#lestat.

❝Don’t be frightened, Pêche.❞

Alphabetically, it’s the: deathversary, he whose name nor his accomplice’s may never enter the bloodstream of this memory with Hara in the low light silhouetting it. One tear for each cast member.

Twenty-five years to the day—another Mardi Gras. The fatter the Tuesday, the worse the hangover.

It’s, equally, knowing he deserved the gift. He doesn’t believe the three of them’d had a family portrait made once.

❝I have a condition.❞

-- Elle pourrait survivre grâce à lui seul ? Alors... sans lui ? Laisse-lui le tester. It’s a must that he does now.

How she cums—if, in fact, she does—he won’t tell. Nor which window he takes out of her palace after. The next night and the next, his hand smells iron-hot of her cunt.

Does she think of him? Does she die nightly wanting and woeing and bothered, where could he be? Inside who.

His hunts’ uptick does a thing subconsciously shapely to the local bacteria. None the privier to disappeared locals, and still, dear Barbara’s anchorwoman button-up unbuttons down strumpetly; Mike Douglas starts sitting with his balls to the viewer in pre-recordings!; babymaking is in again.

And Lestat, he obsesses. The summer tightens like so in just five days.

Earth continues its meaningless sedate twirl up until Une Ravissante Idiote holds its twice-pushed-back première to accommodate everyone’s seasonal allergies. The carpet lolls out its furry tongue, cutting even corners with precise geometry.

Tragically, Hara’s leading man is a no-show. Oh, no. What a very icky surprise.

With her one calf, candy-smooth, out of the limousine, with the dress slit at the height of her sat-down thigh, he can’t afford to blink against the camera flash blitz of typewriter snaps.

❝Are you supposed to be the idiot?❞

And the bullseye to which Claudia pins that shrug, of course, is the fattest glazed donut of status of the night, mustached from his perusals of the chocolate fountain; drain-necked from Claudia’s of him.

❝That’s the mayor.❞

Stay: the scruff of her dress chokes her back at a stammer like a wicked idiot wind-up toy.

Were he a mother, he’d smother her in kisses. For the journey. The ribbons of pain slid into the girlish braids she’s been told to sit still for by Louis. And what was it Louis said after? Oh, well?

He knuckles along the sacred space of secrets by her pear-shaped earring, coiling her forelock into an intimate complement to his ring. He yanks to the root. A Magnus anger has him.

Lestat taps the thought microphone, fingering Says the guest to the guest between the pink folds of Rashid’s brain.

Rubbing the remaining cells, as it were, for a spark. Surely it’ll come. Just one.

❝The view is exquisite.❞