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

and
against the wall.
"Magic spew," said Sid, in amazement.
The impurities were gone. Johnny was on a pure blood-high now. He
contained all of Nancy's short life. She had been an all-American girl.
She had given him everything.
He considered the boy in the chair and the girl on the bed, the punks.
Their tribes were at war, his and theirs. Clothes were their colors,
Italian suits versus safety-pinned PVC pants. This session at the
Chelsea
had been a truce that turned into a betrayal, a rout, a massacre. The
Father was proud of Johnny's strategy.
Sid looked at Nancy's face. Her eyes were open, showing only veined
white.
He gestured with his knife, realizing something had happened. At some
point in the evening, Sid had stuck his knife into himself a few times.
The tang of his rotten blood filled the room. Johnny's fangs slid from
their gum-sheaths, but he had no more hunger yet. He was too full.
He thought of the punks as Americans, but Sid was English. A musician,
though he couldn't really play his guitar. A singer, though he could
only
shout.
America was a strange new land. Stranger than Johnny had imagined in
the
Old Country, stranger than he could have imagined. If he drank more
blood,
he would soon be an American. Then he would be beyond fear,
untouchable.
It was what the Father wanted for him.
He rolled the corpse off his shins, and cleaned himself like a cat,
contorting his supple back and neck, extending his foot-long tongue to
lick off the last of the bloodstains. He unglued triangles of vinyl
from
his body and threw them away. Satisfied, he got off the bed and pulled
on
crusader white pants, immodestly tight around crotch and rump, loose as
a
sailor's below the knee. The dark purple shirt settled on his back and
chest, sticking to him where his saliva was still wet. He rattled the
cluster of gold chains and medallions тАФ Transylvanian charms, badges of
honor and conquest тАФ that hung in the gap between his hand-sized
collar-points.
With the white jacket, lined in blood-red silk, Johnny was a blinding
apparition. He didn't need a strobe to shine in the dark. Sid raised
his
knife hand, to cover his eyes. The boy's reaction was better than any
mirror.
"Punk sucks," said Johnny, inviting a response.
"Disco's stupid," Sid sneered back.
Sid was going to get in trouble. Johnny had to make a slave of the boy,