After some serious thought (or in this case... after some serious Bloody Marys), I've decided to enthusiastically exploit this whole Vampire craze sweeping our fine country. If George Hamilton can do it, so can I, Dammit! And it's not really much of a stretch for yours truly. I tend to slumber all day as it is, prowling the village lanes all eve looking like death warmed over; I love the cape and sash thing, AND have been told, on more than one occasion, that I suck the very life out of people.
If I may first bore you with my historically inaccurate pontifications... Apparently, this whole Dracula thing is loosely based on some dapper Transylvanian (or is it Pennsylvanian?) Cat by the name Vlad, with a panache for sticking people on poles like human corn dogs or something... which is the craziest coincidence, since my prep school chums bestowed the epithet "Link the Impaler" on me after that series of unfortunate javelin incidents in the school cafeteria.
That said... I am hard pressed to think of a more dapperly ghoulish incorporeal being. So who of the master thespians of vampire lore do I emulate? Grampa Munster? Bela Legosi? Count Chocula? Perhaps Blacula?
A trip to the Young Squires department at Shempley's is in order, post haste! Luckily my personal tailor, Señor Tito keeps late hours for us denizens of the dusk. He recommends a cape made of Megachiroptera bat fur, teamed with an ox blood sash, but I want something more macho so I choose a Ladakh pashmina cape with a candy apple red velvetine sash. Très virile!
In true Count Dappula™ style, I've festooned my sash with my many medals from my time as a soldier of fortune in the service of the Liberian junta. Actually, I have no idea how to fire a weapon. I was just there for the blood diamonds, but my dapper camo safariware and pistol-shaped cigarette lighter was apparently misconstrued as war mongeresque. C'est la guerre!
But I digress...
Donning my new accoutrements, I venture out into the gloomy eventide, looking for fresh meat to feed my insatiable appetite for blood. Blah! First stop... the local watering hole for a libation. Can't do any of the Devil's work on an empty liver! But, as I sit there, perched dapperly on my bar stool, I'm sensing a palpable lack of love from my fellow lovers of the bottle. The amount of stink eye is unbearable... and where did they get the pitchforks and torches? I decide to slink out while the slinkin' is good, only to find myself being chased by this pitch-fork wielding mob of angry liquor-fueled town folk. Who knew George Hamilton had such a negative impact on people?
Into my apartment building I fly, hammering on each and every door looking for an escape, only to be surprisingly handed small individual-sized chocolate confections and stale popcorn balls by befuddled neighbors, who apparently thought I was a tad early on the trick or treat gig.
Well, that was certainly a bust. No young fleshy women to sink my plastic teeth into. No succulent vampire-inspired aperitifs. No nuttin'! Just a handful of sweets that I'd get anyway from my weekly shakedown of the neighbor kids. Frankly, I'm starting to rethink this situation...
In retrospect, I'd be open to the whole werewolf thing instead, but I just got a full Brazilian.
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