"Kim Newman - Andy Warhol's Dracula2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

Kim Newman - Andy Warhol's Dracula

As Nancy snuffed, her blood curdled. The taste of vile scabs flooded
his
mouth. He pushed her away, detaching fangs from her worn wounds. Ropes
of
bloody spittle hung from her neck to his maw. He wiped his mouth on his
wrist, breaking their liquid link. A last electric thrill shuddered,
arcing between them. Her heart stopped.
He had pulled her backward onto the bed, holding her down to him as he
worked at her throat, her hands feebly scrabbling his sides. Empty, she
was dead weight on top of him. He was uncomfortably aware of the other
garbage in the bed: magazines, bent spoons, hypodermic needles, used
Kleenex, ripped and safety-pinned clothes, banknotes, congealed
sandwiches, weeks of uneaten complimentary mints. A package of singles
тАФ
Sid's "My Way" тАФ had broken under them, turning the much-stained
mattress
into a fakir's bed of nails. Vinyl shards stabbed his unbroken skin.
Johnny Pop was naked but for leopard-pattern briefs and socks, and the
jewelry. Prizing his new clothes too much to get them gory, he had
neatly
folded and placed the suit and shirt on a chair well away from the bed.
His face and chest were sticky with blood and other discharges.
As the red rush burst in his eyes and ears, his senses flared, more
acute
by a dozenfold. Outside, in iced velvet October night, police sirens
sounded like the wailings of the bereaved mothers of Europe. Distant
shots
burst as if they were fired in the room, stabs of noise inside his
skull.
Blobby TV light painted neon a cityscape across ugly wallpaper,
populated
by psychedelic cockroaches.
He tasted the ghosts of the Chelsea Hotel: drag queens and vampire
killers, junkies and pornographers, artists and freaks, visionaries and
wasters. Pressing into his mind, they tried to make of his undead body
a
channel through which they could claw their way back to this plane of
existence. Their voices shrieked, clamoring for attention. Cast out of
Manhattan, they lusted for restoration to their paved paradise.
Though his throat protested, Johnny forced himself to swallow. Nancy's
living blood had scarcely been of better quality than this dead filth.
Americans fouled their bodies. Her habits would have killed her soon,
even
if she hadn't invited a vampire into Room 100. He didn't trouble
himself
with guilt. Some people were looking for their vampires, begging all
their
lives for death. His nosferatu hold upon the world was tenuous. He