“Why, Victor, you look as murderous as the Devil himself!”

Victor responded in a mocking tone, thick with resolution:

“Why, John, I think that’s enough of you.”

And slashed John’s throat.

John’s body froze, then twitched, then began to convulse in its seat as blood drooled from the smiling wound in his neck. Victor placed his emptied glass under John’s throat, collected his drink, and sipped the red liquid, sweet with sin, as he watched John suffocate on his own thirst. No one asked about John’s whereabouts in the coming days, and as Victor cleaned up the mess, he knew that those who did would be immediately silenced, held hostage by his magic.

Victor continued the practice in John’s absence, learning more and more about what his blood could do as the rumors spread like wildfire, growing crueler and crueler as the demand grew ravenous and the exploitation so laughably advantageous.

And as he sits at his desk, in his penthouse apartment in present day, he still remembers looking into John’s lifeless eyes and thinking:

There can only be one god, my dear John. And God is immortal.

“Hello, this is Doctor Victor Crohn. Ah! Yes. Hello, Mrs. Goldman. How nice it is to hear from you again. And so soon, might I add . . . Yes? I see. Well, I think I made myself very clear from our last conversation that I am not taking appointments at this time. Yes, Mrs. Goldman. I understand the state of your son’s— Yes, I understand that he is very sick, however— Yes, I know what the signs say. Flyers grow outdated and I’ve taken down all of the ones that were in their original postings. However, I simply do not have the labor force to search around the city and clear them up. Yes, I understand the amount of money you are willing to pay, but it is not a matter of money, Mrs. Goldman. You must understand, it is simply— Raising it will do no good. I will . . . You don’t seem to grasp what I am telling you.”

Victor takes his pause, allowing Mrs. Goldman to shriek until she feels sufficiently heard. And when that is done, his answer will be the same.

Hopefully she grows tired of arguing. This persistence is exhausting.

He supposes he could hang up the phone, cut off that voice, and maybe she’ll continue speaking into the line without noticing the dial tone. A yapping bird with an empty skull. But that wouldn’t be good for business. When things calm down again, he’ll want to reopen. Let the floodgates flow. But for now, he is too busy to be taking care of the sick. Hopelessly ill children thrown at him like Mardi Gras beads.

This is a first for the practice, shutting it down. Denying aid to those in need—in almost seventy years! John would have disagreed.

“We must always keep the masses happy, Victor, ol’ boy!”