VAMPIRIC ENTITLEMENT is the fifteenth chapter in the book, We Are All Vampires.
We Are All Vampires by Rute Serafim & Karl Swainston
We are all vampires, but some of us are more vampires than others. We’re not talking about the blood-curdle-drinking vampires of the past.; no, the modern vampire is more sophisticated and is everywhere in society, seeking only the energy of another person. This contemporary and contemptuous creature will be a husband, a wife, a partner, or a boss in the workplace, daily draining their victims of life.
CHAPTER 15 - VAMPIRIC ENTITLEMENT by Rute Serafim & Karl Swainston
Have you ever felt entitled to something? It doesn’t matter what it is: have you felt entitled to it? I have. I feel today I am entitled to respect because of my age; I feel entitled to employment benefits because I have worked hard; I feel entitled to see Leeds United win the Premiership.
Apart from the latter, these are all examples of noble entitlements, just rewards because of the industry, sacrifice, and effort we have put into something. These noble entitlements do not hinder the happiness of others. This makes them noble. They are entitlements veering in the direction of the Buddha.
Vampires do not possess this form of entitlement.
There is another form of entitlement: deluded entitlement. Leeds United winning the Premiership is one such example.
Here is a narrative example of such deluded entitlement, both in childhood and early adulthood, from the vampire.
Racid, the vampire in this narrative, is like all vampires: he takes whatever he can and does not feel it is wrong. More disturbingly, the vampire will commit heinous acts to secure their deluded entitlement.
When ordinary people commit a crime, they will feel a sense of guilt and a nagging conscience. On the contrary, the vampire is in no way conscious of the acts of the crime they commit. They deem such actions entirely natural and in keeping with success in life. They have no empathy, sympathy, or guilt. The vampire is a cold, calculating creature. Racid is a vampire, and he, too, is a cold, calculating creature, even in infancy. Racid is also a demonstrable example of an ugly and obnoxious vampire.
There are characters in this life and history who are, quite simply, evil. No matter how much love and sweet attention is given to them, they cannot resist being bad. Gerard Racid was one such character.
In 1935, to a pair of wonderful parents, young Racid was born. He was a weakling of a child, but his infirmity only made his parents dote upon him even more.
His mother would pinch his cheeks with love and try to make him chuckle, but little Racid never even raised a smile, let alone a chuckle.
As time progressed, Racid’s parents worried whether something was wrong with their ‘baby’ and his lack of laughter. They took him to a specialist; numerous tests were carried out, and the devastating news was returned that the boy was ‘retarded’; such was the brutal diagnosis of the time.
However, it wasn’t that Racid was ‘retarded’, which made him wrong throughout his life; there was something within the child, in his heart or head, which manifested itself in quite extraordinary characteristics of selfishness. These extraordinary characteristics of selfishness and the cold and calculating manner in which Racid acted prevailed within him throughout his life.
At the tender age of five, Racid began to attend infant school. From his first day there, he was a loner, and as the years passed, he became increasingly withdrawn.
He had no friends, nor did he desire any. There was, however, one thing young Racid was intensely interested in possessions.
He would grab with greedy hands anything offered to him.
Racid’s bedroom was a veritable miser’s nest full of rubbish. His parents loved to see the excessive passion with which he grasped any new possession. They showered gifts upon him, but strangely, he never thanked them with that beautiful shine of light shown when a little boy looks at his parents after receiving presents.
They didn’t mind, though, as they loved him without reserve.
The years it was passed on.
Racid left infant school and carried the same cold and calculating character into high school.
At the end of his school life, Racid left with no qualifications. The boy couldn’t even read, though every effort had been tried; he only once showed enthusiasm for his studies.
Although Racid wasn’t all that bright, he did know how to act in his best interests; even if that meant bringing great misery to others, he didn’t care. Such was the complete lack of conscience within the boy.
Racid returned to his family home on his final school day and declared to his loving parents, ‘I’m off now. I don’t have to live here anymore, and besides, I can’t stand you both.’
‘But we have raised you? We have given you everything!’
‘You only gave me what I was entitled to. Nothing more,’ Racid replied coldly and unsympathetically.
Racid left home, but before he had done, he relieved both his parents of what spare cash they had in the house at that time.
He possessed no remorse for his actions.
Racid never sought communication with his parents again.
When he encountered them by chance, he would either cross the road or turn and walk the other way. His mother was devastated and inconsolable. Her health suffered, and in her 48th year, cancer took her from this world.
Racid’s father, Albert, now hated his son.
With the money Racid had stolen from his parents, he secured himself a cheap bedsit. Since it was easy to find cheap bedsit accommodation and employment in those days, Racid readily took a job cleaning up in some nearby factory.
For the next fourteen years, Racid worked in the same factory. He always tried to gain a better position with his firm, but his employers couldn’t stand him; he’d turn up on time and was never sick, which all mattered to the factory management.
Just as in school, Racid in the workplace was a loner. He never socialised with his work colleagues, went for a sandwich, or drank with them. The only social communication he had was one of profit.
Racid possessed a cheap van, and in his spare time, he would regularly roam the streets of Leeds, searching for any old scrap to sell for a profit at the factory.
Racid was now 30 and had had only one brief liaison with the opposite sex, but nothing came of it.
No decent girl would entertain him, deeming him ‘an oddball’.
He possessed a squat, fattish, and somewhat twisted frame for a man; he stood no taller than five foot, five inches; his hair had badly thinned during his twenties so that only separated strands of weak, dark hair now existed, which he combed over the pinkish dome of his head. Since he loathed the notion of paying for BrylCream to keep it in place, he used fat straight from the chip pan instead.
‘Why waste money,’ he would say to himself after combing the thinned hair strands over his head and wiping the extra lard off the comb with his only towel.
Racid knew he was ugly and didn’t care, or he was not bothered about being obnoxious. He knew he had little chance of winning over the heart of a fair woman.
He had come to accept the reality of who he was, and the only recreation and felicity he sought and had been of giving full vent and expression to his grasping and miserly lifestyle.
However, in his 30th year, Racid’s fortunes and life changed.
It was a beautiful summer’s afternoon when Racid had finished fixing an old wheelbarrow to sell at the factory.
He felt the heat unbearable in his choking bedsit and decided to take a fresh stroll through Middleton Woods.
On the way along a deserted lane leading to the woods, Racid heard a groan from a semi-derelict farm across a short field. He ignored it at first, but upon hearing it a second time, he went to investigate.
When he neared the perimeter fence, he saw a hunched and significant piece of cloth on the ground; another groan rose from the strange pile on the grass. Not knowing what to do since the fence barred any access to the figure on the ground, Racid stared at the strange lump.
At last, a pink, bald head lifted itself from the figure’s clothes and looked towards Racid.
‘Help me,’ it called.
Racid realised the man on the floor was old and needed help, but rather than starting into action and helping the man, Racid concentrated his mind on what could be gained by the accident the old man had.
‘I wonder if he’s got any money on him,’ thought Racid.
‘Help me get into the house. Please. The dogs are tied up in the backyard, and you can let yourself in through the front gates. Help me, please,’ the old man pleaded.
Racid didn’t answer but walked casually down to where the front gates were. He entered, but rather than hurrying up the field to the old man, he set off towards the house.
He knocked first.
There was no answer; he then banged hard with his fist.
Again, there was no answer. Rancid tried the door handle, but it was locked.
Racid ventured around the property, trying to find access inside it, carefully avoiding the backyard with the dogs, but to no avail. There was no open access.
Realising nothing else could be done to get into the property aside from breaking into it, Racid walked off towards the old man on the ground.
‘You’ve been some time. Couldn’t you get in through the gates?’ muttered the old man.
‘I didn’t know how to do it,’ Racid replied calmly.
‘I feel better and don’t think I’ve broken any bones. Help me up.’
Racid put his right arm out to help the old fellow, but with his left arm, he began searching the old man’s pockets for anything valuable. He found nothing but scraps of old paper.
‘I’ll take you to your house.’
‘Cheers,’ stammered the old man.
Racid helped him back to his farmhouse, where the old man unlocked the door, and he and his helper, Racid, entered the property.
Upon entering the property, Racid’s eyes widened as his gaze latched onto a veritable treasure house.
All sorts of junk littered the property. As Racid regularly bought, stole, and sold old junk, he quickly determined the old man’s house was easy pickings. The two entered the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table.
Racid began, ‘It was good to help you. I don’t know what you’d have done if I hadn’t helped you.’
‘You’ve done well, lad; you’ve done well.’
‘What’s yer name?’ Racid questioned.
‘Mr Ackroyd, and this is my farm.’
Earnest Ackroyd was 88 years old and had owned the farm all his life; his parents had passed it on to him. He never married, had no children, and the farm had fallen badly into disrepair. He led a reclusive life. There was no livestock on the farm, only a few knackered, old horses chomped endlessly upon the grass of Ackroyd’s two minor fields.
‘I used to be able to look after the farm, but now I’m old, I cannot. The kids keep getting through the fence and nicking things.’
Racid’s fingers began to twitch.
‘I’ll sort out the fence, Mr Ackroyd; don’t worry about that.’
Racid did sort out the fence and everything else, for that matter. He befriended the old man and curried his way, unswervingly, into the old man’s favour and trust.
A few weeks he was passed before Racid left his bedsit and moved into Earnest Ackroyd’s farm.
Racid’s plan was simple: get the farm off the old man. He bided his time, carrying out every conceivable task for the old fellow, which he made a particular point of making old Ackroyd aware of.
Less than a year later, Racid was convinced the time was right to approach Ackroyd to discuss the old man’s will.
‘You don’t have any children, Mr Ackroyd, do you? You’ve never mentioned any relatives; have you any?’
‘I don’t think so, lad, and if I had, I wouldn’t know where or who they are. There’s only you and me now, son.’
Racid smiled and pursued his line of attack.
‘I know I shouldn’t mention it, but what would happen to me should you…?’
‘Die? Don’t shy away from the word, lad. We all must die one day. I’ve been thinking lately about that. I don’t have any money, and this farm is all I have left, if you can call it that now. I have decided that you shall have it when I die.’
Racid tried to keep calm, but he trembled all over. He sincerely believed that the farm was his entitlement to look after it.
‘You must fill a will out for that to happen, Mr Ackroyd.’
‘I will do the will tomorrow. Will do the will!’
Both men fell to laughing.
The will was signed the next day, and Racid was now the sole beneficiary of old Ackroyd’s property.
A year passed without any changes in old Ackroyd and Racid, but in the 90th year of the old man’s life, an accident of questionable nature occurred, which saw the sad demise of the old farmer.
On a cold night in January 1968, a 999 call from a phone box on Dewsbury Road was made to the Leeds Ambulance Service, informing them that an old man had had an accident and that the caller, a man, thought him dead.
Racid made the call. The old farmhouse did not have a phone. Racid had made his way along Middleton Grove to the public phone box on Dewsbury Road.
When the ambulance men arrived at the farm, they were met by Racid, who escorted them into the house and to the place at the bottom of the stairs where old Ackroyd’s body lay.
An ambulance man quickly confirmed that the old man was dead and that the most probable cause of death was falling down the stairs and his old age.
‘I’ve seen many dead bodies before in my job,’ commented one of the paramedics to a colleague, ‘but look at the horror, shock, and twisted anger on that old man’s face; it makes you wonder what was he thinking at the time of his death, doesn’t it?’
Racid concealed a smile.
A knock rapped on the door, followed by a police officer. After drawing aside the ambulance man and learning the facts, the police officer was satisfied with the probable cause of death. He turned to Racid and said, ‘Mr…?’
‘Was the old man your father?’
‘No, but he was like a dad to me. I lived here with him.’
‘How long have you lived here?’ asked the police officer.
‘About two years or so now, Officer.’
‘Mr Racid, I’m very sorry for your loss.’ The police officer continued, ‘However, because of the nature of death and your relationship with Mr Ackroyd, we will have to conduct an autopsy and go through the necessary lines of enquiry and investigation. Don’t worry about it; it’s all perfectly normal, and I’m sure it will be conducted promptly and with the least amount of distress to yourself. Now, if you’ll accompany me to the station and let others do their duty, Mr Racid.’
‘Certainly, Officer,’ replied Racid calmly.
The investigation rolled into work as soon as the officer and Racid had left the property. It was deemed highly likely that the old man had left his bed for some reason late into the night and had tried to go downstairs when he fell and killed himself. There were no suspicious circumstances to suggest otherwise. Later, the autopsy confirmed this, and accidental death was officially pronounced as the cause.
At the station, Racid was given tea and biscuits during his interview. The questions put to him, although clinical and measured to elicit the most revealing events of that night and the nature of his relationship with the old man, were asked most politely and respectfully that would usually be practised in questioning someone who had lost someone so dear.
Since Racid had nowhere else to stay that night and was not allowed to return to the farm until the investigation had run its course, he was allowed to sleep in a cell.
Extra blankets and tea were brought to him. He slept soundly and felt utterly refreshed when morning arrived.
The cell door opened, and the Inspector, who had interviewed Racid the night before, stood before him.
‘I’m glad you slept soundly, Mr Racid, after what you endured yesterday. I hope you will forgive us, but we had to do our duty.’
‘You were only doing what you had to do, Inspector.’
‘The preliminary report has just arrived from the autopsy, which concurs with earlier investigations and initially confirms that your friend, old Mr Ackroyd, died of an accident. You are free to go and to return to the farm.’
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Racid collected his coat and looked around to see if he had left anything significant in the cell. He had not, but noticing a single biscuit amidst brown crumbs on a white plate, he bent down and picked the biscuit up.
‘Waste not, want not!’ he uttered as he strode past the Inspector.
A junior officer approached the Inspector and asked him, ‘Could you sign these, Inspector?’
‘There’s something wrong about that man,’ the Inspector muttered but quickly shrugged.
His shoulders and signed the papers whilst asking his junior, ‘I heard your team, Leeds, beat Man U 4 – 0 last night?’
Racid did not bother to attend the old man’s cremation, claiming to the odd few who asked that it would be too distressing for him to see the dead body of a friend burnt.
Racid took charge of the property. Although he felt a great sense of entitlement to the property on account of looking after it and the old man, he made no application to legally secure the farm by initiating proceedings set down in the will, thinking that he might ‘..disturb some distant relative, who would have stronger claims than himself..’ He thought it best to do nothing but continue living on the property as if it were his own.
Years passed, and no one did arrive, knocking at the door to claim the land and house.
Over time, the last vestiges of what looked like a farm disappeared, and the place took on the aspect of a scrap yard without ever being one. Large fences were erected around its perimeter, and a triple-headed pack of hounds roamed the confines within so that it was impossible for anyone to gain access to the property without an invite.
These acts of vampiric entitlement and murder may appear extreme, but prisons and other penal institutions are full of vampires who have taken what is not theirs.
The vampiric acts have not always led to murder, but they invariably lead to untold suffering for the victim.
It is important not to confuse the common thief or a career criminal with these vampires. The common thief and career criminal may feel remorse for their victim, and they will know that what they have committed and taken was indeed not theirs.
The common thief and career criminal are acutely aware of this.
The vampire is not. The vampire believes they are entitled to whatever it is they have taken. And they certainly do not feel any compassion or remorse for their victims.
Racid was a vampire, possessing a unique sense of deluded entitlement: vampiric entitlement.
He felt he had saved the old man and the farm from death and ruin. Murdering the old man was a just act, a warrantable act by Racid because it was his farm.
The vampire is incorrigible. The vampire sees those around it, including family members, as a means to get what they are entitled to. They are nothing more than that. Racid’s parents only did for Racid what was dutiful.
Friends and acquaintances are no different. Old Ackroyd was no different.
The first point to notice is that the vampire has very little or no merit to the entitlement. The entitlement is merely fictitious in their head. The property will almost certainly belong to the industry and the efforts of others. Injustice and harm will come to others if the vampire receives or steals the entitlement.
As earlier stated, taking something they are not entitled to but feeling and knowing that they are, the vampire will go to any lengths, even murder in Racid’s case.
Receiving something cherished is a positive vibration in them. Their hunger for positive energy and reward breathes deep within them. The result is that even though they are not entitled to something, it doesn’t matter because their whole being believes they are. The vampire now believes with the whole force within its body that it should receive. The vampire believes its hunger for the positive should be satiated at any cost. They are not bothered.
But not all vampires have to murder to receive their entitlement. Modern society and businesses almost give the vampire the warrant of entitlement.
Just before the financial crash of 2008, there were hordes of these entitled vampires around the globe. So-called ‘fat cats’ ate their way through incredible salaries they felt entitled to.
Who said they were entitled to such ridiculous and amoral salaries when most people taking out mortgages or loans made each day meet?
However, these vampiric bankers were not fazed or conscience-laden over their salaries and cavalier actions with other peoples’ money. No. They were entitled to the money, and as for those with mortgages and loans, it was tough.
When the crash happened, these vampiric bankers disappeared: they ‘did one’ as the saying goes. My God! They were not responsible for the crash! A vampire is never responsible. A vampire will never admit guilt because it sincerely, faithfully, and without remit does not believe itself guilty of any crime. These vampires disappeared because the well of energy and money had dried up.
Isn’t it a travesty that after the collapse of many major financial institutions, after many ordinary folks had lost their money, not one vampiric banker was brought to justice?
Vampires indeed rule the financial markets and sectors. Their entitlement to huge salaries, and sod the rest, is the day’s action for them. Not only do the vampires exude vampiric entitlement and demonstrate grandiosity and self-exaggeration, but they are also often creatures full of rage.