yustyoking

Drunkula

Flying into a brick wall, a small black bat fell at my feet. It seemed like an ill omen. Something ethereal in the bat’s nature made me suspect that this flying rodent consisted of more than met the eye at first glance. Having had some experience in the vivisection of inert bodies as an anatomy student at the University of Uppsala, I gently raised the creature in my gloved hand and stared into one of its glassy eyeballs.

“New life!” I cried aloud in the inky white fog of a London night. The scuttling of rats rose in reply. Eerie footsteps and murky shadows populated a street dripping in condensation. The wings of the bat fluttered, its tiny teeth gnawing on the black leather of my glove.

I was in London for a fortnight’s sojourn at the behest of Professor Otto Penn, renowned physician at Eep’s College, Brixton. When landing at Heathrow, I had been required to declare all items above the threshold of £135, then sign a promise that I would not undertake employment while in the U.K. and finally swear that I have never had any dealings with Jeffrey Epstein, Esquire.

Having left Stateside my betrothed Lenore in the provincial backwater that we call home, I hoped that my recently completed monograph on the derivation of the Irish banshee might win me a teaching fellowship at Eep’s. A laboratory assistant at a glue factory, I wouldn’t mind coming up in the world. Memories of Lenore’s hot, prickly breath made a havoc of my thought processes.

What with both ICE and the Border Patrol on the warpath, God only knows what will happen when I try to return to the States. Airports have become dangerous places. I can check my credit rating, but how do I check my ICE rating? Has some protest march I participated in during college left an indelible signature in the Border Patrol database? Am I on a Watch List and, if so, whose? Has a contribution to the ACLU gotten me listed as a domestic terrorist? What if my next door neighbor’s dog is a subversive? I don’t want to end up in a detention center in Bayou Blue, Louisiana just because my neighbor Bill’s Pekingese has been spying for the Chinese Communist Party. Scary stuff!

Fortunately, although an American down to my bootstraps, my family has a wee connection to the British Isles. Humble brag, one of my maternal great great uncles designed the loos on the battle ship HMS Dreadful.

I know myself to be something of a throwback. Every Victorian drama requires a mad scientist who electrocutes inanimate objects with the hopeful conjecture “It’s alive!”

Administering the Kiss of Life, exhaling into the bat’s jagged mouth, it fell from my hands. Growing in shape and bulk, a mysterious figure four feet in height dressed in a black peacoat took its place on the flagstones, its face a pale blur. Scared shitless, a rash of goosebumps ran down my back. I could feel my hair standing on end. “What the fuck?!” I wailed.   

“Have no fear,” commanded this strange apparition.

“Fuck you ‘have no fear,’” I complained. “I got plenty of fear.”

“I am but a weary traveler,” he insisted. “Thee has no idea the extent of my afflictions,” he assured me. “Among other things, I am tormented by the curse of spasmodic recollective memory. Fragments of the past come upon me unbidden, mocking and plaguing me, laying siege to my soul, filling me with ennui and regret. Think of it! Now consider that for 600 years, I have occasioned such emotions.”

I must say, he did look mournful, standing there in the shadows. I found myself unable to look away from his baleful stare, pointy ears, weird nails like spikes and frightful comb-over. There was an Old World slovenliness about him. He stank of sloe gin.

His Mitteleuropa accent assured me that he did not come from any shit-hole country. Still, one can never be sure. He may own a yacht off the coast of Africa.

“Ah, thee be American!” he cried gaily, spreading his claw-like hands in a welcoming gesture.

“Yes,” I admitted, “I am.”

“I could tell thee a tale about a world leader who is sucking the lifeblood out of his country,” the fellow exclaimed, wagging his head playfully, “but I won’t.”

What to make of him? Was he even 9/10th’s of one percent real or simply a bad hallucination brought on by a bout of indigestion?

“Have thee ever considered mindfulness?” he queried, swaying from side to side so violently, I felt compelled to steady him with a hand. “Close thy eyes,” he suggested, “put thy hand over thy heart and imagine all of the enemies thee can vanquish with a swipe of the longsword. Hacking off their limbs! Hacking off their heads!” he shouted with glee, his eyes aglow like two burning embers.

“I think most people are focused on peace,” I objected.

“Oh, yes, peace,” he croaked, as if discussing an inferior brand of laundry detergent. “Naturally, peace speaks to the soul of the populace, but, really, it is no part of human nature. Human nature eggs us on to conquer and subjugate. That’s the way of it.”

“You seem a bloodthirsty lot,” I felt impelled to point out.

“Now thee confuseth me with the Ottomans,” he insisted.

“People need to stick together,” I replied warily, the corporate motto at my place of employment. “All I am saying is give peace a chance.”  

“Don’t make me list the unappetizing catalog of military misadventure carried out within the last decade,” he insisted, burping a mouthful of breath that smelled like swamp gas. “There is always someone attacking or bombing their neighbor somewhere upon this sorry globe,” he observed. “Thee need fight like hell or thee won’t have a country anymore. No politician should be elected to high office if they have not studied Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. Nothing compares to the gory, glorious warfare we waged 600 years ago upon the field of battle, our barbarity fully on display for all to see. Vlad Țepeș I was christened in the popular mind, ‘Vlad the Impaler,’ a glutton for dead meat. Anorexic, a banquet of food lies before me, yet I cannot eat. Blood I crave and blood I shall have,” he chuckled, falling flat on his face.

“I say,” I commented, helping the midget to his feet, “I fail to see the connection between bats and you.”

“Creatures of the night,” he grumbled in a voice like thunder rolling down a Transylvania mountain top. His peacoat reeked of mold and sawdust. “I am the greatest vampire in history! Everyone knows Count Dracula, ‘Son of the Dragon.’ That’s me!” he howled. “In Romania, they think I am a hero. They make vampire fangs, keychains and shot glasses in my honor. Suveniruri, jucarii. Souvenirs, toys. Look me up online!”

As he spoke, he began flickering like a faulty lightbulb. Once… twice… and then… poof!

He was gone.

I waited around in the dank night, hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm, but it didn’t seem like he would reappear. Well, I thought, that’s something I can tell my grandkids about, one fine day.

I was filled with equal parts relief and trepidation. As I turned to go… blink!… there he was again, clear as a video on YouTube and twice as real. Shivers went up my spine and, let’s face it, I experienced a sense of irritation and major disappointment that I hadn’t shaken loose from his companionship. It began to feel as if I might spend the rest of my life standing on that chunk of pavement. And not in a good way.

“The hour grows late,” he said, as if nothing had transpired, leaving me to ponder whether he even realized that his spectral image had, in fact, shorted out. “So much to do and so little time before sunrise.”

“So what brings you to England?” I wondered, making the best of a bad situation.

“I have purchased an abbey,” he exclaimed expansively, seeming to grow an inch or two in height. “Downton Abbey it is called, but I think of it as Rundown Abbey. Sadly neglected by the previous owners, it needs a lot of work. Still, I expect to make something of it. I am renaming it Vlad’s Hideaway. I have already had the name affixed across the front of the building. So far, the earthmovers have only demolished the east wing. I live in a suitcase— well, a coffin, if thee must know— so, by necessity, I call wherever I hang my coat home. However, buying a property gives me somewhere to exhibit my store of gold objets d’art. Gold ornaments are only worth having if one can flaunt them.”

“I really wouldn’t know,” I insisted.

“More is the pity,” he lectured me. “One can never get enough gold. Thee knows the old saying, ‘Me, impotent? Hogwash! Just behold the golden trophies upon my mantelpiece.’ Klemens von Metternich said that. Or was it Napoleon?”  

Listening to him rant, without a doubt, I found Vlad to be a man of deep conviction. “I suppose you are supernatural…” I guessed.

“Eh! Supernatural,” he grimaced, his mouth turned cruelly down. “That and four pounds ninety-five will get thee a salted caramel milkshake at Wimpy’s. I do not drink… wine.”

“I say, are you rich?” I blurted, surprising myself. “Where does your money come from?”

“I thought thee knew,” parried Vlad. “I have made a fortune in real estate. One never loses money in real estate, old boy.”

“Do tell,” I quipped, keenly aware from the cinema that I mustn’t let my guard down for even a minute, lest I find the vile creature at my throat.

“As the world goes kaputt, I would like to secure my position in the structure that remains,” he explained, sounding like a stockbroker.

“Apparently, 600 years have given you opportunities to acquire multiple talents,” I surmised.

“Yes, yes, I haven’t been asleep all the time,” he confirmed. “I donate money to blood banks across the globe. It never hurts in times of trouble to have a reserve.”

He paused, seeming to parse his words. “Every hundred years, I reboot the system,” he claimed. “I could tell thee more, but we do not yet know one another all that well.”

Evidently, vampires don’t share.

“Question: Is it true that you have a harem of female vampires?” I wondered, titillated by the very idea. One sees so much speculative nonsense at the movies.

“Like the Muslims and their 72 vestal virgins awaiting every martyr in heaven?” he grinned. “I think not. If thee seeks the Bride of Dracula, her name is Miruna and she lives on a goat farm at the base of Mount Moldoveanu in the Transylvanian Alps. The altitude raises the level of hemoglobin in the goats. She drove me crazy. We are estranged,” he declared with chauvinist distaste. “All that I got out of that relationship was an exceptional stamp collection.”

I checked my watch. Time to go.

“Doth thou wish to join the Eternal Order of Vampires?” he proffered, taking my drift. He made it sound like a gym membership. 

“Who, M-M-ME?” I stuttered. “No way, José.”

“One does feel duty-bound to ask,” he all but apologized. “European custom.”

“I am so done here!” I stammered, breaking into a cold sweat. “Really, I am not the type.”

“Blood types!” he rejoiced, clasping his hands emphatically. “Don’t get me started on the merits of the various types of blood. Type A for kings, type B for queens, type AB for aristos and type O for commoners,” he recited categorically, as if he were listing paint samples. “Bloody confusing until one gets the knack,” he acknowledged. I got the feeling he was trying to sell me on the whole concept of vampirism.

“No, no, no,” I insisted, stamping my foot, which made him look down his nose at me and laugh. Was I afraid? Damn straight I was afraid! “Make a habit of flying into walls, do we?” I asked, now doubly curious.

“I am a vampire,” he sighed, shaking his head woefully. “Alas, when I suck the blood of someone who is hammered, the alcohol enters my bloodstream, poisoning my organs. It is toxic. I become intoxicated. Thee has thyself witnessed the result.” He stared at me cross-eyed. Raising his gnarled hands with their grotesque nails, fingers splayed seductively, he intoned, “Look into my eyes, deep into my eyes,” which I did, only to wonder at their bloodshot condition.

“Ach so?” I asked.   

“Well, maybe not,” he muttered.

As bad luck would have it, one of London’s urban foxes chose that moment to come trotting around the corner of a near-by building. Sensing us, the red fox froze in its tracks, but it was already way too late. Down on all-fours, Vlad had become transformed. Coiled like a puma, a feral monster, he emitted a low, ferocious growl, drooling a pool of saliva onto the flagstones.

“WAIT! STOP! NO!” I screamed, but my entreaties fell on deaf ears. The vampire leapt through the air and pounced upon its prey. Amid horrendous yelps and the crunching of bones, the fox was not so much killed as physically obliterated. Never will I be able to erase the frightening image of the vampire, crouched on the ground, glowering at me dementedly from the edge of the building, the dead fox hanging lifelessly from its maw.

In shock, I collapsed onto the pavement and lay gasping as vampire and fox disappeared into the darkness. How long did I lie spread across the flagstones, an oily blackness tinging my sight, my throat a dry and aching hole, my heart thumping hollowly in my chest? Who knows.

About the time I struggled wearily to my feet, Vlad returned, standing erect and assiduously wiping his mouth on a sleeve of his peacoat.

“There’s a nip in the air,” he commented. “Still, rain makes the grass grow.”

The casual banality of this utterance was so unexpected, I found myself doubting my own senses. Didn’t he just attack and drain a pint of blood from a woodland creature? Did he or didn’t he? The night had become surreal.

“I consider myself a connoisseur,” he bragged. “I have traveled the world tasting the blood of yaks, mountain goats, musk ox, bison, water buffalo, elephants, dolphins, mountain lions, lions, snow leopards, marmots, grey squirrels, voles and hummingbirds. Hath thou ever tasted the blood of the horseshoe crab? Quite the treat. It is blue. A remnant of prehistoric times, the crab’s blood is copper-based. You should try it.”

“I find the idea of me drinking blood thoroughly repugnant,” I confessed.

“Warm blood, chilled blood, a blood aperitif. Blood daiquiris. Blood red tomato juice,” he bantered. “The Belgians have the right idea, a different glass beaker for each kind of beverage, fitting the glass to the libation. Blood pudding! Thee will eat blood pudding, but thee won’t drink warm blood. How quaint!”

Giving me a defiant look, Vlad turned on his heels. “Beastliness, brutality, cruelty, depravity, inhumanity, savagery, wickedness,” I heard him curse as he hastily walked down the high street. As if drawn by a magnet, unable to resist, I followed in his path. Reaching a pub, he peered through its green glass window. “I shall drink the blood of yonder drunken sods,” he declared, pulling me past the doorway into the barroom proper.

“More blood?” I asked helplessly, but to no avail.

Hot and noisy, the air was thick with the smell of ale. As Vlad made his appointed rounds among the patrons, a fulsome blond trollop with a painted face waylaid me. “Love me!” she cried gaily, grabbing my codpiece in a vice-like grip. Her eyes, blue orbs all but drained of color, stared hungrily into mine, a playful smile flitting upon her lips. These goings-on pleased me. Having been through hell, I felt I had earned a respite. Quaffing a lime and lager, feeling young and virile, I decided to postpone a return to my lodgings.

Leaning heavily against me, coyly unbuttoning her blouse, a mammary protrusion of salty white flesh filled my mouth. “Ucksay eyemay ipplesnay,” she commanded in a well-rehearsed cadence of pig Latin. What can I say? I did as requested.

Later, untangling me from the arms of the trollop, Vlad declared “Come, it is time for second sleep” a concept with which I am only too familiar. An overactive bladder, I only get four hours of shuteye before being forced to rise from my bed and visit the lavatory.

Outside on the pavement, Vlad looked me up and down, as if considering whether to share a particularly ribald joke. “Illegitimi non carborundum” he declared, disappearing in a cloud of ill-smelling grey smoke. Don’t let the bastards get you down.