Inspired by the amazing gang at bbtv@yahoogroups.

com,
tunnel dwellers all.
One day, our discussion centered around the times when
Vincent fights as himself, versus when he fights as the
Other. Also, how he feels about his unusual teeth. The
conversation went a lot of places, as conversations will.
What came out of that is offered here.
Vincents contemplations, set after the events of To
Reign In Hell.
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I Reign
By Cindy Rae
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Today I was a monster for her. And I knew I was. And I

did not care.
Today I killed a monster for her. I was the better monster.
I must have been, for I survived. I reigned. I was the
monster with teeth. Fangs. All monsters have teeth. I

had fangs. Have fangs. And I sank them into his neck
with savage efficiency. I knew I had his lifeblood, in my
mouth.
I tore, and I spit. And I felt him die, as he loosened his
grip on me. His name was Erlick. And he took her from
her home, and carried her Below. He touched her. He
touched her, when she was unwilling.
And so I killed him. Of course.
I can not blame my Other Self, this time, for my Other
Self was not there, and was not needed. It was me. I
knew. She was near, and I could see her, but I could
barely feel her. She had shut down the bond, between
us. She tried to protect me.
And so I returned that favor.
With fangs.
I made my way to her, with cunning, and stealth. And a
funeral, for a friend, one of the best men I ever knew. I
took her back from a madman, and from a madman's
monster. They used her as bait, to draw me.
It worked.

They drew me.

Be careful what you wish for, Erlick. Be careful for you
wish for, Paracelsus.
The Other could not have saved her. His first instinct is to
dig in a claw, and use his strength. My arms were pinned.
Erlick was stronger. He had me, and had me beaten. He
felt it. I could tell he felt it, as he tightened his grip on my
back, trying to crush ribs, to rob breath, to break my
spine. He had the strength. Greater than mine. He
owned the victory.
For a second.
Less, perhaps.
For of the two of us, I knew what I was about to do, an
instant before I did it.
He didn't.
Not that he could have stopped me, if he did.

I have fangs.
Upper and lower. Set in my jaw like any other teeth.
But they are not. They are not 'teeth.' They are fangs. A
predator's weapons, for a necessary kill. A lion's fangs,
long and pointed, and I can feel them behind my lips, can
trace them with my tongue. I feel them inside my mouth,
and worry the left one with my tongue, sometimes, when
I am thinking. No one can see that. My mouth is closed.
But they are there. Like my claws, or my strength, or the
range of my swing. They are my weapons, and I am
aware of them, always.
A warrior always knows where his weapons are. Watch a
soldier set his gun down, in camp. He won't go far, from
it. He'll look back to check for it. There's an invisible line,
between them. A warrior always knows where his
weapons are.
Mine are in my mouth.
The same mouth that quotes her Shakespeare or Byron.

I was not quoting anything, this time. Except perhaps the

Baghavad Gita. "I am become death..." And I wasn't
really quoting that, of course. It is impossible to quote
anything, with a throat in your mouth.
I knew he was dead before he did. Felt his grip loosen,
felt his life go. I felt you go, Erlick. And we are not even
bonded. I felt you go, and was ... pleased for it? Is that
the right word? Pleased? Perhaps. Perhaps it is.
Somewhere inside, I was pleased. The victory is yours?
No! The victory is mine! Mine, goddamn you. I reign.
You touched her. You were doomed from the moment you
did.
Fortune favors the fanged? Now there's a wry
paraphrasing of Virgil, for you.
I must be favored, then. I have fangs.
It is an interesting thing, to feel a man's lifeblood, in your
mouth. An interesting thing, to feel a jugular vein snap.
The blood is warm... no, not warm. Hot. The blood is hot,
inside a throat.
Then cooler, as it flows out.

As odd as it sounds, there is a moment of choice, there.

A moment, just a second, where the skin of the neck has
been pierced, and the cord that carries blood from the
brain is under your teeth. Stop now, open your mouth,
and he will live.
Pull, and he will die.
He died.
The blood pulsed out. Not just flowed. Pulsed.
With every beat of his heart, his own beating heart killed
him. Irony. Check your monster's pulse, Paracelsus. No,
you don't have to feel his wrist. You can see it, as it
spurts onto the stone floor. It's rhythmic, until there isn't
enough left, for pressure.
Yes, it is an interesting thing, to feel a man's lifeblood in
your mouth; feel his heartbeat on your tongue, and
against your lips right before you rip, and tear. One of his
last heartbeats.
And you do feel it. I did.

Alas, Poor Erlick. I slew him well. Ah. And now I shall
bastardize Shakespeare, along with Virgil, it seems.
Surely, Milton has something to say about it? No? How
was your reign in Hell, Paracelsus? Did your monster find
it better to bleed in Hell than bleed in Heaven? Sharper
than a serpents tooth, I killed your idiot child? Ah, but
that is not Milton. That is Shakespeare, I'm slaughtering,
again, along with your bastard. And I need Milton, for
you. For this. Milton. Or at least Dante.
Ah, yes. 'Abandon Hope.' There it is.
Erlick did, right at the end. All men do, or know they
should, once they feel a set of fangs, against their throat.
Not that Erlick was a man.
That is quite all right.
Neither am I.
But whatever I am, I am hers.
And she, oh she...

She is mine.
Today I was a monster, for her. And I knew I was. And I
did... not ...care.
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