Pythonmelon (Comms open)

@pythonmelon.bsky.social

449 Followers 189 Following

Victor Bell- Author, artist, and chef developing cookbooks, novels, and games. Natural science, animation, monster, and horror enthusiast- they/it, 28 https://pythonmelon.neocities.org/

"How about not giving it away, then." Nostriano leaned further in. Spirits may not have been as bad as fae, but they were still tricky things that loved their rules. This one, sitting on his little for-sale hoard of shiny things like a bird, clearly enjoyed trinkets too. He seemed to have piqued Rook's attention, watching that head tilt again. The vampire plucked at a small, ornate garnet nosegay brooch on his shirt's breast pocket, presenting it with a careful turn to catch the light. "This was my grandmother's. It’s a genuine antique, pre-1900. It's yours if you give me the name of who bought those daggers."
If he didn’t recall where he was born, it made sense that he might not remember his exact age either. She closed her eyes, breathing out long and deep. “I’m sorry to ask, I know I shouldn’t pry. If it’s any consolation, you don’t sound ugly.” Not like a demon, anyway. He was very softspoken. “What does ugly sound like, Miss Ethel?” She paused for a long moment, staring up at the wall before giving a stilted, embarrassed shrug. “I don’t suppose I know.” “I’ll take the compliment either way, say thankya.”
He turned back to the lieutenant, getting a very unimpressed look back. “None of the fingerprints we’ve found are human. Something close, but not human.” “How’s that aberration hunt going, boss?” Tyson leaned back in his chair, watching Ned scowl deeper. “For all I know, a harpy crashed through the window on a bad lucy trip, freaked out, and got back out.” “No feathers.”
Nostriano found his next meal in a squirrel, snatching it off the porch railing with a single swift leap from the doorway. Sharp fangs pierced the creature's furry underbelly, drawing bitter, gamey blood as it writhed. The vampire grimaced even as he drank, twisting its lifeless body like a dishrag between his hands to force out more of that life-giving essence. It was meager and unsatisfying for a creature meant to kill and feed on much larger, much more human prey.
“Remember when he first turned up? What was that, ‘85?" Darcy shrugged, leaning against the doorway, fiddling with and unwrapping a sucker as Muriel loosened up from his self-allotted outburst. The giant took a deep, measured breath and fixed his hair. A few silvery flyaways remained, floating off of the huge mass of thick silver strands that made up a ponytail running nearly halfway down his back. “Yes, I remember.” He sighed. “How could I forget, I ask for the best assassin money can buy and this freak rolls in asking for the biggest favor of my career.” “And you took it.” “And I took it.” He rolled his eyes, pushing through the doorway and hunching under the more normal-height ceilings.
They had a moment of silence, just long enough for her to feel restless, and the conversation seemed to be over. “Well," She patted her knee, standing back up properly again. "Don't rush it or you'll ache forever. And you're welcome to stay a night or two more, for the help with picking- just don't strain. You took a lot of buckshot and it's dangerous after dark." "I'm alright, I said it's-" "I know what I saw." She clipped, trying not to actually snap. "Don't try to convince me otherwise. Just take the kindness."
Smoke filled the air, mingling with steam as he slid further down in the tub. Hot water on cool, dead flesh felt deeply, richly warming. It was nostalgic, almost. Amazing how he still found little enhancements to life's pleasures in this state. He felt his eyes drifting closed, dropping the cigarette on the lip of the tub long enough to submerge himself fully, hair floating up in a halo over his head. The vampire stayed there, letting a few bubbles escape his mouth but otherwise still. He had spent the energy he had to be angry at the situation, trying to feel his strength return, relaxing like it was a chore. Oh the anger bubbled within his chest like poison carbonation, but he would need to sleep on it before he could wield that into action plans and revenge.
“…I’m so sorry, Howard. Now that you mention it, Pete is missing. That goat is slippery on a good day, but I have been worried. When I feel much more like moving I need to look for him. You go home, bury your dog. I know she was a good one, important to your boy. I can keep things held down here on my own land.” “You’re uncle’s land, if I recall right.” He corrected, almost casually. “If you can’t handle it out here, Miss Ethel, don’t forget there’s stronger folks around who can lend a hand.” “I’ve handled it just fine for three years, thankya.” She snorted softly. “Go home, Howard. I can handle any problems myself and if I need a hand, I can find one.”
He had tried to change things about his life and he had failed. Actually getting his job back and returning to normal wouldn't be possible. It would be an HR nightmare, considering how often he'd been personally investigated lately. He had to keep lying and hells, he was bad at that, but it was better than admitting how badly he had screwed himself. "I’m going to speak to you as a friend.” Beuller withdrew a very full notepad from his breast pocket, elbows resting on his knees. “And I'm not going to tease it out, because I don't think you're a criminal, at least not a bad actor, and because I can't make you say anything. No one else really got hurt, it’s your business, so-on. But I'm doing my job as a public safety officer."
Minnie Smith’s house was behind the church, in a shady hollow that echoed with birdsong at the best of times. It was quiet now and she wondered how much of that was time and how much was her monster’s lingering presence. They had played here as children after sermon, but both had long since stopped attending extra bible study or going on walks to the crick, for their own reasons. Minnie answered the door, and Ethel did her best to smile. It still felt a little out of practice, a little unnatural, but it had to do. “I heard William wasn’t well, so I wanted to stop by with a cornbread to leave y’all with, see how you were doin’.”
She once again looked over his outfit- white jacket as usual, popped collar, the big red glasses, and felt a bit of doubt. She had only seen him at work where he didn’t have much company- surely he had a club life or something to peacock at. She brought the sandwich to her lips, taking a tentative bite and realizing that he, indeed, had good taste. It was the best sandwich she’d ever had, hands down. The meat was rich, the scent deep, the crust of the bread holding up to the juices and the pop of acid the pickles provided. “Oh, wow.” "A good meal not only fuels the body and mind but the soul as well." He grinned. “I never ate anything I didn’t like and, well- Things I like? I've never been able to resist them."
Tyson was affixed on the corner TV. The radio in his apartment got shit signal and he had run out for breakfast the moment breaking news turned around to a fire in the sub-basement of a local office building. Magic venting, illegal body mod spell production, suspected monster attacks, bodies. He had expedited his frankly very overdue resignation call from the landline and come straight to the nearest cafe with a TV to watch the story develop. He let out a soft, anxious breath. He'd been up all night, worrying about work, the new office, where and what parts of his life and reputation had been preserved. What he had been preparing for for months. Ha, what reputation?
"This junker got tossed after a wreck, she's totally undriveable, needs a full assembly rebuild and a lot of parts replaced, not to mention cosmetic stuff. I got her at the scrapyard for fifty bucks." Tito gave Renee a firm, sage pat on the back. "And she's all yours. The moment she runs, that she's road-ready again-" He crossed his arms. "You're hired, full time, with a certification sign-off from all three master mechanics at this shop." Renee could hardly believe herself. It was a disaster, a total junk-job, it could not get worse- and it was hers. She broke immediately into a short, thrilled squeal, throwing her arms around Tito in excitement. "Oh this thing is going to run like a cheetah downhill, you just wait."
A high contrast red and blue image of two figures, seen from the legs down, sitting on a car hood with yellow doodles around it. Text reads "Listening to Morality Pet, by Victor Bell. Available June 30th, 2026" "Tongue tied twisted- Suit up, Soldier She wants me (to be loved)- The happy fits Ghost- Mystery Skulls The way that I love you has changed- Chris Farren Arms Tonite- Mother Mother Haunted- Nekotat"
She swallowed again, pulling up the shirt to tend to her patient’s wounds. His flesh was ashy white where it wasn’t crimson, and chill to the touch. It reminded her of handling raw pork, biting her tongue in her mouth to keep her dinner down. How he wasn’t already dead she didn’t know, or if he was and just hadn’t stopped working yet, like a chicken with its head freshly lopped off. “I’m not a doctor,” She admitted, voice wavering. “Or much of a seamstress. My mother tried to teach me,” She continued, babbling partially for her own sake. “Though I don’t think it ever really took.”
What she got was a man much more put together, approaching her with a hand held out to shake. Nostriano was dressed almost in all white, heeled dress shoes clicking on the polished tile that caught a reflection of his loose off-the-shoulder jacket and flared pants. His red silk shirt was rolled up to the elbows, and she had the fleeting thought that he looked ready for an outdated disco. His hair was gelled back, a few loose strands brushing his forehead. He met her eyes through a pair of large, round, red-lensed glasses and put on a large smile. "Miss Salvador- Renee. Thank you for coming."
Mirror ball reflections crawled across the walls, red stained glass temple windows looming over a dance floor filled with moving bodies. Everyone outside of their immediate area was turned into a silhouette against neons, the air thick and humid. The closest thing she could compare it to in her mind was junior prom and that didn't hold a candle to the casual enthusiasm permeating the air. "Don't tell anyone how old you are and don't order anything alcoholic." He ordered, voice raising over the music. "Just wait by the door, and keep your eyes on me. Socialize if you must but do not trust anyone here."
The landing on the other side had done his shoulder no favors, but at least it was shorter than the first fall and the drifts of last year's leaves provided some cushion. The thing- gangly, bloody faced, and yellow-fanged with silver coin eyes that caught the moonlight, continued to snarl and claw at the wire between them. He'd yelled right back in its face, growling and screaming out his frustration like an animal, throwing spit like rabies foam. He'd screamed until his head felt like it was going to float off his shoulders and his throat was raw
Renee was used to seeing a mix of species and features, because people were just like that- mermaids, satyrs, sphinxes, fauns, the variety of colors and features that went between lapins, giants, humans, not even getting into sorcerers and their technicolor skin tones- but she was firmly stopped short by the mental processing that it took to parse just what this man was. He was abnormally tall, lanky and bald with blue skin and a ruff of fur running down his neck, thick round glasses resting over a flared leaflet nose. Massive conical bat ears must have added a foot to his height, absolutely towering over them both. She took a moment to drink it in, deciding if some kind of monstrous vampire or cynocephali was the right assumption given the situation, blinking twice as the new person began addressing Nostriano.
“What did you even think you’d get, trying to kill Muriel?” He kicked, one shoe skating down Nostriano’s thigh and leaving a smear of earth on the pant leg. The vampire’s grip trembled slightly, tensing to kill the sensation, pricking his thumb claw into the traitor's cheek and drawing a runner of thick, red blood. He sputtered softly, rolling his eyes as if the question hardly justified an answer. “You’re not the only one who’s outlived their usefulness to someone, Pachis. We have that in common. I’m simply not a coward, I decided to do something about it.” Tyson thought about all the bloody messes Nostriano had made and for a moment was jealous that Muriel even had the option to get rid of him at will. “You did a shit job at it.”
Pathetic. He clawed his way up the wall until he was standing, acknowledging his ruined clothes with a quiet hiss of disgust. He needed to feed, to expedite the healing process so he could solve this little conundrum of failure. Muriel may well have someone posted at the bank, he couldn't risk turning up so injured alone in public. Nostriano felt a short shock of revilement at the idea of slinking around out of fear. Forget the bank. What was the point of drinking blood if you didn't spill it yourself?