Confessions of a Vampire's Roadie

Chapter I

Sir Tim

What always gets me about those who get mixed up with the occult or the supernatural is that they always think they're embarking on something that's fun, exotic, erotic, or something that will give them the power and importance they seek, to become even more self-serving or narcissistic than they already are.

But what they never realize is the depth and horror of evil, its filth, savagery – and its seducing, intelligent ability to lie when looking you straight in the face.

Take that ghoul and rabid vampire Sir Timothy Moriarty, my master. His bevy of sycophantic groupies sit at his feet as he slowly sucks their blood from them like a fat tick, promising each of his favorite boys and girls eternal life, once they have proven worthy of his trust.

Sucking Them Dry

I watch as each one of them is transformed within weeks from vigorous youths to emaciated skeletons, whose dwindling lives are snuffed out insignificantly – just like spent candles disappearing in a puff of smoke and melted wax. Each of them suffers as Sir Tim toys with and torments them with lies and pain disguised as pleasure, until they are consumed by the evil that is a master vampire, 300 years of age.

Sometimes, when in a particularly foul mood, Sir Tim will laugh in their faces as he sucks their last lifeblood from them.

"You ugly, misguided toad. Did you really think I would share my gift of eternal life with such a hideous and worthless creature?"

Sir Tim

It pained me as much as it brought pleasure to Sir Tim to see the pitiful looks of surprise on their dying faces as the vampire took his sharp fingernail and tore open their throats for one last feast.

How I longed to spike this devil as he lay gorged with their blood, but before I could finish the thought, Sir Tim would cast me out of his den and warn me.

"If you care about your wife and children, who are still living, you will watch your thoughts carefully, Sean, because, if anything happens to me, my brothers and sisters will feast on each of them slowly, ever so slowly -- while you are forced to watch."

Sir Tim

With this I would think only of my family, who by now must believe me to be dead.

"Yes, Sire, I understand, completely." I would answer obediently.

"Good. Now get the fuck out of my chamber and guard me until sundown," he snarled, trying not to laugh out loud at the humor he saw in my predicament."

Because while Sir Tim was evil and undead, a small part of him still harbored a playful appreciation for those he depended on. And he depended on me, who needed to keep him safe if I wanted my family to live.

 Arianna

Arianna was only 18 when she first saw Sir Tim play his saxophone at the Hippodrome with his group Dead Sight.

She was attracted to him by the stealthy passion he hid underneath his dead coolness. Arianna suspected he might be a vampire, but she like so many before her, didn't believe someone so beautiful could hurt her.

As she reached the stage, Arianna began to bounce to the rhythmic beat that only dead creatures can produce. By this time, she was feeling feverishly weak as Sir Tim instinctively sucked the energy out of the girl.

She took her trembling hand and dared to touch Sir Tim's boot, only to have him withdraw and pretend to ignore her move. Sir Tim wailed a mournful yet aggressive lick from his horn that hit impossible lows and highs. It was as though he was a snake charmer and a Cobra all wrapped up in one.

Chosen One

I watched as Arianna swooned.

I moved toward her quickly as she once again approached the stage, this time opening her blouse and exposing her breasts.

"Miss, you can't undress in here," I whispered in her ear as I tried to hustle her away from the stage to safety.

"Let her come to me, Sean," Sir Tim's eyes commanded me as he flipped up his shades in between his solo.

Sir Tim

"Yes, Sire," was all I could mouth, as I stepped back from the stage's blood red spotlights into the cool, mournful darkness.

Chapter II: My Choice

On Becoming a Gatekeeper

When I applied for the job as a roadie and amp manager for Sir Tim and the Dead Sight, I did not know much about his fusion of heavy metal, jazz, rap, and R&B cocktail that was taking the metal world by storm.

All I knew was that this obscure wailing, rapping, singing, dancing, gyrating soul was on fire, even though he came from a little town near Providence, Rhode Island that was like a speck of flea shit in a monkey's eye.

I had been out of work for more than a year and my wife, and two daughters were living with her mother because I had just gotten out of rehab after slipping another time off that hard-ass sobriety wagon that kicked me in the teeth harder each time I had to get down on my knees and puke my guts out hugging some dirty toilet bowl in some filthy barroom bathroom.

Last Chance

I am not a religious man, but I am a practical man who believes there is luck and there is eventual restitution. It's the only real Yin and Yang in life I know that still exists in this universe controlled by a rebellious faction of the breakaway society.

I'll explain more about this as you listen to my confession, whoever you might be who finds this journal I've hidden in a tabernacle of a small church in East Baltimore. It will tell you how the torch of a Vampire's gatekeeper was unfortunately passed down to me.

As I was explaining, I had just got out of rehab for the umpteenth time for chronic alcoholism, was living in a half-way house and knew this was it. Getting back to the Yin and Yang: something deep down in my booze-sick soul, a small, but unyielding voice whispered to me: "This is it Sean, you got no more changes. If you fuck up again and have as much as one drink, you're dead – plain and simple, and you know it."

And I did know it.

So, I decided to try and get a job, stay clean and hopefully get back with my family – or at least be able to send them some money to help make up for the years of poverty and misery I put them through.

Still, it was hard for me to agree with my rehab counselor that the best thing for me to do was to seek employment with an up-and-coming group, passing through town, considering the environment I'd be exposed to -- if hired.

Cannot Hide

I must admit, my counselor Don Silverberg caught me off guard when he suggested that I apply for a job as a roadie with Sir Tim's band. He said my life experience made me uniquely qualified.

And this was true.

For 12 years I had been a mediocre guitar player and singer who blew his chances developing his talent and moving up in the local scene by putting the bottle first.

That's what surprised me about his suggestion – and I told him so.

He was a little chubby guy about 50 years old with greying, shoulder-length hair, granny glasses, who wore Hawaiian shirts he bought at Goodwill.

"Look, Sean, the game is over. You can't hide from a drink, no matter where you go or what you do. It's time for you to decide: do you want to live – or die? If your decision is to live, then it doesn't really matter what job you take."

Don Silverberg

He would always stop and pause for a long 10 seconds after making such pronouncements. He would just sit there in a chair next to you and look you in the eyes with this real melancholy look, even though his lips were curled in a faint smile.

My Decision

Breaking the silence, my voice cracked, and tears began welling up in my eyes as I spoke:

"It's always been my decision," I managed to say.

Pat put his hand on my shoulder and sprang up from his chair, signaling to me -- a 33-year-old man -- that the time for talking was over.

"Let me know how you make out, Sean."

I lamely thanked him, opened the door, and went back to my room in the rehab to go over my emergency-embellished resume.

 Preparing for the Interview

To my great surprise, I got a text asking me to set up an interview with Sir Tim 30 minutes after I emailed his manager my resume from my worn-and-cracked-screen iPhone.

The manager, a woman named Alfie Lawrence, told me that time was of the essence because Sir Tim and Dead Sight were preparing for a U.S. tour, which was to commence in two weeks.

She explained that Sir Tim and his band rehearsed most of the evening until dawn, and therefore slept during the daytime. She then announced in a matter-of-fact way that's why Sir Tim was interviewing all potential candidates himself starting a 10 p.m. tonight at a friend's Federal Hill mansion that overlooked Baltimore's Inner Harbor.

She told me that he had one slot available at 1 a.m., and if I agreed to it, she would arrange to have me picked up by Sir Tim's personal driver.

"Sure," I said, taken aback by such class-A treatment. Then the woman's whose soft, husky voice sounded like that of a late-night radio DJ said:

"Mr. Corcoran, I'm surprised you haven't asked about the salary the position pays..."

"Oh yeah," I quickly replied. "I was getting to that. How much does it pay?

"Seven thousand dollars a month to start with -- all benefits and expenses paid," she said.

Alfie Lawrence

There was an awkward moment of silence as I nearly passed out, thinking I had misunderstood what she said.

"Did you say $7,000?" I repeated, my voice cracking from excitement.

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