VAMPIRIC FOCUS ON NEGATIVE
VAMPIRIC FOCUS ON NEGATIVE is the fifth chapter of 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 5 - VAMPIRIC FOCUS ON NEGATIVE by Rute Serafim & Karl Swainston
VAMPIRIC FOCUS ON NEGATIVE AND FAULTS
The vampire has an extraordinary ability to pinpoint with exactitude and identify the slightest chink in their victim’s armour. They can dismantle the slightest failing and utilise this to bring down the victim’s whole character.
The vampire is always significantly critical of others. They will pick up on the actions of others and find fault with how or how something has been done.
By nature, the vampire is a negative creature, and finding faults is a negative occupation.
Seeing fault is not complicated; it is one of the most straightforward occupations in the world.
‘Criticism comes easier than craft.’ as the adage goes. The vampire is a master of such common practice. For the vampire, finding fault is a must.
In the first instance, the victim will be sucked of positive energy; in the second, the vampire will feel invigorated by its powerful act. The creature will feed off the deterioration in its victim’s character. There will be no remorse or conscience from the vampire because, as we will see later, the vampire does not possess these exemplary virtues.
The vampiric creature will not settle for the odd negative comment but will spew out a barrage of them. Each outburst of negativity will make the vampire feel superior. Even if the fault is minor, the vampire will magnify it, making it almost life-threatening. It will be a battalion of attack by the vampire to make this happen. The creature needs to feel superior; it needs to express superiority.
This experience is harrowing for those living with or working with the vampire.
The result is that, in an intimate or business relationship with a vampire, the victim’s confidence and self-esteem will become destroyed.
Being exposed to a vampire can be a very uncomfortable condition. In any form, there will be no happy conclusion of being in a relationship with a vampire. Vampires need to feed their appetite continuously, and they will possess no sympathy, empathy, or thought for others.
This is an entirely regular activity for them to manifest their true desires. Even when they have been found out and revealed for what they are, they will not succumb to apology because, in their mind and eyes, they have done nothing wrong.
The vampire will twist around the whole circumstance and make it appear they are the victim in a relationship now in ruins. The ‘pestering friends…the victim…the in-laws….’ all are at fault, but not the vampire.
The vampire is never wrong. Everyone else is wrong, but not the vampire. They possess such elevated egos of themselves that they cannot possibly be the culprit in the disaster and debris that lay around.
Brian was a regular vampire. The following is one such instance of him always being right.
BRIAN AND PETER
Two hundred fifty-five regularly held little chess tournaments for all the cranks on the Leeds Chess scene, and it would be unfair not to mention the perfect marriage of Brian and Peter.
Brian and Peter were inseparable; wherever one of the characters went, the other was sure to be there too. They were not in a relationship; they were perfect friends. You might have called it a perfect friendship, as I never once saw the two characters fall out.
Brian was a beauty of council estate creation: middle-aged and weighing in at just over 20 stone, unshaven, matted hair, and a face looking like it had just emerged from a second-hand tyre yard: round, pock-marked, and bloated on account of all the alcohol and smoking it had undergone during a chess career at 136 level.
He had a unique way of not talking, but not shouting either, but somehow his mouth, if you could call the yellow thing one, was always making sounds like an industrial machine: Yorkshire-made, of course.
Peter, his ‘wife’, was the living contrast to Brian.
Peter was diminutive, thin, and ill-looking, and the only manifest resemblance he had to Brian was when they sat together at a table, smoking as you could in the old days.
The collective exhalations from the two would create a toxic cloud of purple, which would have instantaneously turned any Victorian Industrialist into the first Victorian Environmentalist.
Unlike his husband’s bloated features, Peter’s countenance was gaunt and cadaverous.
A moustache, already dead and yellow with the smoke, hung over his top lip, and his eyes perpetually drooped as if to say, ‘Is it bedtime yet?’
Peter never looked awake; he was always in some semi-stupor state and barely let out the merest shuffle of life.
This trait undoubtedly resulted from gruelling shifts in the factory where he sprayed ovens with toxic paints.
He regularly complained of spending an hour washing the cancerous stuff off his body in his bath.
Peter never did ‘wash all the cancerous stuff off’, though; in the end, it killed the poor sod.
However, Brian, the husband, lived, and during one eventful day at 255, we knew how angry and full of rage a middle-aged councilman can be when someone lifts (steals) his cigarettes.
It was summer, and we’d been playing a series of five-minute chess competitions. It was nearing the end, and people were beginning to make their excuses and leave.
A few die-hards remained when the dogs leaped up and began to bark because of a knock on the door.
Brian was puffing away on the sofa, with Peter doing the same on the other side.
Someone at door, Karl!’ Brian boomed.
‘See who it is, Brian. I’ve only a couple of minutes on me clock.’
Brian heaved himself out of the sofa with a fog of smoke swirling around him and lumbered his frame to the door.
A minute later, he appeared again, saying, ‘It’s t’ Jehovah’s Witnesses. Have a to let ’em in?’
‘Do what you want,’ I answered without realising what I said and without looking up, frantically slamming the pieces down and slapping the clock in time trouble.
When I’d lost, there was Brian on the sofa with these two black-suited, young gentlemen of the faith of Jehovah, looking very frightened as the triple-headed hounds of Hell were showing their sharp, white teeth at them.
Brian and Peter flanked and smoked at them from either side.
‘What have you brought these in for, Brian?’ I asked, looking at them and wondering what to do.
‘A thought you might wanna ask ’em about God,’ he said, waving his hands.
Paul, a steadfast atheist, began to question the poor fellows, and what followed was a barrage of questions from Paul, the Doctor and Brian, with the occasional muttering of ‘Yea’ from Peter.
I didn’t get involved, and eventually, the questions died out.
The Jehovahs, realising their cause and intention of converting these two was futile and seeing their opportunity to escape, duly made excuses and rose.
Brian and Peter were on opposite ends of the sofa.
‘It’s been nice chatting with you,’ one of the well-dressed young men said before leaving.
Brian was looking for his cigarettes.
‘We hope you can think about religion and give it some of your time.’
Brian was now frantic in the search for his cigarettes.
‘We’ll be getting off then,’ was the final word the Jehovahs uttered before leaving.
‘The bastards have nicked me fucking cigs,’ bawled Brian. ‘Don’t let the fuckers out.’
The dogs had all jumped to their feet; the humans were looking at Brian, and the Jehovahs were looking at each other.
‘You, yes, you near the door. Where’s me fucking cigs?’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t smoke and haven’t seen your cigarettes.’
‘You lying bastard,’ and Brian went for him, nearly falling over Peter’s feet, who was still smoking at the end of the sofa.
‘Whoa, Brian. What yer doing? They won’t have your cigs,’ we all added.
‘I know these bastards, and I’m telling you they’d nick owt, and they’ve nicked me fucking cigs.’ And he lurched again for one of the Jehovahs.
Quick thinking was needed before some outrage upon the poor Jehovahs was done by Brian, who by this time had become enraged.
I grabbed hold of Brian, and Paul gave support, and I think it was Stuart who got the poor lads out of 255 and away from Brian and his lost cigs.
Peter, Brian’s wife, was still sitting smoking on the settee, saying to his husband, ‘They must have nicked ’em, Brian. Gotter a been them,’ and he blew out another plume of smoke as if to conclude the matter.
A year later, when all the old settees would be fed to the Bonfire Night pyre on Bonfire Night, 255’s flea-bitten mess was added to the pile.
It was customary to tear open the bottom and sides of the settee to see if any lost money had fallen there, and, lo and behold! – there, before our eyes, was Brian’s long-lost packet of cigarettes.
As the ‘rage-full and totally innocent’ Brian showed, successful vampires are not always charming vampires; they can be arrogant vampires.
BLACK AND WHITE: THE VAMPIRE IS NOTHING WRONG
The vampire’s world is only black and white; there are no variations of colour. There is what can be taken and what cannot be taken. They possess a unique thought process: to gain energy from others.
However, the vampire can be the complete chameleon when adapting its actions to gain self-rewards. They are adaptable creatures who bend and twist their actions to suit the battle arena.