Prologue:
A Gathering of Beasts
A Gathering of Beasts
Bela Lugosi's dead, and so am I. But what's left of Bela is rotting in a pine coffin somewhere, while I have the opportunity to sit here on the balcony, enjoy my drink and look at you. Correct me if I'm being presumptuous, but I suspect that I have the better end of the deal.
I can tell by looking at you that you're not comprehending. Of course you're not these are cynical, rational times, and you're not going to believe that I'm a dead man just because I say so. A century ago it would have been different well, it was quite different the last time I had this little talk with someone but this is the age of facts. And the facts are that corpses don't move, don't walk, don't talk. I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but I have a surprise for you: This corpse does.
So sit down. Please, I insist that you make yourself comfortable. Pour yourself something to drink, preferably from the bottle on the left the stuff on the right is an acquired taste. It's going to be a long evening, and you're going to need a stiff drink or two, I suspect. After all, in the next few hours I'm going to explain to you in excruciating detail why everything you think you know about life and death is wrong. In other words, you don't know a blessed thing about the way the world really works, and I'm going to open your eyes.
But I'm afraid, my dear, that you're not going to like what you see.
