The man sitting in the room with two bodyguards wrestled with his racing thoughts for a moment before standing up abruptly and throwing his fork at the television, splattering gooey eggs all over the display. He left a nearly imperceptible crack in the corner, creating a ghostly dark spot affecting the color of pixels coming through the screen; he laughed at the irony of causing his television to broadcast partly in black and white.
Nigel by name, the man in the room barked at his bodyguards to clean up the mess he made of his breakfast and set off into a backroom office to clear his thoughts and manage his anger.
Nigel wiped the bead of sweat from his brow with a checkered handkerchief, thinking to himself, “Yes, it would only be natural that Jon (haha! yes, Jon…) would seek revenge in the most cynical of methods: leaving my fate to be deciphered with a stupid riddle.”
He continued his train of thought, “I could surely understand his decades of resentment towards myself and my methods; I did leave him high and dry in the height of our acting days.”
As Nigel tucked the checkerboard hanky into his pocket, wet with sweat, he thought, “But, my dear Jon! Why, that was quite nearly a hundred years in the past and our failure as silent film stars was to no fault of my own, but rather to your hot-headed temper, my dear friend!”
Slamming his fist on his desk, Nigel opened a bottle of aged scotch and took one big gulp straight from the glass container.
“Jon, my friend, you so quickly forget that, just as I keep secrets of my own, I know yours as well — no reason for me to keep my mouth shut when I am being publicly threatened,” Nigel whispered under his breath, barely audible.
“You may have your revenge, Jon, but I have your true identity…Rasputin Sergeyvitch,” Nigel became quietly contemplative for a moment, then screamed for his bodyguards in thick Russian.
“Alexey! Maximus! I have a job for you two. And it involves flying through the night to fight with a stringy vampire so please, wear proper shoes!”
Alexey and Maximus, running to Nigel, tripped in their open-toe sandaled shoes and black socked feet on their way into the study. Nigel could not help but laugh under his wiry mustachio.
Jon, or rather, known to Nigel as Rasputin Sergeyvitch, licked his sharper-than-typical incisors with the tip of his tongue, intuiting a tinge of unease as he left the Channel 3 studio to head back downtown and prepare for bloody battle in the darkness of night.
“You are not alone Nigel; yes, this is true. But you run with fools now, and so the true fool becomes you…” Jon smirked at his way with words.
“I have my deathly friends, too.”
Jon — Rasputin Sergeyvitch — couldn’t contain letting out the cackling crack of laughter only befitting the undead.
Read the previous Chapter, Book 1 – Chapter 2 and be on the lookout for the next Chapter!