Sigh, a Breath of Hope for soon shall she taste the Immortal Fire of the Blood of Our Great Father and suffer never so great evermore. Yet I do remember mine own Emotional Landscape when my Dearest Nicolaus came birth'd of me. His Heart Drummeth Sweeter than a minstrel tune in Mine Embrace. Dearly do I wish to Mother him without Time and hold to my Dearest Bruno with all his charms aglow as a moon-shone lake. Mayest the love of thine family forever be outshone by thy devotion for Christ alone. Amen.
Tasha why you don talk sexxy to me in this fancy shit no more?
GTFO my diary Bruno. I’ll talk to you like an english whore after you pay the goddamn electrical.
- Page #3: A Dashing Performer, June 11th, 1915:
Night of the Bands
I’ll have you know this is but a fine Saturday night. The crescendo of rainfall upon the roof is a pleasing interlude for to-day’s talent. I must admit to riding to to-night’s occasion with the carriage top raised upon my automobile, but if it weren’t for the delicate nature of my hair I would have much enjoyed an evening foray through the mist. Diary I must also inform you enough fresh bodies have packed themselves within the bowels of this bar one could mistake these quarters for a meat market. I find myself quite pleased with the impressive turn out, and this pleasure could only be matched by the talent which has come to attract such crowds. If the crowd loves them, I love them more. Judging by the whistles they surely do.
Of particular interest is one such band, with a Mister Daron Wynyard, who walked off stage not even a moment ago and yet a ghost of his charisma still seems to occupy the room. My mind’s eye still sees him ravishing the strings of his instrument. I still hear that resonant voice rising within me sweet as a freshly poured Pink Lady. I could hardly make of his features in the relaxed lighting, and I must admit to having one too many cocktails, though I did manage the twinkle of his eye—a sharp grey, clear and bright, honed in on the audience as a sunbeam. Little else bothers me greater than an artist who cannot hold a physical connection with his audience, eye contact is crucial, eye contact heralds the beginning and the end of an exchange, and this truth remains evident even while on stage, if not, especially so. It’s what separates a live performance from a rehearsal.
Diary, I pity you for having to bear witness to my every peeve and complaint, but you know not how many fools roll through these parts with an acceptable musical repertoire and the charisma of a foot doctor. There is more to being an artist than simply playing an instru
Blast. Seems I need to slow on my drink.
I’ll cut to the chase: I can probably snatch a pretty penny on this lad. He’ll be given another spot to-morrow night to confirm or disavow my suspicions. To-night could have been a fluke for all I know. Might have downed himself a bottle of liquid courage before venturing on stage. Could be a sniffling mama’s boy off stage for all I darn well now. His band mates could be savages from the street who would rob this bar clean if given a chance. Might send a spy out to follow their whereabouts. Might have to take the chance. I could use some singles right about now to pay down a loan taken against my uncle. That mad man is planning on flipping this joint into an underground distillery if the crackpot progressives ban liquor and I sure as anything can’t have that. No more Pink Ladies. Well at least my favorite drink will always be for sale.
- Page #4: Who Is This Chick?, October 14th, 2016:
- Dear Diary,
I just want to know the name of the chick I’m working for.
Is that asking for too much these days?
I’m going to find out anyways when I report for work. Makes no damn sense. I truly despise these Supremacy vampires. Everything is a goddamn secret with them. I bet the toilet paper these humans wipe their ass with is a secret too. I bet whatever dish washing liquid they have in that—okay that’s not dish washing liquid. Diary, even after four years of a college education I still can’t tell you what the fuck is in that bowl. There is some weird shit happening in this laboratory. It looks like some type of kiddie play-do, flesh colored, wiggling around in that bowl. That’s all I can see from inside this closet. Isn’t a chance in Hell I’m walking out of here. They use live vampires as their test subjects, usually infant vampires who are pretty much disposable, but who knows if they’ll see me as a deadweight and ice me.
Diary, when I was listening to my heels clicking in the hallway I heard some kind of crunch under my pumps, and when I looked down I saw a fucking face splattered on the floor. Who the hell casually drops a face in the hallway? Like who does that? Only a very fucked up organization that’s who. What if my face ends up on the floor next? You see why I’m in this closet diary? I am glad as Hell I’m getting transferred to work in some chick’s lab away from this mess. I only wish I knew what her name was *sigh* Like what am I supposed to say? Hello Boss Lady? Hi lady who the assholes I slave under wouldn’t tell me the name of? If I said Hello Gorgeous you think she’ll slap me? Hopefully on the ass.
I hope she doesn’t throw me in a horrendous lab coat that makes me look like I’m smuggling children from Mexico, or those God-awful eye protectors that get tangled in my hair. God I hate it when my hair gets pulled out from that stupid thing. Half the time I don’t even wear it. Sometimes I’ll even put the lab coat on backwards, with the back open like a hospital gown, and my voluptuous backside on display just because I feel like messing with some moronic human males today. These monkey-brained animals just aren’t wired for multitasking and don’t know how to admire a woman and work at the same time. One of them caught his scraggly beard on fire because he kept glancing over at me instead of
Someone’s calling for me.
- Page #5: I Married a Fucking Moron, April 9th, 2017:
- Dear Diary,
The blundering idiot I married 500 years ago, a certain Bruno Sinclair, found himself a pair of scissors. The same scissors wifey used to trim up a cute haircut on his stupid head the other day—and you know what he fucking did with them? Cut off my hair. Cut it right off in my sleep. Jesus Lord I had beautiful spiral curls splashing down my spine like a blonde waterfall, I looked like a goddamn angel in lingerie, why the fuck would he do such a thing? Not only is he hurting me with this shit but he’s hurting himself when he no longer has a fistful of hair to tug while he’s drilling me from behind. Moron. Men are so fucking stupid, even the dead ones, especially the dead ones. Apparently he’s not man enough to handle our French maid screaming louder than the demons in hell when he comes home from work. He asked me why I never make him scream like that, I said he’s a grown ass man, I don’t want my man screaming like Kim Kardashian on her wedding night. The hell is wrong with this motherfucker.
Diary this man sprays his goddamn cologne all over me before I leave the house like a street cat marking his piss hole on the street. Well I’m sorry Bruno but if you think some fruity fragrance is gonna stop these motherfuckers from coming up to me then your dick needs to grow a mouth since it’s the only head that still works. Hell I would walk up to me. In fact, if I was a goddamn man I would buy a rape van from Carmax and ravish me in the backseat. That’s how it is Bruno. Men are going to fucking look at your wife. Cutting my hair won’t change that either.
Whoever decided to let married people become vampires was a fucking
No it’s not the Great Father’s fault. It’s our fault for trying to squeeze human norms onto an undead body. Wish I knew how the fuck to make this marriage work for the both of us. I’m tired of throwing bombs back and forth like Russian and German soldiers in fucking WW2.
There Diary I’m done.
*(shh, don't tell him that)
NOTE: This is an app for an Aged Vampire. She is 502 years old according to Daron's Journal.