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Cyber Monday poem by Roy Hudson:
Warner Bros. emailed me Cyber Monday
Advertising movies and to say,
“The Terminal Man's cheap today!”
I thought, ‘I’m broke but that’s okay;
The book was way better, anyway.’
Now, let me focus on my son, Robert. After the death of Erik Potter, I decided that it would
probably be a good idea to become human again. I used the rest of Jacob’s money
(except what he and Marie had set aside for Robert) to rent a room in a nearby
town so that I could get a job. I’d been through Holland, Germany, and the
Netherlands the previous year, so I knew their customs. An elf named Black Peter
supposedly helped St. Nicholas during his journey to deliver presents. So I
became Peter Black.
I was Peter Black from 1752 until 1775. Nobody seemed to notice that Peter Black
didn’t age over a period of twenty-two years. I kept to myself. So why did I
change in 1775? Because something major happened in my life that affected
everyone in the country: The American Revolution.
I tried not to get involved, but I just happened to have been in Concord at the
time of the bloodiest battle that century. And trust me, when a vampire
describes something as “bloodiest,” you’d better believe it was pretty damn
bloody. The only war that was worse in terms of gore was the Vietnam War, in
which I “died” as Washington Diedrich. I fought in almost every major American
War there ever was, and lost a life in all of them except World War II, in which
the United States was very victorious and fortunate. But no war affected me as
much as the first.
That bloody battle wasn’t until later, though. At first, I was in Lexington. I saw
the troops arriving and heard all the commotion. In fact, you may find this hard
to believe, but I almost made breakfast out of Paul Revere.
In a lot of historical accounts, it’s debated as to what Revere shouted as he
galloped through the countryside warning the minutemen of the British forces’
approach: “The Redcoats are coming!” or “To arms!” Well, I was there. He said
both, but he changed his call after someone intervened.
I had a prostitute in a dark alley, about to feed on her. Just as I was about to
bite, I heard that idiot shout, “The Redcoats are coming! The Redcoats are
The girl was immediately brought out of the trance I had her in, shrieking, “Oh my
God, my father is off to battle! I must warn him!” So she ran off, leaving me
without a meal. Naturally, I was upset. So I did what anyone who didn’t know at
the time that history was being made would do. I decided to kill the
I flew after him until we were in a dark area, then I descended upon him, tackling
him and taking him off of his horse. I grabbed him by the throat and hissed,
flashing yellow eyes and fangs, “You just cost me my breakfast, boy. Perhaps I
should take it from your throat instead!”
I covered his mouth and moved my hand from his neck, then opened my hand to bite,
but a window above us opened and an old man in a Republic uniform stuck his head
out and shouted, “What’s going on out there? Have the Redcoats made any
Revere squirmed out of my grip and shouted the only two words that could come to his
mind, “To arms!” I think he was trying to tell the man to shoot me, but it didn’t come out that way.
I let him go and called back to the officer, “The Redcoats are coming. He
said so. Didn’t you, boy?”
Revere repeated, “To arms!”
The officer gripped his gun and said, “Mount your steed, be off to warn the others.
I practically threw Revere onto his horse as he piped out, “To arms! To arms! To
There’s nothing in the history books about Paul Revere being attacked by a vampire. I
don’t know if it’s because he was too afraid to tell his superiors, or if he did
tell them and they thought him mad. Of course, had Paul Revere said that he’d
been attacked by a vampire, school may be taught in an entirely different way.
They’d focus more on vampires in history than on actual history itself. After
all, vampires are such interesting creatures, if I do say so myself.
Once Revere was gone, I looked around and saw the minutemen approaching. One of them
looked very familiar. He looked like a male version of Marie. About thirty years
old. Then I did the math in my head.
I took a closer look. It was my son. I had followed Robert to that orphanage and
delivered presents to him until he was thirteen, when he stopped believing in
Santa. I hated to do it, but I knew I had to let him go at that age. But seeing
him now, seventeen years later, was such a shock.
I ran up to him and looked him in the face, my eyes bright. He wore his shoddy
uniform and gave me a strange look. “Do I know you?” he asked.
I was grinning so widely my face hurt. “Yes. Your name is Robert Tennyson, is that
correct?” I caught the mistake seconds after I made it.
He gave me another weird look and said, “My name is Robert, but my last name is
Futterman. How do you know me?”
I had to think up some lame excuse. “I was in the Bancton Orphanage. I am Peter
Black. Do you remember me?”
Robert looked up, thinking, trying to remember anyone by that name at the orphanage. He
shrugged. “I ran away from that place when I was sixteen, my last two years
there are but a haze in my memory, so I’m sorry if I don’t remember you.”
“That is fine,” I said, still grinning. “I remember you.”
He shrugged again. “Very well. Are you in the military?”
I shook my head.
He smirked. “If you live here, you had better get your hands on a gun. Word from
the Boston Common is that the British are on their way.”
I bitterly mumbled, “Yes, I heard someone yelling about that earlier.”
“That would be Paul Revere. He’s a good man.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said, wondering how my son would take the news that I’d just
tried to eat that so-called good man. “I’ve got a gun upstairs, do you mind if I
join you on the battlefield?” I had a feeling something might happen to him if I
weren’t there watching over him. In fact... hell, I won’t ruin the story by
jumping the gun. I guess that’s a pun, but you won’t get it until after you read
what I’m about to reveal.
My rifle in hand, I joined Robert and his crowd of minutemen. Having seen my son
grow up, I knew the types of things he would want to talk about, so we engaged
in casual conversation. I asked him all kinds of personal questions that he
didn’t mind answering, such as how many girlfriends he had courted and if he had
any children. He told me he was engaged to a woman who reminded him of his
mother. I tried to probe him for more, but he wouldn’t say anything else. I
suppose watching his mother buried alive traumatized him. I don’t blame him.
To make a long story short, by the time we reached the British troops, Robert
and I were friends. I wanted badly to tell him who I was and what had happened
to me, but it was ludicrous. Physically, we were the same age, he’d never
believe I was his father!
We reached the battleground and everything was tense. I looked across the fields at
the British soldiers. I remembered when I was in the old country and relied on
these same men to protect me and my parents. It’s funny when you outlive several
generations like that, and the friend becomes the enemy. The same thing happened
during the Civil War. I was sympathetic to the South, because I had seen the
first American Revolution and understood that it was basically a repeat, only
this time with slavery in the balance. I was neutral on slavery, seeing how I am
a slave to my own eternity. But I’m rambling.
As I’ve said several times before, vampires’ senses are so much stronger than those
of mortals. We can smell certain emotions or feel the body giving out
excitement. There was a lot of electricity on the battlefield that night. One
man in particular didn’t like the way my son looked. I could feel his body heat,
I could smell his sweat. He was paranoid, hell bent on the idea that Robert
Futterman, born Robert Tennyson, was going to be the first Revolutionary to fire
a shot, and that if he didn’t take action, all hell would break loose. But there
was no way I was going to let that happened. So I did it.
The Revolutionary War. Battle of Lexington. “The Shot Heard ’Round The World.” The
single gunshot fired from an unknown rifle that signaled the slaughter of 8
American soldiers. Yes. I did it, to save my son. I know my story is starting to
sound corny and far-fetched to the point of being a whopper, but hey, at least I
didn’t come over on the Mayflower. Still, you’re probably thinking I’m the
Forrest Gump of vampires seeing how I’m Santa Claus, lost a wife to latter-day
witch trials, had a run-in with Paul Revere, and fired that fabled shot at
Lexington. But don’t worry. I’ve never met any presidents, so that’s as close to
fame as I’ve ever gotten.
Robert and I fled the battle scene, unable to believe what had just happened. He then
told me that Paul Revere and Samuel Adams had moved on to Concord and that we
were to join them, with a stronger force than what had been at Lexington. Again
feeling the need to protect him, I went with him. I wish I hadn’t.
Knowing the etiquette of British military maneuvers, we decided to get the best of them
by hiding behind trees and walls to fire upon them as they marched by. I looked
over to the tree behind which Robert had been standing and saw behind him to his
left a Redcoat aiming at him. Instead of simply warning him to watch out, I
stepped back and fired my own rifle, taking my son’s would-be assassin down. I
wasn’t thinking. By stepping away from the safety of my own tree, I was opening
myself up to British gunfire.
A bullet hit me in the side and took me by total surprise. I fell over, and when
he saw this, Robert looked at me with horror and said, “Peter! No!”
I knew that bullet would have no effect on me, but my son, my friend, had no idea.
He then did the same thing that I had done. He left the safety of his tree to
shoot the Redcoat that had shot me. I knew what was about to happen: the exact
same thing that had happened to me. Terrified, I looked up at him and
screamed, “Robert, no!”
But it was too late. His chest spouted blood as the bullet entered. He landed right
next to me.
I crawled over to him and wrapped my arms around him. “Damn it, Robert, why did
you do that?”
He spat up some blood, then looked up at me. “You’re my friend. I knew you’d do it
“I’m more than just your friend, Robert. Do you know that?”
He laughed hysterically. “I felt it from the first time I saw you. I don’t know who
you are, but I knew you’d be special to me.”
I sighed. “Just think of me as your guardian angel.”
“So I shall.”
Weeping, I said to him, “There is just one thing I need to hear. Tell me you love
“I do,” he said. “I love you. Father.” He stopped. And he thought about what he had
said, wondering why he’d said it. But before he could say anything else, he was
Still weeping, I stood up. Another bullet hit me, but I was ready this time. In fact,
several bullets hit me, but I hardly took notice. They had murdered my son, and
I was angry enough to withstand a cannon blast.
History books say that while the Revolutionaries only lost between 80 and 90 men, the
British troops were cut down by 20 percent. I have to say that I contributed
heavily to the British body count. When the battle was done, I lay down to rest.
My bullet-ridden body was added to the accosted American soldiers and dumped
into a ditch. For the second time in my life, I woke up in a grave. I knew that
Peter Black was now dead. So I left New England for the South, and changed my
name to Julian Nies, from the Scandinavian Julenisse.
So now you know what happened to my wife and child. If I could go back in time, I
wouldn’t turn them as to keep them with me for eternity... but I would see to it
that their mortal lives were more comfortable than they were and didn’t end as a
result of my own doing.
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