“This isn’t hairy already?” I stammer.
She does not respond, as she releases me, and flies across the room, decking a poor escaping stripper to the floor, as she lunges on the back of the Master.
I run over, and lift the stripper up, and shove her toward the exit. Somewhere a fire has started, in the back room, and at the end of the bar. Smoke begins to fill the rooms, and my line of sight is becoming murky and occluded. I try to find an opening by which to take a shot at the Master, but he moves so fucking fast, like film in a shutter accelerated to thirty times the speed of normal.
I am really almost an observer in this battle of the vampires. An afterthought to all participants, when it comes right down to it. I spin on my own personal axis, but see that there are no other vampires ready to attack. It is now just the Master, Curadal and Samantha, in one big free-for-all slug fest, which moves from the bar counter, to against the wall, and then up to the ceiling. I stare, open-mouthed. Gravity is defied on a moment by moment basis, and the sounds that come from the mouths of the embattled bloodsuckers freezes every other fluid freezable in my body.
I feel a stab of agony at my ankle, and look down. Jules’ head, disembodied as it may be, has now latched its considerable jaws into my Achilles tendon.
I scream, kicking at the chomping-head, but unable to detach the grotesque thing from my leg. I fire into it at last, blowing brains, bone and gristle into the air, once more filling the smoke-filled atmosphere with a fun-combo of inhuman detritus.
Suddenly, two other strongmen, as I call them loosely at this point, appear from behind the stage. They are both black, hissing, fangs barred.
The Master yells from the ceiling, dodging a thrust and slash by Curadal. “Leave. Now. We’re finished here!”
Samantha detaches herself from the ceiling, and drops to the floor beside me, where I am spread-eagle, covered with blood and slime, my .357 aimed at the two Master lieutenants.
The two lieutenants hiss, and then move into the shadows and out of sight.
The Master descends to the floor, a nose hair close to me, his eyes red and piercing … for a moment, I do nothing, can in fact, do nothing but stare into those pits from hell.
“We’ll speak again, Officer Pitts,” he hisses.
And then he is gone, in literally, a puff of smoke. The departure seems almost corny. Seen a vampire today, Dick? Yep, sure did. He almost turned into a bat, but decided to just poof and disappear. Like in one of those Hammer films with Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee. Vampire exit strategies – turning into a wolf, or bat, or smoke. Got it.
Curadal puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Dick, are you alright?”
I freeze momentarily – and then jolt backwards, my gun up, pointed at both Samantha and Curadal.
“What in the name of fuck is this all about?”
My gun shakes, my hands tremble, my mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking the dick of a juvenile alpaca, and everything hurts.
Oh, and my partners, lest anyone forgot, are vampires.
“Dick, please,” Samantha coos. “There’s an explanation.”
“I’m listening,” I snap back, ready to blow the shit out of anything standing in front of me.
“Can we at least go someplace where it is less smoky and less rife with the trappings of death?” Curadal asks. Somewhere, still blaring, is that Ol’ Time Rocking Roll.
I discern the sense of Curadal’s request, and though I am seething underneath with adrenalin and fury at my two ‘partners’ – I nod.
“We’ll go to my place,” I say tonelessly. I do not lower my .357.
“Dick,” Samantha says, “you can put the gun down. If we would have wanted you dead, it would have happened ages ago.”
I again consider the immutable logic of Samantha’s words. I take a breath of acrid air, and reholster my weapon. I’m not feeling good right now.
“I could almost use a scotch myself,” Curadal says. “You, too, Dick?
“Yeah. I’m ready. But I mean, shit, Curadal … I better be pretty fucking happy with your explanation … you being a … a …”
“Vampire, and all,” he finishes for me.
“Yeah. That.”
“It will be a tale that you have heard before – but which you will not believe, as this time there is a different and tragic spin to it which is true and heart-rending.”
What is it about these fucking vampires that they sound like they’re out of a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel? Even the Master sounded like he had practiced speech with iambic pentameter in mind.
“Alright, Curadal,” I say. “I suppose you’ve saved my life enough times in the past 24 hours. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Not that I have a choice.”
“Thank you,” Samantha smiles at me.
The fire and smoke have scorched much of the stage, and I hear sirens blaring in the background.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say, and head for the nearest exit.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mirabelle is waiting for me, and I see the look of disappointment on her face, as she notices I still am occupied with company. She hovers over my doormat, as I approach, feeling dog-tired and irritable. She notices my general demeanor, the one wherein I am still covered in gore and drying body parts.
“Hard day at the office, dear?” she says, trying to lighten my clearly unpleasant mood.
“A doozy, darlin’,” I mutter, and insert my key into the door, and open it.
“Do you mind if I stay awhile, Dick?” Mirabelle asks. I look to her, then to my companions. They seem to have no objections, and beside that, even if they did, I would have told them to get fucked. Mirabelle looks sad tonight, and sometimes ghosts get like that, because, you know … they’re dead, and Mirabelle is my friend, so that’s that.
“Sure, honey. Make yourself at home,” I say, and Mirabelle smiles and floats in ahead of me.
Little Prick lies on the sofa, giving me an angry meow. No reason to really be angry with me, but cats are like that, I’ve found. They occupy their central universe of self-importance, and if you don’t acknowledge their godliness, they get pissy.
I head for my bottle of scotch, half-empty, provided I remember, by Curadal earlier that evening. Another mental footnote that my vampire partner, and his extremely hot vampire companion, once more had pulled me through a rough patch.
I plop down on the sofa, and attempt to pet Little Prick, who will have none of it, racing off under the table and away from my loving touch. Mirabelle, however, simulates ‘sitting’ at the other end of the sofa. I still hold the bottle of scotch in my hand, then notice that my manners are slightly remiss, as I stare at Curadal and Samantha.
“Drink?”
Curadal smiles, and reaches for the bottle. “Scotch, yes. But I never drink wine.”
Curadal’s attempt at humor is not lost on me, as I recognize the famous line delivered by Bela Legosi’s vampire. I smile … just a little.
Samantha wastes no time, and sits down at my kitchen table, crossing her legs, holding my gaze. Curadal walks over to the window, and stares out into the night.
“The Grand Master is out there still. He’s waiting for the right time to strike at us.”
“Tonight wasn’t an opportune time?” I ask, a trace of sarcasm in my voice.
“No. He’ll want to torture us first. You will be the first he’ll deal with – probably something standard like slow disembowelment with a blunt instrument of some kind.”
“How refreshing,” I reply, again feeling the need to hurl.
“As for Samantha and myself … he will choose something more … protracted in nature.”
“Curadal, please,” Samantha says.
Curadal offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my dear.”
“What about these children he’s been feeding on?” I suddenly remember.
“Yes, they’re out there, and hidden,” Curadal nods. “He’s keeping them someplace where you – we �
� can’t get at them. Some have no doubt already turned, and there’s nothing more monstrous, more single-minded, than a vampire juvenile.”
“How do you know this?”
“Call it general information in the vampire collective.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I ask.
“Obviously I chose not to tell you quite a bit, Dick. Which is now why we are here, to clear the air, yes?”
I listen to this, glance at Mirabelle, who is listening intently as well. I then get down to the purpose of our talk.
“Alright, Curadal. Let’s hear it. From the beginning. If you don’t mind.”
Curadal turns to me.
“No, Dick. I don’t mind at all. Let me first start by telling you that my name is not Curadal.”
“Okay, fine, what is it?”
Curadal sighs, looks to Samantha, and then back to me.
“The letters in the name have been transposed.”
“Curadal,” I say, “or whatever your name is, get on with it.”
Curadal steps forward, and hands back the bottle of scotch. I take it, and take a swallow, my eyes riveted on the vampire.
“My real name is Dracula.”
* * *
It is safe to assume that after that declaration, had you gone on a guess (and you would have been right) - the air was suddenly filled with spit-spray and scotch, as I damn near choke. It could just be me, of course, but there is something about a bad night at a strip joint, filled with vampires and disembodied heads munching on one’s leg, and then finding out that one’s partners are bloodsucking abominations that can put one on edge. Again, maybe I’m being a bit girlie about the whole thing, but what takes the proverbial cake is when my vampire partner reveals to me he is really Dracula.
Thus, needless to say, I am peeved.
“That isn’t funny,” I say, wiping my lips and trying to clear my throat filled with bile and scotch-saturated saliva.
“There is no humor in my admission,” Curadel – or rather, excuse the fuck out of me – Dracula says.
I then abruptly laugh. It’s been a long night. I look to Samantha, Dracula and Mirabelle, who is floating over my sofa, and I realize suddenly that my world is a dream within a dream of multiple unrealities that I cannot begin to fathom on any level whatsoever. I am sitting and drinking scotch with vampires and a ghost in my living room, not to mention a neurotic cat that hates my guts. The laughter passes, and I consider sobbing like a schoolgirl.
“I realize this is all a bit much for you,” Dracula sighs. “And I again apologize that I deceived you earlier, Dick. I will start from the very beginning.”
I am now reduced to simply staring, waiting, trembling. There is, I feel, a distinct possibility that I have become mentally unhinged, like someone who might suddenly be exposed to a vacuum or a depressurized aircraft five miles above the earth, and whose brain begins to boil like oil in a scalding vat.
“I was born in the year 1438. My father was known as Dracul or Vlad the Second. My country was Romania Wallachia, and it was a time of the Ottoman expansion.”
I sit there frozen, trying to stay focused.
“You’re really … you’re not shitting me … you’re really Dracula?” I whisper.
Curadel looks at me and smiles sadly. “Yes, I am he. But I am not the Dracula you think you know.”
“Not the Dracula I think I know,” I repeat stupidly. “What, you’re the kinder, gentler version of the famous vampire?”
Dracula looks at me with an expression of genuine admiration. “Why, yes, I am. Because, you see, I am not that Dracula at all.”
I stare with a blank expression. “I don’t understand.”
“I shall press on. You see, born to my father Vlad the Second, were four sons. Myself, the youngest of the Dracul, was named at the time, Radu Dracul, the Handsome. My eldest brother was Vlad the Third. More famously known as Vlad the Impaler.”
I nod, but say nothing.
“In Turkish, he was known as the Impaler Prince or Kazikli Bey. The Transylvanian Saxon texts referred to him as Jan Dlugosz. He was my brother and he was guilty of countless atrocities against humanity. He is now the stuff of myth and even then, he was thought of as an inhuman monster, a creature that drank blood. Hence the source of so many legends.”
“So he was a vampire, too,” I say, getting into the story somewhat.
“No,” Dracula replied. “He was a human being. As were my brothers. I, Radu the Handsome, was the only vampire in my family.”
“But … I’ve never heard of Radu the Handsome. Everyone, on the other hand, has heard of Vlad the Impaler, and assume he’s the bloodsucking Dracula of historical fame,” I say, and am surprised at how articulate I sound.
“The vagaries and distortions of history, perpetrated even more by my old friend Bram Stoker,” Dracula shrugs. “It is the way of things.”
“You … you were friends with Bram Stoker?”
“Yes, for awhile, when I lived in Dublin from 1889 to 1894. I told Bram what I am about to tell you now. He wanted to memorialize it as an autobiography, but I suggested instead that he tell the story as a fable. It turned out to be a most lucrative decision.”
“You knew Bram Stoker?” I ask again in wonder.
“Yes, well. A very bright fellow, though his wife was a bitch. But I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Dracula smiled. “In any event, I supplied the narrative of fact, and Bram embellished and dramatized my character as he saw fit.”
“Wow. So the stories about vampires and crosses and garlic – all that is true?”
“Of course. Along with stakes in the heart, transmogrification, mirrors, metamorphosis, the power of hypnosis, the dread of holy ground and churches, and immortality. But you know this already, Dick.”
“I do?”
“Is it not stakes that kill present-day vampires? Do not crosses offend their sensibilities? Can not garlic serve as an effective deterrent to vampire attack?” Dracula smiles just a bit. “Prick us, do we not bleed, harm us, and do we not revenge?”
I stare blankly.
“Shakespeare,” Dracula sighs. “Merchant of Venice.”
“Oh,” I say, not giving a shit. I want to get back to my immediate dilemma – having a conversation with the most famous vampire that ever lived, pardon the poor choice of words.
“So … your brother wasn’t a vampire. Just an insane sadist,” I say.
There is a moment of silence, as Dracula gathers his thoughts. I glance at Mirabelle, who like myself, appears curious and astonished by Dracula’s familial revelation.
“That is correct. After many political misfortunes, my famous brother finally achieved absolute power of Wallachia. His early reign was marked by the elimination of all possible threats to his sovereignty. This was done mainly by impalement. Thus, the name, The Impaler Prince.”
“Right,” I say. “I get that.”
“My brother faced many threats to his leadership, not the least of which was the rivalry in southeastern Europe between the Ottoman Empire and the Hungarian Kingdom. Vlad decided to side with the latter, and that is when the killing began in earnest. Those who opposed him were butchered. 10,000 were impaled in the Transylvanian city of Sibiu. The year before, another 30,000 were impaled. There is a famous woodcut of the period that shows Vlad feasting amongst a forest of stakes and screaming victims writhing in agony.”
“Christ,” I mutter in bemused fascination.
“His victims included women and children, peasants and great lords, ambassadors of foreign powers, and the list goes on. No one was immune to his cruelty. History has sometimes portrayed my brother as insane, but nothing could be further from the truth. He simply enjoyed killing and torture.”
I nod. “Well, we all have our itsy bitsy quirks, don’t we?”
The humor is not appreciated, as Dracula stares at me with cold, unsympathetic eyes.
“Death by impalement was slow and painful, Dick,” Dracula shifts gears. “Ma
y I elaborate?”
Before I can respond – or protest – Dracula is again speaking.
“Victims sometimes endured for hours or days. My brother often had the stakes arranged in various geometric patterns. The most common pattern was a ring of concentric circles in the outskirts of a city that constituted itself as an enemy-state. The method of torture he most enjoyed – a horse attached to each of the victim’s legs as a sharpened stake was gradually forced into the body. The end of the stake was usually oiled, and care was taken – great care – that the stake not be too sharp, lest the victim might die too rapidly from shock.”
Dracula pauses as I choke back an impulse to bitch-puke.
“Normally, the stake was inserted into the body through the anus and was often forced through the entire system until it emerged from the mouth. There were, however, many instances where victims were impaled through other bodily orifices or through the abdomen or chest. Infants were sometimes impaled on the stake forced through their mother’s chests.”
“How awful,” Mirabelle squeaks next to me.
“Yes. Oh, there were other modes of torture, to be sure: nails in heads, cutting off of limbs, blinding, strangulation, burning, cutting off of noses and ears, mutilation of sexual organs, scalping, skinning, exposure to the elements or to animals, boiling alive – but I won’t list them here, not now. To do so would only sicken you more.”
“Thanks,” I say neutrally. “Uh, but Dracula, just a minute. This is all very fascinating anecdotal information on your fun-filled brother, but can we get back to you for a moment? Like, when did you become a vampire? Or were you always a vampire?”
“I have prefaced my personal journey with my brother’s life because it is part and parcel with my own misfortune. You see, during my brother’s reign, I was appointed to various small governorships around Wallachia. History has called Radu the Handsome a minor character in Vlad’s life – and history, in this instance, is not wrong. I deliberately avoided the limelight. I was disgusted with my brother, and those who served him. I was a solitary young man, and I loved my books and quiet walks, and had even considered a career switch from magistrate to -”
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