Anonymous
The Autobiography of a Flea, Book4
In earlier journals describing my titillating adventures among the sexually obsessed human species, I hope I've modestly established the fact that while I am merely a Flea who must depend upon the ancient profession of bloodsucking to sustain my life, I'm a rather extraordinary creature insofar as my talent for being aware of the behavior and motivations of the lustfully inclined humans upon whom I feed is concerned. It's a wise parasite who knows the foibles of his hosts. I have enjoyed such wisdom since birth.
I cannot pretend to understand my own unique ability, nor the workings of a capricious destiny which apparently chose to single me out from all others of my kind – dispensing upon me the gift of intelligent observation as well as the additional capacity of communicating as exhibited herein.
I know only that it is, at times, a rather strenuous responsibility for one in my lowly walk (or should I more accurately say leap) of life. When going briskly about my surreptitious business of obtaining a living by deftly (and, often, dangerously) drinking the nourishing blood of the human beings that is so necessary to the continuance of my very existence, I'm frequently distracted by my own fascination for their bizarre and active mating techniques – to which they seem considerably addicted over and beyond their need for food and sleep. The human appetite for carnal pleasure and sexual satisfaction is indeed a voracious trait of their specie.
And a most entertaining one as I hope to once again prove by sharing my most recent experiences with those of you into whose hands this account may have fallen.
Finding myself back in England, I endured the cold, damp climate with as much fortitude one my size can muster but I longed for warmer, dryer climate, having known the more comfortable weather of other lands in my travels.
Once I had firmly concluded that I was ready to migrate to a more suitable climate, it was simply a matter of time and a number of jumps from host to host, whenever the opportunity presented itself, before I found myself within the cheery interior of a waterfront hotel that catered to seafaring men from ports all over the world.
The inhabitants of the hotel represented almost every nation imaginable, and knowing that the quality of cuisine is important when one is to depend upon it during a long sea voyage, I took the trouble to sample each sailor's blood – letting that which was most enjoyable to my palate determine my eventual destination.
I finally settled upon a virile young man named Ignacio Oses – a veritable bull of a fellow with olive skin (that was easily pierced), black hair, intent brown eyes and muscles that seemed to bulge over still more muscular construction. Also, his was a cheerful and pleasant disposition which seemed to keep his face unmarked since he would rather laugh than fight, even when far gone in wine; at which time he preferred singing doleful songs in his beautiful baritone voice, made even more exotic by his native Catalonian accent. Speaking both English and Spanish, he was apparently a very intelligent young man despite his obvious lack of formal education and manners.
Most important of all, Ignacio was returning to his own country – the famed Iberia of which I'd heard so many enchanting rumors and had always yearned to visit – within a few days, having only come to England upon some mysterious mission that he seemed unwilling to discuss with the others who plied him with wine and questions, but found that no matter how tipsy Ignacio became, his tongue would loosen only for ribald jokes and rollicking ballads whose merriment was superceded only by their undeniable obscenity. He simply sidestepped any reference to his purpose in being on the English soil, replying to rudely direct questions with a roguish smirk, a shake of his head and, occasionally, a spritely if lewd gesture that lightheartedly advised the questioner to drop the entire subject.
Naturally, my own militant curiosity was ignited and once I was aboard the intriguing Ignacio I knew his secret would be shared with me, sooner or later. Now all my former depression and ennui were gone – vanished in the excitement of my new host and his mysterious affairs, whatever they might be; and the anticipation of reaching sunny Spain at last.
One evening, as Ignacio sat roistering with the other sailors, a small boy appeared at the hotel bearing a message for him – which the lad whispered into Ignacio's ear. The immediate change that came over Ignacio was impressive. His face became solemn. His manner matter-of-fact. Gone was the merry, boisterous Ignacio. In his place was now a sober Ignacio who quickly excused himself and went into the darkness of the streets, heading toward the docks where ships were tied. Reaching a large and graceful vessel, he went aboard and straight to a cabin that could only have belonged to the master of the ship, judging from its exceptionally well furnished interior. There he found a short, dark man whose white hair and beard proclaimed his seniority, and whose air of authority announced his commanding presence on the vessel.
“You wish to see me, Captain?” inquired Ignacio, speaking Spanish fluidly. “The boy brought your message to the hotel.”
The captain nodded. “Yes, I would remind you, my friend, that we are scheduled to sail for Palma de Majorca in ten more days. And we are still short of our cargo count by two girls. We dare not return to Senor Bullpole without the exact number of virgins we were sent to obtain. So I must ask you to give me an account of your experiences in London, successful or otherwise.”