A · Liar's · Laundry · Basket

When she is alone, she is still, thinking. The Liar sits on a bed, in a hotel room, in a city, and stares at the mirror. A greasy smear atop a neat bed, meaningless, featureless. Empty.

She would not recognize herself if someone painted a picture. The face she was born with has no meaning to her - she is thousands of women, all meaningless themselves. She is empty, devoid of lies that are truths in themselves. A hollow existence, devoid of purpose outside base acquisition.

There is nothing left to revenge, little left to acquire. She haunts bars, taking on the identities of others, trying their skins on one by one, searching for the perfect outfit.

The mirror continues to show a blur. It is all that is left.

The first time Susannah had seen the ocean, she was thirteen, on a trip to Florida with her family. Lisa Bratton, however, had been around the water her whole life. It was a game she played, slipping away from her brothers and sisters, and pretending to be someone who'd never been born and always existed. Lisa loved the beach, had grown up not too far from the beach, with a golden tan and a casual athleticism. A beach bunny in the making, with a smile that made her stand out amongst the throngs on the sand. A modest bikini for her newly developing body, and a bottle of fake tan, carefully applied along with the Sun-In.

Warm sun spilled in the window, dappling the room of the Tuscan villa with golden beams. Wine, expensive and lushly hued, filled paper-thin stems with liquid ruby. "You know, they're probably foreclosing on the Whitmans' house today. Possibly even right now." His tone was idly speculative, entirely unconcerned with two suddenly poor people in Providence, far more interested in the naked woman two feet away. Long lashes and brown eyes looked over the wine glass, and the expression on her face would have been sultry, had it carried a hint of heat. Instead, it was steel cold, remorseless, and that was its own kind of turn on.

Her head turned towards the clock, did some quick math, lips curving into a satisfied smile. "You're probably right." Neal and Emily Whitman, along with plenty of others from their congregation had invested in their scheme, not privy to the part of the business plan where a loophole, a wig, a pretty girl and tax code took their life savings and put it to better use. The Liar's uses, Deacon's uses. They weren't really using it anyway, not like they would. They would give it life, instead of rotting in a bank.

Looking at the bag of cash and her sleek curves, inspiration struck. "Have you ever had sex on two hundred thousand dollars?" She shook her head no. "Neither have I." Almost simultaneously, they rolled out of bed, reaching for the bag of 'spare cash'.

They took their time about it, sliding with each thrust on slippery paper and chill coins. Photos wearing only money and a post-coital flush, quick snaps of gloating and glee before returning to the pursuit of pleasure. It was a competitive heat, one that suited them, devoid of love, empty of affection. Simply an appreciation for the other, and the lack of the necessity for pretense.

She stretched, when they finally finished, arching her back and sighing as he discarded yet another condom. "They should thank us, I think. The money is so much more useful as mattress padding."

I'm a people person. I love them. The average person is just so nice. Soft underbellies of charity, stroking their own egos with every fluffy little good deed. Play along with the cause, swing the bell and they'll lump you in, fear to tar you lest it smear onto them.

The first vampire to call me a friend was a nice girl. Young. Idealistic. Happy to help a little fledgling bloodsucker venture out into the world. I think she knew that people got jaded with age, callous and opportunistic. She didn't know that some were already that way.

It's too bad, how she was caught conspiring with the enemies of the court. Swears she's innocent, but that's a lie. She was there, I saw her, with my very two eyes.

Mirrors are handy like that.

Sex is fun. The sausage-plugging aspect of it's entertaining enough, but the reason to come back is the investment. They open up, armor in a pile with their clothes on the floor. They need you to need them, as the song goes. And they'll do anything. Lie, cheat, steal, play your cards right, and it's a comedy of descent, clinging to a garter.

Move your ass the right way, and a man will give you his world. Love? A joke, a chemical reinforcing of species propagation. It's made me a pretty penny and a barrel of laughs, though.

Here's to love.

The Sanctified believe in something beyond themselves...so what's a better cover than a pure and holy congregant of Longinus? Structure, community, politics, all the perfect breeding ground for dissent, hate, and profit. A tasty morsel for an enterprising young woman to sink her fangs into.

I'll need to play to my strengths. Westminster, I think, the cocktease of Monachal for the right shepherd. Older, some - the Greatest Generation and all that VFW shit. Been leading the quiet life of a naughty vampire god. Dutiful. Penitent. The perfect follower.

Blonde, perhaps. Tweed skirts and prim sweaters, a spicy tale of betrayal and revenge poorly concealed. Beginning in Orange County, suburban cesspot of strip malls and godlessness. Moved to Taos, to find herself in the throes of crystal bliss and yoga. Embraced, Mekhet maybe, moved to Billings, backass Montana.

It's a good start. Someone will see through it. They always do. The question is, what will they see? Layers upon layers, makeup and facades. Truth under twelve coats of shell pink Revlon.

After all, there's no scam like a church scam.