Original subtitles

♪ I'm the little killer

♪ I'm the lonely one ♪

♪ I'm the chill creeping up your spine ♪

♪ Telling you to run ♪

♪ I'm a hanging shadow

♪ I'm a lost love ♪

♪ I'm the past and the future ♪

♪ The last of the sutures, the cooing dove ♪

♪ We're the rock and rollers ♪

♪ We're the good time

♪ We're the heart pumping blood ♪

♪ We're the face in the mud ♪

♪ We're this stupid rhyme ♪

♪ Bang, bang - ♪ Bang, bang ♪

- ♪ Bang, bang - ♪ Bang, bang ♪

♪ Bang, bang ♪

♪ All fall down

♪ Burn the ground ♪

♪ All fall down ♪

♪ Burn the ♪

♪ Bang, bang - ♪ Bang, bang

- ♪ Bang, bang - ♪ Bang, bang ♪

♪ Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang ♪

Hmm. C'est cool.

Good evening.

The house wishes to extend its gratitude to the gathering

for your compliance with the unorthodox prerequisites

of tonight's event.

Furthermore, we wish to reiterate

that the anonymity that you have granted us

will be given to you individually

as well as to any institutions that you are representing.

Stating the obvious,

we are not here and neither are you.

Lot one of two, the master recordings

of "The Complete Works of the Vampire Lestat de Lioncourt,"

which includes his 2025 self-titled album

"The Vampire Lestat,"

additional session tracks that were discarded

in the final assemblage of the album,

original handwritten scores, and private recordings

by the Vampire Lestat himself, which include

a song cycle in the classical vein

set to the poetry of Baudelaire.

Before we begin the bidding, I perform the following action.

Are you kidding me?

Are you serious?

This is very insulting.

Shame on you.

We will begin the bidding at 1 yuan.

Do I hear 1 yuan?

Yi yuan.

Sold to the gentlewoman in the third row

of good spirit.

Lot number two, a music box

curated by the Vampire Lestat himself.

A 1978 Ferdinando Meccani Corinto sideboard.

Inside, a Rossner and Sohn MOTT turntable

with BeoLab 90 speakers,

two temperature-controlled wine cabinets,

one holding a bottle of Niepoort 1863 port wine,

the other with a magnum of blood

from the curator himself.

The upper level, a singular vinyl pressing

of "The Complete Works of the Vampire Lestat de Lioncourt,"

previously delineated, along with 111 albums of audio

best described as an omniscient history

of the events of the 2025 album and supporting tour

and the consequential global catastrophes

that sprung from said album and tour

as narrated by the Vampire Lestat himself.

The collection has been named "The Failures."

We will begin the bidding at 50 million yuan.

If you are hearing this now,

you must be a very privileged individual.

You could have fed a small nation for years

while they paved over the rubble.

You bought my box instead.

I like you already.

So let's begin in the middle,

for I could and should have ended it there,

my tour, my hedonistic pursuit of extremity, all of it.

And had I done so, the regretful dead

and the traumatized still alive

would be somewhere other than they are today.

And I am not saying that the attempted extinction

of the Y chromosome across the continents

was all my fault.

No, that would suggest a level of self-importance

even I'm not comfortable with.

But upon reflection-- yeah, made a contribution.

It was the spring of 2025.

A good nation was making itself great again,

again.

And every vampire,

those converting and those enduring,

well, they were doing exactly as they pleased.

♪ Ooh, ooh, ooh ♪

♪ Wah-ahh ♪

♪ Ooh, ooh, ooh ♪

♪ Wah-ahh ♪

♪ Ooh, ooh, ooh

♪ Wah-ahh ♪

♪ Why the long face? ♪

♪ My pretty baby ♪

♪ I got long fangs ♪

♪ Come appraise me ♪

♪ Bring your long stakes ♪

♪ That doesn't faze me

♪ I'm an actor ♪

♪ In my makeup ♪

♪ I'll get fatter ♪

♪ When we break up ♪

♪ What does it matter

♪ Who I take up?

Naturally, I named the band after myself,

and the four that backed me played their parts

as instructed.

There was Larry, the front man made sideman

choking his guitar neck nightly

wishing it was mine.

Brother Alex, the more talented seedling,

straight-edged and half the fun.

Salamander, bassist, dumb.

Shockingly dumb.

And TC, the abandoned bride of a dozen

"should have died in art school" bands

keeping us all in the dirty pocket.

We dropped songs on the streams and booked

intimate venues to induce what Gen Snooze called FOMO.

They came for cosplay, left converted,

and I baptized them the Beautiful Unwell.

And yet here we were

in the inn of the Stooges and the Stripes,

30 performances notched, and already resting

on the alps of adequacy.

Unacceptable.

♪ I'm piano ♪

♪ And you're forte

♪ You're allegro ♪

♪ I'm andante ♪

♪ We're bolero ♪

♪ Prostitué ♪

♪ Ooh, ooh, ooh

♪ Wah-ahh ♪

♪ Another taste ♪

Hello. Welcome to Detroit.

Lovely city.

Your song sucks.

Thank you for the feedback.

♪ Pick up the pace, pack up the gear ♪

♪ Gimme some face, a souvenir ♪

♪ Here come the gays, here comes the fear ♪

♪ Now we're having fun ♪

♪ Fun ♪

♪ Now we're having fun ♪

♪ Ooh

♪ Ah, ah ♪

♪ Ooh ♪

♪ Ah, ah ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, we're coming ♪

♪ Yeah, we're coming ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, we're coming ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, we're coming

♪ Yeah, yeah, we're coming ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, I'm coming ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, oh, yeah ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, oh, yeah ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, oh, yeah ♪

♪ Oh, yeah, oh ♪

Well, that was boring. - They seem to like it.

Harmonies on "Plastic Fiends" were trash.

He's right.

And the front head on your kick is shimmering.

Tune it up a step. - Singer's right.

And you left your tambourine in its stand, Larry.

Yeah, well, I was feeling the guitar.

No one is coming to hear your guitar, Larry.

No, they come for the Ozzy shtick.

"Dude, rage call to the Harmony Room.

"Larry Slater's shredding it tonight," said no one ever.

You sign the checks, singer.

- I do. I do sign the checks. - Sign this.

The tambourine tomorrow, as rehearsed and perfected.

- Suck it, singer! - What am I signing?

- Your night in Corvallis. - Ah.

You're buying the wife early retirement

and her lawyer a lake boat.

Use the pen.

But it's funny because it's blood,

and I'm a vampire.

Notaries in Oregon don't notarize in red ink.

There's the band, and there's the shell

that protects the band from the world's envy.

Our band shell was Christine Claire.

She hired, fired, dictated, and castrated

with extreme prejudice.

Try your best not to be you tonight.

- We want the car. - No.

- We'll be good. - Corvallis.

Who do you think?

You. - Her.

Me?

All right, sluts, out you go.

So I'm going into my vampire dressing room now.

A little draining, both ways.

You'll have to guess who gets the fangs

and who gets the vodka bottle.

And yes, it's a vodka bottle.

He did it again. Fucking asshole.

Did I mention that I was filming a documentary

at the time, a bootless errand

helmed by a first-time director.

I've seen a rough cut-- truthful and daring

with less Warren Beatty.

- Anyone see Jarda? - Hey, Jarda, heads up.

♪ From the land of sky-blue waters ♪

Ahoj. - Missing a contact again.

Oh, sakra.

How many drinks have you had?

- 1 1/2. - Drive to the burbs.

Sit by yourself in a booth at Applebee's.

Order the usual. Big tip.

Meet us back in the city.

Now, you'd think a 54-city rock tour

would be a wonderful cover for a blood drinker.

Hide your kill, hop on the bus,

wave to the morgue reports in the rear view mirror,

that kind of thing.

But niche celebrity is a hunter's handicap,

and a sloppy night in Corvallis made urgent

the need for a body double.

Ahoj!

His name was Jarda Klapek,

and the Albanian gangsters Christine hired

to find my doppelganger

found him working construction in the Czech Republic.

Three inches shorter than your velvet-mouth narrator,

we fit him for lifts, blue eye contacts, and a wig

and otherwise let him be Neanderthal me.

I hunted this way, and we send him that way,

and every sad photograph uploaded to Reddit or Discord

of Jarda eating a tuna melt by himself

only confirmed for most what they already believed...

Let's go!

That I, the Vampire Lestat,

was Daniel Molloy's fictitious creation,

and The Vampire Lestat, the band, was fronted

by a bricklaying karaoke fanatic from Ostrava,

nothing but a desperate cash grab at the end

of a cheugy vampire fad.

And I've only myself to blame for the timing,

having locked us in an attic

for a year-plus perfecting our sound,

a sound I hoped would counter Mr. du Lac's portrayal of me

as a mayonnaise villain with sociopathic tendencies.

All beside the point, because the point was,

the point forever is...

I know you're real.

Most of humanity moved on from vampires,

and rather quickly.

Congratulations.

Now go make friends.

They lifted their heads

from their algorithmic hand masters,

uttered a collective "huh," and swiped left.

I am the Vampire Lestat.

I am a god.

Gods are not swiped.

The Cuntessa.

The useful idiot.

Great show.

You left before we started.

Yeah, I figured, Spotify some T. Rex

and drag a little O neg from Dr. Fareed-Good here,

same diff.

I am not here.

Can we mic you?

TC punched the boom again.

Yeah. OK.

So, uh, you and Louis talking again?

He doesn't return my texts

or my telepathy.

I hear he's back in the States.

We good? - We're good.

Slate.

OK.

You've been alive and undead for 265 years.

You witnessed the French Revolution firsthand,

the electric light, penicillin,

two World Wars, the atomic bomb,

the moon landing, the Berlin Wall--

Joey Chestnut.

What?

He eats hot dogs for a living.

He's extraordinary. I hope to meet him one day.

Was there a question?

Having accumulated profound wisdom and experience

through the dark gift of immortality,

why have you chosen to waste it singing music

no one wants to hear

in pants no one should ever squeeze into?

You ask this question every night.

And I get a different answer every night.

You'll get me to repeat myself soon enough, I am sure,

once you confront your transformational trauma.

I don't have transformational trauma.

Mm, that's why these movie producers hired you,

Daniel Molloy, Vampire Slayer.

They said you requested me.

Absurd.

Oh, as absurd as a documentary

about a rock band posing as vampires

fronted by an actual vampire?

Directed by a vampire passing as a human.

You tell him, Fareed.

Is it true you were a stutterer as a child?

Louis said you were.

Was he there in 18th-century Auvergne?

He said you told him that.

Did I threaten Claudia with rape on a train?

Was I in the room

when Donizetti wrote "Don Pasquale"?

No, no, and impossible,

because I had buried myself underground

for the vast majority of the 1800s.

I wrote what he told me.

I don't have trauma, I love being a vampire,

and can you drop the Fledgling Speak & Spell?

The dark, dreary industrial world

has finally submitted to automation.

Laborers stand in their doorways

hitting their pipes as their children half-pipe

in their drained, empty swimming pools.

Drug stores locked up baby formula and shaving cream

while Saks ate Barneys and someone told everyone

that Lululemon was sexy.

Facts are irrelevant.

Feels are everything.

And the value of human life,

it has never been more arbitrary.

David, Freddie, Prince Rogers, they're all gone,

and the lights on Tay Tay's eras have dimmed.

Fire coming down the hill,

water moving in on Nantucket.

No more safe spaces.

It's my era now.

Post Malone and Jelly Roll playing there tonight.

60,000 for Face Tattoo Palooza.

You played an 800-seat venue.

How is it your era?

I'm vain and shallow and fear an empty seat.

Ask me an easy one.

Is it true your band was formed on Halloween?

You are listening to "The Failures"...

Album 2, Side B.

What do you think?

It's nice.

- Nice? - Yeah. It's nice.

I don't--I don't see Beyoncé covering it.

But it's nice.

Nice is nothing.

- Oh, it--it's nice... - Nice is a balloon.

That you're back writing music.

A flower box is nice.

It's nice that you got yourself a nice place.

It's a nice word,

and it says everything I wanted to express.

Don't be a bitch about it.

You should come visit.

I have a space above the bed in one of the guest rooms

I can't find a painting for.

Oh, the guest room.

You want me to come and see your guest room.

It's an affluent neighborhood.

Old money, young professionals,

a smattering of criss-de-trust-fund-bébé.

Mmm, good eating.

Same potholes, but no hurricanes,

no witches.

And everyone mangles French just like you do.

Come to me.

Montreal.

I am he, and he is me.

Less baggage here.

I get it. I get it.

Besides, there's an Olmsted park nearby if I get homesick,

and there's a garage band rehearsing across the street

who call themselves, of all things, Satan...

They call themselves Of All Things Satan?

Satan's Night Ou...

Sat--Satan's Night Owl?

Out. Satan's Night Out.

OK. Makes sense.

Louis, do you know someone called Daniel Molloy?

Uh...

I burned his laptop!

I didn't know he had it saved in the cloud.

I only found out it was coming out a month ago.

You've known for a month?

And you talk about me in it to a mortal?

Well, yeah.

Yeah, kind of--but, you know--

No, I don't know, Louis.

Please explain yourself.

It's gonna be here and gone in a minute.

No one reads anymore.

Mm.

Oh.

No, thank you!

Oh.

Oh, I know what infinitesimal means!

It was raining.

No!

No.

Never fucking...

Liar!

I'm not a harlequin.

Your sources are your sherpas.

Your editor is your priest.

Don't go to the F.

G sus out. Why must you complicate it?

Mm.

all: Trick or treat.

Candy, please.

Hello.

Bon Halloween.

Oh, I wanted the full-size bar.

Is that it?

- Thank you. - Oh.

Your camera is not period correct.

I have a peanut allergy.

Well, allergies are delusional.

I'll take the Mounds.

You'll take whatever I give you!

That guy was mean.

Not--not the F!

Come on, Larry!

Yeah!

Dude, what the fuck?

G minor sus out!

This isn't 1979.

Bela Lugosi is not dead.

You don't need to finger her for five bars.

You're hurting her.

- Is that our neighbor? - Um, yeah.

Apologies for the Squier.

My man Arturo will come in the morning

with a replacement

and a new front door.

More frequent showers.

Thank you.

What was the question again?

Why music?

Hey. Hey.

Why now?

Dude, that was sick.

What are we doing here?

We're doing a rewrite.

So this whole tour is just some Byronic reaction

to my book?

Who better to refute the book

than the man who wrote the book?

Mm, well, the songs are my story,

your documentary the liner notes.

Liner notes?

I won two Pulitzers.

I'm taking this thing to Cannes, OK?

I'm gonna be slapping Chris Rock

and stroking my Oscar.

The brat sings, the brat dies.

The Great Laws are clear on this.

More exposure for us, more risk for us.

He sings for himself.

Make more!

Only a coven leader can make more.

The Great Laws are clear on that.

First the book, now the singer.

This is chaos uncaged.

♪ My little heart's reflection ♪

♪ You've got a confession ♪

♪ You used to find ♪

♪ I caught a real live one ♪

♪ Didn't blink ♪

♪ Didn't try to run ♪

♪ I caught a real live one ♪

♪ Sucking on the sun ♪

♪ No time for glowing up ♪

♪ No time for throwing up ♪

♪ No time for vibing out ♪

♪ Your phone is blowing up ♪

♪ I caught a real live one ♪

♪ No time for "I ride my stepbrother ♪

♪ Till he come" ♪

♪ Doo, doo, doo, dah, dah, dah ♪

♪ Don't wanna smash your Slack ♪

♪ Or be your morning star ♪

♪ Don't wanna learn another TikTok dance ♪

♪ Wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

♪ Ooh ♪

Beef House in the Twin Oaks Mall.

Order at the bar this time.

Take some photos with the fans I've planted there.

♪ Keep 'em scrolling, rolling ♪

♪ Fire emojin', aubergines ♪

Hi, papi.

♪ I've been a bad boy

♪ Deep down in my heart ♪

♪ I kept a really dark secret ♪

♪ From the very start ♪

♪ Give me a million more screams ♪

♪ Means exactly what you think it means ♪

♪ Doo, doo, doo, dah, dah, dah ♪

♪ Don't wanna smash your Slack ♪

♪ Or be your morning star ♪

♪ Don't wanna learn a fucking TikTok dance ♪

♪ Wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

Pick up the fucking tambourine!

From the alps of adequacy to the canyon of coup d'etat,

two nights in a row, my violin competing with his guitar

for the solo break.

Two centuries waiting to share my music,

two years as Mr. du Lac's B-movie brute.

But just as I was about to bridge the bridge

with murder and mayhem,

something quite surprising happened.

My music wrapped itself around me like a jungle snake

constricting its prey,

and a lifetime of blood bartering

overwhelmed the temporal lobe.

Muses appeared in my mind and in the now around me.

Memories taking their turn.

Blood in, blood out.

Hammering away at the performative vampire persona

I had welded into armor.

The armor cracked.

The bridge buckled.

And the bona fide vampire emerged center stage.

It was I who had been adequate.

It was I who had been holding us back,

and now, exposed in the raw

under the white hot lights,

my bandmates began to feed.

♪ I wanna stay in bed eating black licorice ♪

And that sound I had been grinding them for

was finally unleashed,

a euphoric grottiness spilling into the crowd,

into their bodies, enveloping the venue.

♪ I wanna stay in bed

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

♪ I wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

♪ I wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

♪ I wanna stay in bed

♪ Eating black licorice ♪

♪ I wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice

♪ I wanna stay in bed ♪

♪ Eating black licorice

Which one of you's OD'd before?

What do you do?

What did she take?

Not her.

Me.

Get her on the ground.

Her blood.

Ecstasy. - You dead man'd her, man!

LSD.

What the hell happened up there?

Can't OD on a candy plate.

What the hell were you doing?

I should have quit right there and then.

Would have been a lovely footnote to my life, the band,

but the muses were just beginning.

You done this to me?

- What are you doing? - Calling 9-1-1.

I lost myself on stage for a moment.

Seems you still lost.

These songs gonna kill you. You know that, don't you?

I can't die.

Everything dies.

You die. I die.

She dies.

She dies.

Oh, he dies bad.

I'm immortal.

Yeah, you kill some wolves and fall in love.

Get the gift, fall in love.

Go to ground, get dug up, and fall in love.

You're like some wet clothes in a coin op dryer,

just 265 years round and round.

Why you so sad?

Thousands of fans loving you.

I want millions.

And that'll top off that heart of yours?

Billions.

Then why you always gotta make it so hard

for someone to give it to you?

Huh?

Who told you that?

Don't worry.

They comin'.

Who's coming?

Oh, they gonna tell you themselves.

Who's coming?

Great show tonight.

Who?

You are listening to "The Failures,"

Album 5, Side B.

If you take nothing else away from your exorbitant purchase,

heed this advice.

Never play two nights in Detroit.

You'll wind up in Windsor with a broken orbital bone

listening to transactional sex through the adjoining walls.

How I came to this squalid real estate

is the premise of Side B, Album 5, so...

Uh-huh, come!

Now, the boutique hotel we were staying at

was having a grand-ish opening that night,

and the band was asked to lend its celebrity status

to the event.

Don't tell me to pose.

Fuck you.

There was a red carpet, a pap line,

and a vampire DJ of some renown

seducing corporate employees, provincial influencers,

and party crashing Beautifully Unwell.

Move faster. Thank you. Thank you.

I was having sex in an elevator with Dee

and the girl I had just overindulged myself with

earlier in the night.

Actually, that happens... later.

A lot of things happened that night.

Huh.

Come on. Come on, come on, come on!

The band is inside with Dan in the VIP perch.

I'm giving the paps my pussycat

with no idea that I would be in a fang fight

less than an hour later.

No, no, no, no.

I'm getting ahead of myself again.

I arrive fashionably late, of course.

State your name for the camera.

Baby Jenks.

OK, Baby, tell me, why do you like The Vampire Lestat?

Like, I'm gonna be in the movie?

Oh, you're in it now.

I am feeling good.

Surfing the sublime candy-flipped wave

of the girl's blood.

You're him. You're that voice.

The girl is feeling good... Wow.

Riding the wonders of Dr. Fareed's

blood transfusion quick pick-me-up cocktail.

Who's that guy, 'cause, like,

rock and roll, it's dying.

I sat there soaking up her praise

along with the band, still somehow blind

to the vampiric mysteries of their front man.

So what if the dead and buried past

was now a fresh and eager groupie?

It's rock and roll, you know?

Have a nervous breakdown onstage,

chat it up with the floating girl

on the ceiling you almost killed,

have sex with her in the elevator--

ah, I'm still not there yet.

MDMA and LSD,

the Torvill and Dean of hallucinogenics.

And so then everybody's like,

is rock and roll actually dying?

Were you a stutterer as a child?

They walk into the ER.

They are, like, the doctor, and Lestat's the scalpel.

I'm the scalpel. Print the T-shirts.

And so he, the scalpel,

cuts into rock and roll's heart like he cut into mine tonight.

And he has the heart in his mouth.

He's like, "Do you wanna fuck?"

And rock and roll is like, "Yes, bitch!"

I excused myself to the men's room.

Didn't read about vampire physiology

in Mr. du Lac's memoir, did you?

No mention of the scars on my chest either.

Hair stopping way above my shoulders.

And just for the record, no ticket pocket of mine

ever had his initials inscribed onto them.

I mean, these are the editorial wags

of an insane person.

Note to self, edit that out in the final version.

Starting again.

Vampires pee.

We don't do it as often as you do,

assuming you're not one of us.

And we generally avoid eco-friendly urinals.

Mm.

Detroit.

Name's Tim.

She's Rus. - They're Rus.

- Pronouns. - Mm.

And yet it's respectful, like silence at a urinal.

Things got a bit crossed

when we were minding each other the other night.

Rus here has a hot mouth.

And a strong pelvic floor.

I admire your aim.

Mm.

"Long Face" sucks.

Rus wanted to apologize.

But "Black Licorice,"

"Why Do I Have to Feel,"

I like those ones.

"Frankly, Mr. Shankly" almost ruined "The Queen Is Dead."

Apology accepted.

We have a coven out here in Detroit.

- Do you? - The Fang Gang.

You want to see a real vampire bar, come with us.

We have a huge house out past Brightmoor.

Our own farm under the floorboards.

Hmm, sure. What about tomorrow night?

You're on the road tomorrow night.

Yes. That was me being polite.

No, that was you lying.

Eco-friendly urinals.

Good for the planet, so we're told.

Good for vampires? Hmm.

We chardonnay them.

And then there's regional vampires.

Always trying to make a name for themselves.

I chardonnay them, too.

Obligations, I'm afraid.

But please do send my most sincere bonjour

to your Brightmoorish coven.

Lilac.

I have a blind spot

when it comes to blood poisoning.

You'd think a vampire

of my stature would know better.

But then there's that old saying.

You fool me once, shame on me.

You fool me twice, MDMA and LSD are excellent drugs.

Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce.

Twirl, twirl.

Overshare.

I saw your soul.

I saw yours, too.

Still feeling good, I went looking for my band,

looking for sex, looking for anything

that radiated the fun that I sang about

in my song, "Long Face."

And then...

Regionals.

Wait, did she say that "Long Face" sucked?

"Long Face" sucks.

Does it suck?

I wondered.

Did she have a point?

And then I thought, ooh, they want a little scrap

with the scalpel.

No worries, I thought.

I have the Queen's blood in me.

I could take 20 regionals at once

with the Queen's blood.

Where's the band, Dan?

They called

corporate bullshit.

Went to party upstairs.

So I'm scoring dick pills in Mogadishu

for a UN peacekeeper

when in walks Stewart Copeland

wearing a kufi and a mouthful of ammo.

So I thought about

having sex with Christine,

and then I thought, that's all the way upstairs.

And then I thought, I'm the scalpel.

What does the scalpel do between here and upstairs?

Mr. du Lac's memoir tiptoed around vampire sex, didn't it?

He and Dan made it out to be this tortured act

or obligational foreplay before blood drinking.

That is not the case at all.

It's not the capstone of vampiric desires.

That would be the taking of life,

and next would be a good draining,

leaving your victim near death and paralyzed

for an unhurried escape.

And after that, there's the petit coup,

the little drink, the sip.

And after those three, it's sex.

So now you know, the fourth best thing

a vampire can do to avoid thinking about the past

is to have sex.

Sex. Sex. Sex.

And I have had a lot of sex over the years.

It's not all pain and toxicity.

I have an immortal life, and I carry with it

an immortal erection.

And I am not ashamed of it.

Sex is fun, like the fun I sing about in "Long Face,"

which, looking back on it now, does suck.

I still have residuals coming in, actually.

Carnal pleasure is essential to a vampire's survival,

if only to keep time's baggage from burying you.

Sex with the bellman and Dee and honey-trapping Baby Jenks.

Probably should have gotten off the seventh floor

when I had gotten off.

But I didn't.

I'm getting married in a week.

I'll never forget you.

Law 4: no vampire shall ever reveal

his or her true nature to a mortal

and let the mortal live.

You do know it's 2025?

Face the wall, my dear.

You'll not want to see this.

Mmm.

The Tooth Team.

The Fang Gang.

I killed a pack of wolves when I was a mortal.

I'll most likely tell you about that later,

as I let it define me for a time.

And normally, confining architecture

and a thrift store coven galvanized by medieval dogma

wouldn't faze me in the least.

I am building a career that supports my well-being.

But the drug blood and my sex legs

and the distracting past my music had unleashed on me

put me at a momentary disadvantage.

I'm in charge of my work-life balance.

Law 4, as if the du Lac-Molloy memoir

hadn't outed us all two years ago,

as if my entire stage show wasn't a bawdy burlesque

of "is he or isn't he,"

as if half the vampire population

outside the ruined port of Detroit wasn't waving

the dark gift like red cups in a piss bar,

collecting fledglings like they were Labubu dolls.

I mean, I haven't even told my band

I was an actual vampire.

I was just singing my songs and fucking my food

and defending myself from the vibrant life choices

I had made on my way from the Auvergne countryside

to the eighth floor of this "why bother" hotel.

And this is how it was all going to end for me?

We are the Fang Gang.

We are the children of the darkness reborn.

Jesus fucking Christ.

"Armand told the truth"? Have you met him?

What the fuck does that even mean?

Heard there was an after-party

on the asshole floor.

I like to think I was owed the reinforcements,

Dan and the oddly familiar DJ,

but that's me looking back on it now.

Anything I had done to deserve their timely rescue

hadn't happened yet.

I'd be dead, I think, without Dan.

But then maybe more of the world

would still be alive had Dan not

rallied his army downstairs.

Consider this sliding door of Dan

as you decant my blood and devour my words.

It's hard hiding you're a god.

You're for real?

CCTV, eco-flush toilets,

IMF freezing your accounts because you have the blood

of a patricidal queen inside you.

Hello again.

Théâtre des Vampires.

Talamasca dragged me into that.

And once you reveal yourself,

you have to be on all the time

and remember every face you've ever met.

And everywhere you go, everyone remembers

the thing they said to you in the room that you shared.

Were you a stutterer as a child?

This is why gods prefer hiding in the clouds.

There's nothing there...

But water waiting to fall.

So many opportunities to call it a night that night.

After the song unleashed the muses.

After I saw my first soul.

After I was nearly decapitated in a boutique hotel hallway.

After my vampire nature was revealed to the band

and my vampire gift winged me away

north of the river, south of the country.

But I was saved from such rational thought.

Love will do that to you.

Ma chère.

Very kind of you to come.

I got myself into something I can't get out of.

Music's opened up the batch oven,

and I'm not sure if I can close it again.

I'm not really at my best, but--

It's very nice to see you again.

I like what you've done with your hair, my Ga--

my Ga--

My Gabriella.

It's not much of a reveal, I guess.

I know it's common gossip now,

the first thing one thinks about

when my name comes up.

I assume a privileged individual such as yourself

enjoys a little dirt in their sandwich.

So I serve it to you now how it felt then.

Fledgling,

lover,

mother.

Listen to tracks from "The Vampire Lestat"

wherever you stream music.

If you're still listening after the last hour,

welcome back.

Bring on the muses.

♪ Give me a million more screams ♪

Do you kill people?

♪ Give me a million more screams ♪

Let's talk about your mother.

♪ I've been a bad boy, deep down in my heart ♪

My maker called for his mama and I came.

♪ Give me a million more screams ♪

You are caught in great danger with Lestat.

You stole my personal physician.

You hired my biographer.

The songs are not about you.

♪ I want to stay in bed eating black licorice ♪

Shall we do it? Shall we scorch the mortal world?

♪ I want to stay in bed eating black licorice ♪

What do you think about the great conversion?

Fucking stupid.

♪ I want to stay in bed eating black licorice ♪