Vampires Don't Sparkle! (21 page)

“Regardless of how many writers have altered vampires to wedge them into their naughty little fantasy stories, the fact is vampires are more popular than ever. And women want you naked and now.”

Dracula gestured wildly to his groin like Joe Cocker at a urinal. “How, Juan? How?”

Juan covered his eyes. “Please. Let’s not go through the perils of the penis again.”

“It don’t work! No blood flow means no batty batty boners, because I’m like dead, you know? And I’ll tell you something. The food chain has flipped. At the top now? Goth chicks, emo girls and very scary cougars. I’m talking turbo ‘Sex in the City’ cougars. You know why they focused on shoes so much on that show? To draw attention away from their faces.” Dracula collapsed in a dusty recliner, barely able to finish his own rant. “These trollops get all worked up from their paranormal romance movies and books and expect hot throbbing jackhammer rides that last for hours on end. And all I can give them is…”

Juan joined his Master “…A cold and shriveled winkee.”

“Do not mock me, you stupid armored gopher! Name one other person who lives with the pain I’ve suffered for more than a century now!”

“Regis Philbin.”

Dracula paused. “Name another.”

The heavy wooden door opened and a naked hippie walked in. His hair and beard were a mess, leaves and twigs sticking out like bad camouflage. Dirt and dried blood was smudged across skinny chest and arms. He grinned as he crossed the room and let out a howl.

“Oh man what a night I must have had! Did you guys happen to check me out last night? I hate not remembering how hard I partied. Damn full moon fever.”

“Morning, Chad.” Juan elbowed Dracula and was met with indifference.

“Good morning, Chad. Come to use our bathroom again?”

“You bet, Drac-man. Hey, is there a clean washcloth in there? I got the feeling I’m in need of a major scrub down. Do you know if I got laid? My junk smells like Bambi’s mother. Tell me I got lucky.”

He waited at the open bathroom door for a response. Neither Dracula nor Juan budged.

“Allllright!” Chad shot them a six shooter gesture.

“How blessed it must be to be a werewolf. Live as a normal human and once a month you get to run wild.” Dracula bitched aloud. “Then the next morning it’s all ‘Oh, did I get laid? I don’t even remember!’”

“Well, technically he wouldn’t because that’s the way it works.” Juan said. “The human has no memory of the beast the night before.”

“You think that’s bad, dudes, I’ll tell you the real curse. We’re only a werewolf for one night. And the digestive track needs at least a day to run its course. No one ever thinks about that fun fact. Sun comes up and I’m human again — and I have no idea what I ate last night. It’s like Hooper cutting open that shark in
Jaws
. ‘A license plate? What? Did I eat a car?’ Speaking of which, I got the call of the wild about two inches away from sphincter. Fighting a losing battle, buds!”

Chad quickly slammed the bathroom door behind him and instantly filled the castle’s lower level with grunts, groans and muttered Warren Zevon lyrics. Juan tried to ignore their clueless guest and bring his Master back on topic.

“Speaking of forgotten sex, I’m going to throw something your way. I’ve been doing a lot of Google searching lately. What you need is to dive head first into a huge pile of young hot virgins. If one special girl doesn’t do it for you, then maybe we need to think in bulk. And there’s only one place that is wall-to-wall virgins,” Juan grinned. “America.”

“America? Really?”

“Particularly in a state called Indiana. 9 out of 10 women according to Wikipedia. When was the last time you were even near a virgin, my friend?”

“About ten years ago. Madonna. In London.”

“She may have lied.”

“…Send lawyers, guns and money!” Chad screamed from the bathroom. “Dudes, I’m dying in here!”

The Prince of Darkness rose from the couch and walked across the room to a dust covered globe. He spun it until it stopped on the American Midwest. “Traveling all the way to America? I feel so outdated in this modern world. And you know my enemies would love for me to leave the protection of my homeland. The Vatican. Scotland Yard. The Van Helsings. Peter Cushing.”

Juan was not about to give up. His Master’s existence depended on it. “I know this is a huge decision for you. Journeying halfway across the world in search of women who can make you feel like you did centuries ago. Venturing out into a time of cell phones and electric hybrid cars and illiteracy…”

Dracula shook his head. Overwhelmed, he plopped back down on the couch and wrapped the blanket over his head again. Silence cut deep into the heavy morning air until Chad stomped on it like a suicidal cat at a
Riverdance
rehearsal.

“Argggggg! What the hell did I eat last night?”

“Light a match!” Juan snapped. He stared at Dracula. “You know, you’ll never solve your erectile dysfunction sitting in front of a TV set all day and night.”

The vampire so wanted to end his curse. To find love, to take one small step towards lost humanity, to pummel some Sprittle with his naughty Chimp-Chimp.

But he knew there was only one answer.

“No. I’m sorry, Juan. There is nothing out there for me. And nothing that will make me leave Transylvania ever again.”

“Drac, come on”

“Conversation over.”

Chad unleashed an ear-splitting painful scream. The castle fell still. He opened the bathroom door and peeked out.

“Oh my God! Dudes, I just shit a hand.”

Dracula spoke softly from underneath his blanket.

“Okay. Pack my bags.”

-----

Juan booked the flight and opted not to go the direct route for specific reasons. He wanted Dracula to experience short stops in the strange new world before settling in the promise land of Indiana.

So there were visits to London and Orlando, but Dracula liked his four hour layover in Detroit the best. The old saying was that terrorists would never waste an attack on Detroit, because who would notice? Cold ugly grey skies enveloped too many buildings now abandoned as the population dwindled to only the most stubborn. The city smelled like murder and it snowed dirt. Dracula made a mental note to plan his next vacation here and then bought himself an ‘At least we’re not Pittsburgh’ T-shirt.

When he finally settled into his destination of Indiana, his anticipation had built to a crescendo. It was true. There were virgins around every corner, many of them under forty. He reached out with his senses and prayed one of them would be that special angel who would solve his erectudinal dilemmas.

Juan had a carrier drop his luggage off at the hotel — He had only brought with him three (dramatic pause) boxes — so Dracula was instantly free to roam the streets. He started out as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon and hit all the popular Indiana hot spots. Neither was to his liking. So he wandered farther and farther outside the city limits, as if answering some silent mystical call, like Kirsten Dunst with a dog whistle.

It was very late when he discovered the nowhere town. It was hidden in miles of corn. There was a simple main street. On one side of the rain soaked road was a gas station, a tiny chapel and an adult book store offering a sale on any erotica written by Garrison Keillor. Ahead of him was a sign reading that the next ‘town’ was 69 miles away. He giggled to himself, because the number 69 also meant a sexual position enjoyed by one or more people. He took the sign as a sign. This was where he was supposed to be.

On the opposite side of the road stood a simple watering hole to use the down home colloquialism, a place where passersby and a few locals gathered for stale beer and cheesy fries.
Mmmmm, cheesy fries,
Dracula thought, although he had never had them before. It just sounded like it should be preceded by an ‘Mmmmmmm’ This establishment, McCoy’s House of Crabs, seemed as good a place as any to stop. Although it seemed strange a bar stuck in the middle of a continent would specialize in serving seafood.

Dracula paused in the doorway for a moment. Hair was perfect. Cape was on straight. No one was in his teeth.

Inside, he found a half a dozen people. A gruff and tired bartender. A couple of cowboy types playing cards. A husband and wife diligently reading over a map. A drunk angrily mumbling ‘Just admit it. It’s not like it’s a secret…’ to a juke box playing Kenny Chesney. If the blood lust hit him hard enough, he could slaughter the men and take the woman. She wore too much make-up and was slightly older than he preferred, but his sense of smell and the empty plates on their table told him she was packed full with cheesy fries. Mmmmmm. Cheesy fries.

“Can I help you, friend?”

Dracula looked to the bartender and grinned.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“I am. I’m McCoy. Of McCoy’s House of Crabs fame,” he acknowledged, and then scratched his crotch.

“Tell me, McCoy of McCoy’s House of Crabs, where are the women in this town?”

“Women? Hah, there ain’t but one. My wife. She works at the adult book store across the street. She’s also the town whore. But that don’t affect me none,” he shared as he scratched his groin again.

“It doesn’t bother you that your wife has sex with other men?”

“It’s a nothing town as you can see. Don’t get much in the ways of horny customers. Most are people just grabbing some pretzel sticks and filling up their tanks, then immediately hitting the road again. So it’s pretty easy in a town of one woman to be the town whore. In fact, I don’t think she’s slept with anyone since Bill Maher passed through a few years back. Day doesn’t go by that I don’t remember that visit.”

McCoy scratched himself again.

“And you opened this place shortly after?”

“Now how did you know that?”

Dracula was growing bored of the conversation and disillusioned with his dismal choices. “So is there anything else to do here for excitement?”

“We have our famous corn maze,” McCoy boasted.

“What is a corn maze?”

“A maze. Made of corn. Rows of corn. So it’s called a corn maze. Or a maize maze if you’re an Indian. They call corn ‘Maize.’”

“I may have to purchase a ticket to such an attraction,” Dracula said stifling a yawn.

“It’s a doozy. That couple over there with the road map just got out of it. They started last August.”

Dracula was about to give up. Had his senses betrayed him? Were the silent strings that tugged at his black heart merely playing him for the fool?

Then she walked in from the kitchen.

She was beyond beautiful, with long thick black hair and deeply tanned skin. Her young athletic body moved with the grace of an albino ocelot stalking a gnu. She wiped down a table with a dishcloth and put some empty glasses into a bus pan. She smelled of indentured servitude.

“Who is that female?” he whispered to McCoy.

“The Indian girl? She’s my indentured servant.”

Dracula raised an eyebrow. Sometimes he even surprised himself.

“Oh yeah,” McCoy continued. ”Her parents ran up some tabs in town they couldn’t pay off. So they left her to work off their debts.”

“Where are these parents who would sell off their own daughter to cover for their mistakes?”

“Them? Oh they have their own reality TV show on E.”

Dracula held his chin high and turned his attention to the young beauty before him. His dark aura pulsated from his loinal area, capturing the attention of any within his striking distance. The barroom became thick with his sex farrakhans, and the need to succumb filled the air in huge chunks. Not a soul present could help but stare at the mysterious Prince’s smooth chiseled alabaster chest and well defined tan abs. The husband and wife unconsciously pawed at each other. The two cowboys held hands and snickered. The drunk stuck his pecker in the juke box’s coin slot. Lady Gaga came on.

Everyone was hypnotized except for one poor Indian girl. Her pain pushed her forward, too busy with demeaning chores to partake in Dracula’s exquisite man-beauty. He saw this and slowly approached her, a grin dancing across his sensual Anderson Cooper-like lips.

“What is your name, mon petite?”

Her gorgeous deep brown eyes met his. Her perfect chest heaved as she swallowed her pride. “Me? I am no one. I am less than no one.”

“Surely you must have a name. Forget these abusive fools. What do your people call you?”

“The White Man has named me ‘Leah’. But my Indian name is Touchamahboobies.”

Dracula choked on his own saliva.

“Touchamahboobies is what they call me. I haven’t spoken that name in many moons. It feels good to say it aloud once again. Yes. Touchamahboobies.”

And so Dracula did. The Indian maiden put her lips to his ear.

“These stations are locked in so you don’t have to keep tuning.” she whispered. She backed away as she rubbed her sore polka-dots. “Can I get you a drink?”

The Bringer of Death chortled. “Never ask a vampire if you can get them a drink.”

“A menu then?”