March 2, 2026

Vampires in the Fresh Aire Suite

Any surprise or shock in the story of the torture and death of a rich man in his pool house might have died quickly if his widow hadn’t exposed him as someone who had, “Gotten away with it too many times; he and his procurers. And he expected to get away with it this time… that time. This wasn’t murder, this was survival. I hope Veronica Trueheart Day gets away with it.”

Veronica Trueheart Day. Though she left no DNA evidence to aid in identifying her, there was a note at the scene, a note splattered with the dead man’s blood. The note’s contents were leaked. Quickly. “Him or me. I am 14 years old. Veronica Trueheart Day.” 

There were speeches by politicians, sermons and lectures. There were accusations in the swirling vortex of social media that the authorities who had ignored or downplayed sex trafficking were now going light on trying to find Victoria. Conspiracies and coverups and warnings; podcasts and blogs, memes and t-shirts, unsolicited denials; yet there was no suspect detained, no arraignment, no plea of innocence or guilt, no public trial, no jury findings, no sentence handed down.

“The investigation is ongoing” explanation didn’t work.

The lingering narrative is that the professionals who make a living providing and protecting may have found and disappeared the young woman, Veronica Truelove Day. That a potential threat to a lucrative business could be eliminated is easily believed; privately funded, neat, clean. Expensive? Decidedly so. Any witnesses could be bought off by money or silenced by fear. Any questions as to other customers could remain unanswered. Any underaged girl found dead could be Victoria.

These things happen. Scandals die down. This one didn’t.

The widow said, “My husband’s death carries with it a warning… to others like him. I have money. Some of it was his.” She laughed at this point. “Ironic? Yes. He had secrets. He had friends. I have names. I will get more. I will not be silenced.”

Let’s say this story is fiction. It isn’t.

I should introduce myself. I am the unseen writer; not quite omniscient, not all seeing, I do have a particular vantage point. First Person, witness, third person narrative; chronicler of the true records. I will reveal what I am allowed. I will, as I do, enjoy the process, the story telling.

No, I do not reveal the future. I do not know it. Don’t ask.

I will reveal that Veronica Truelove Day is an alias used by the young woman at least one investigator accused of killing the self-ordained “Oracle of Refi,” Robbie Falstaff. His father, Robinson Grooms Forester, changed his name because Grooms and Forester, in his words, “sounds like I’m some lowly fucking working man.”

The junior Falstaff went by Robbie because “it suggests an approachability. Useful.” Father and son frequently referenced how Falstaff “Has a Shakespearian sort of grandeur.”

Neither Robinson nor Robbie studied the character enough to see what was obvious to others. Both men were fittingly corrupt, vain, unscrupulous, and corpulent connivers who cheated their investors while pillaging a succession of ever larger companies. Success.

Yes, I am enjoying this. All true. Plus, possibly pertinent, Robinson choked to death on a piece of gristle. Quite publicly.

Once Robbie attained a certain level of success and notoriety on his own, he had his body molded into a more enviable, athletic shape. All very expensive, this transformation involved hiring a publicist, working out with notables, and dieting. Drugs, recreational and otherwise; hair, teeth, face; the renovations were ongoing, none of which hid the rot within. If you were looking for the rot or in any way discerning.

No, I didn’t like Robbie, but I am not the final judge.

There are those who defended Robbie ‘fucking ‘(or F’in) Falstaff (a descriptor added quite frequently, one he was quite happy to share) by saying he was somewhat witty, and anyway, his obvious personal insecurity kind of made him seem kind of normal. Sad, even. Sympathetic.

No. Sorry. Forgive me; Robbie was not a hero with a tragic flaw.

Again, my story, my knowledge; just believe. Or don’t. Your opinion does not change the truth. Nor does mine.

The death of Robbie Falstaff in the ‘Fresh Breeze Suite,’ the pool house at the East Coast estate, was recorded by cameras Robbie had installed, digital files and old school videos saved for future enjoyment.  There were other cameras. Multiple angles. Multiple files. Robbie should have expected there might be blackmail; he knew better that to trust the installers. Blackmail might, or might not be, something else on his tab. It would most likely merely be money. Merely money. Scandals evaporate with the right contacts and enough ready cash.

Robbie did not expect to be the one abused in his last session, the last of what he called, “A little fun in the Fresh Aire suite.” He did expect some abuse; he’d offered extra incentives for tickling, slapping, spanking, a bit of light humiliation, some praise, maybe some words suggesting love; but death, his, no, that was certainly not on his list for his mid morning’s entertainment.

The Veronica Truelove Day character knew what was expected of her. Veronica was not her. She was, in her mind, and had to be, someone else, someone better, someone not coerced, or bribed, or forced, or threatened. She performed the role perfectly. To a point.

Murder isn’t always random or done in haste and fear or anger; accidentally killing someone you meant to merely frighten, someone who needed a lesson learned. Some killings are meticulously planned, flawlessly executed.

Once Robbie had been rendered awake-but-immobile (a time-honored tradition turned against him), once the power was cut and all of Robbie’s cameras stopped recording ceased, the killing of Robbie fucking Falstaff began. As planned.

He was lying on his back, naked, other than socks and an undershirt, on the linen sheets. There was so much light streaming in from the sliding doors on the pool side of the room. His hands were on his genitals. His expression suggested he still was expecting something. Something special.

“Happy birthday,” he said. “Legal.” He coughed, smiled, added, “Finally.”

Robbie’s third wife, Antoinette ‘Betsy’ Rocklaven-Falstaff, came into the room. She dropped a plastic duffel bag on the area rug, unzipped it, unfolded a clear plastic throwaway raincoat and set it on the bed. She put on surgical gloves.

The young woman wrapped herself in a white towel and ran to her. They embraced. Close, tight, but only for a moment.

Antoinette pushed the young woman away. She pointed at a black hoody, white tennis shoes, and gray sweatpants on the floor by the bathroom door. She handed her a white garbage bag. “Sunglasses on, scarf and hoody… up. Stuff this inside. Go the way you came in, through the garden, out to the south wall. That camera’s working. We want them to see Veronica.  Change… where we discussed. Don’t run. Walk. Make sure you’re seen at the restaurant. Say you’re waiting for someone. Me. Make a couple of calls. Texts. And… stop crying. I’d have to clean it up. Go!”

“What… what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Betsy,” Robbie said, trying to sit up. “I was, uh…”                                                                                                           

“Yeah, Robbie.”

Antoinette stood, facing the bed, at the open bathroom door as the young woman got dressed. She took the towel when the towel and used it to wipe the edge of the sliding glass door as the young woman departed. She placed it in the laundry carrier, put on a pair of surgical gloves, and picked up one of two large hunting knives on the fireplace mantel.

Betsy placed the knife between Robbie’s legs and pulled him forward. “Just… uh… What?”

If I may interject my personal thoughts on the kind of behavior Robbie was involved in; his and that of others like him; not that his suitors, the ones of legal age who made decisions based on some imagined gain, are in any way immune from judgment; the commonality is the worship of youth, and in particular, youthful innocence.

Where this becomes evil, yes evil, is when longing to be innocent, to be young, twists and devolves into the desire to spoil innocence; convincing yourself that stealing, ruining, killing someone else’s innocence can somehow lessen your, you as the perpetrator, your guilt. No. Innocence cannot be shared. Doesn’t happen. Youth cannot be restored.  Pedophiles and Vampires; all are monsters who die knowing their hearts are irreparably blackened, their souls are irredeemable. Lost.

Robbie fucking Falstaff knew this before he slurred out his last words. If you care, they were, “She reminded me of… you.”

The last words Robbie heard were, “No. Someone else. Not me. There were… other girls. I knew that. You, you had to have my daughter.”

…

No details.

Antoinette did look at her reflection in the mirrored closet doors. That’s the image I remember. She patted her neck, just under her chin, with her left hand, turned toward her husband, and asked, “What do ya think, Robinson?”

February 22, 2026

                                    The Long Game

Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.

We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.

God plays the long game.

Success begets success, Power attracts power.

Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults and Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.

God plays the long game.

Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.

God plays the long game.

Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved. reclaimed, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true.

We know this is not true.

We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.

We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, We do not recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits.

We fear all others.

We have to.

They want what we have.

Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.

We cannot play the long game.

We haven’t the time.

February 16, 2026

HAIKU FIVE SEVEN FIVE

HAIKU (5) Three People Smiling

You didn’t believe- His obvious deception- The proof was your smile

Your smile said enough- Easy tears had all fallen- Tracks, faint scars, remained

I thought you might crack- Most things broken stay broken- He shouldn’t have lied

My friend looked at me- As if I might just save him- I gave him your smile

He didn’t believe- My obvious deception- The proof was his smile

HAIKU (7) Invulnerable

Goodbye and goodbye- Why’d you ask me that question- You knew I would lie

A beautiful cat- On the side of the highway- I could pull over

You know this is true- Your heart is breaking your heart- And yet you persist

You’re not so fragile- Your tears held for the moment- When they won’t be seen

You just had to know- If we’re equally damaged- I’ve bounced and I’ve rolled

I try not to panic- We both smile through disaster- I’m panicked inside

You knew I’d return- You were out in the driveway- I brought you a cat

HAIKU (5) While We Can

Cold intuition- All your skills at perception-Deciphered my soul

Perhaps it’s not hard- I’m transparent, like water- Flowing clean through rocks

Cannot run faster- The horizon’s not moving- We feel every step

We hold tight to life- Life has weakened our fingers- Worn down our resolve

Cold meditation- Memory struggles with hope- We move while we can

Because You Know

If love is a spell- If we’re caught in love’s shadow- Don’t wake me up yet   

                  THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FLYING AND FALLING is the difference between landing and crashing. You cannot fall up, even in dreams, even in those dreams in which, as if you are wind, you soar to the boundaries of heaven, gliding and swooping, your view of the world from the divine perspective, flattened mountains and patchwork plains, shining cities and glistening water, distant and beautiful.

Or… or, or or you see rocks and concrete, the dark ground coming up to you, too quickly, and the easy breaths are gone, held, ready for a last scream before you wake up or parish.

You might as well look up.