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Born in Romania during the “Great Dirt Clod Wars”, an only child of a wealthy rat baron, little Tu crawled, skipped and frolicked his way across the meadows and forests of his homeland. His early childhood years passed in a carefree whirlwind of adventures.
He was whisked away at the tender age of five by a company of five monks from the “Brothers of Eternal Beatings”, to sell rocks and jagged pieces of metal on their “Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child” tour. After many performances, in which he starred , he soon became a shrewd and savvy operator with the crowds, quickly learning that flailing and slashing with the jagged pieces of metal brought forth an abundance of gold coins from the terrified onlookers. By age eleven, and growing fast, he taught himself to administer “The Last Rights”… five times.
Now on his own, sleeping in ramshackle barns and eating weasels , the little urchin was adopted by a group of minstrel gypsies. Night after night they sang around the campfire, swilling wine, teaching him mandolin, guitar and tuba, poking his eyes and hands with sharp sticks whenever he made an error. Practicing till the wee hours of the morning, they would then smear a foul smelling oil in his hair and “Madam Ackbah”, the grandmother of the troupe, would hold him to her huge, jiggling breasts and smother him to sleep. Being a quick study, and with the coming of his fourteenth summer, Tu bid adieu to the troupe. “To see Ackbah hobbling and lurching down the road after me wailing “Noooooo Babushka NooooOOOooooooo” was just heartbreaking. I will never forget it!” Tu sighs.
He toured as a solo act, giving concerts in village after village throughout his beloved Romania, sometimes singing five and even six songs a night. He quickly learned how vile and stingy the crowds could be, but calling on his experience with the monks, he provided himself a healthy income.
After a period of aimless wandering, he traveled back to his father’s farm, a sack of bloody gold coins in tow. His father, impressed with his son’s entrepreneurship, set him to learning the family business. More years passed. At sixteen, young Tu mastered the comb and groomed the rats for slaughter. “ I can still hear their shrill squeal as they fell under my fathers hammer!” Tu recounts with a gleam in his eyes. After many a candle lit night, pricking himself bloody learning needle and thread, he made for himself the finest rat fur coat in all of Romania.
Oh how the village folk were jealous of him. Prancing through the streets and taverns of his village, his rat fur coat shimmering, his guitar slung low, serenading every woman he could corner. Many nights were spent howling his songs but as all musicians will do, he soon grew tired of being pelted with rocks and bottles. Dejected, he retreated to the forest and sat weeping beneath the stars, sobbing and cursing his existence so loudly that Tu never heard the stranger…..until he whispered in his ear………..
Submitted by TheVampireTu
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