Vampires vs. Aliens: Well, This Sucks 17
It was a clear night in the Arizona desert. Stars could be seen forever. The sky was as dark as a vampire's soul (if they had one), despite these pinpricks of light trying in vain to take back the night. Under this war in the heavens, it was business as usual on the ground. The seemingly quiet desert teemed with life. The cacti stood sentinel as tarantulas hunted, scorpions scuttled, coyotes prowled, diurnal animals slept, jackrabbits fled for safety, and the slight silent wind whipped across the desert floor.
Poor bastards never knew what hit them. A craft the diameter of a 747 from nose to tail with a triangular design landed on its nose with a noise like hell and a blaze of light that incinerated everything in its path. It then free fell to land on its recently opened landing gear, crushing the ashes of everything destroyed under its weight and sinking several inches into the soft sand.
A hatch opened, and three… things… descended. They had four arms and two legs, with an exoskeleton covered by thin silver protective suits. They were so dark they made the sky above look blue by comparison. They had eight eyes spaced around their heads for 360 degree viewing. All eight had an orange glow to them. They were also in possession of six jagged rows of shark teeth, held together by mandibles of increasing size. Their antennae functioned as both their nose and ears, detecting both particles in the air and soundwaves. They gazed into the desert, seeing as clearly as hawks would at high noon.
They made horrid clicking and hissing sounds for several minutes. Two of them seemed to defer to a third, asking the head thing a question. The boss thing replied in a series of swift clicks and hisses. The general gist of what the leader said was, "This shall be sufficient."
Meanwhile, a group of people from Veracruz were sneaking into the United States seeking work, under the cover of darkness. Upon seeing the light, they had fled, quivering behind the only standing rocks. Now they came creeping out again. They had come seeking a better life after NAFTA had completely wrecked their small corn growing farm. The group, consisting of a pregnant mother, two children ages four and six, and a father, began again on their journey. Believing the lights to have been La Migra and the danger to have passed, the father urged his family onward, despite the little ones' fear and his wife's protests.
Once they were in range, the things smelled the iron in their blood and the diminutive fat and muscle cells in their bodies. They pounced. The humans, unable to see, screamed as the mother was devoured, seemingly by empty air.
"¡Niños! ¡Corra! ¡Undele!" The father shouted, but those were his last words and the children could only run so fast.
The things hissed and clicked again, shorter this time.
"Yes, this place is sufficient."
The family joined the many thousands in the desert who died of hunger and thirst. They lay where they fell, unburied, unmourned, and unpitied. Not even La Migra ever found them.
Elsewhere, another family of four sat reading in their parlor. They all wore clothes that had been out of fashion with the nobility for at least two hundred years, yet every bit of cloth, every stitch was brand new and made out of the finest materials money could buy; things that would make animal rights activists and charity workers around the world, even the hypocritical ones (yes, we are looking at you here, PETA), bawl their eyes out.
The draperies were red and violet, the carpet was blood red, the woods mahogany and ebony, the walls onyx black, the items of furniture so plush and red that they looked like they could eat you alive and belch, and from the ceiling hung an ornate Gaslamp chandelier. This chandelier provided the only light source in the room. Not that the occupants needed much light to read by, because of their heightened senses.
The father suddenly threw his book across the room, shouting, "GAH!"
"Vhat is the matter, my precious?" the mother asked in a thick accent.
"A PROPER NOSFERATU DOES NOT SPARKLE! AND HE MOST CERTAINLY DOES NOT GET INVOLVED IN ROMANTIC ENTANGLEMENTS!"
"But of course, my darling." Replied the mother, while the children exchanged subtle, but amused looks.
Meanwhile, somewhere on the rainy northern coast of the US…
"No matter how many times I explain to Hollywood directors, they just don't understand the meaning of 'We can't control the weather.'" Yet another father of a family of four complained.
"Dad," said the naïve son, "Hattie can see the future. I am super strong. You can read the thoughts of those around you. Mom can control emotions. We all look like a girls' glitter shop threw up on us when we walk into the sun. Surely one of us can control the weather?"
"Don't talk back to your father. And don't you roll your eyes at me!" exclaimed his red haired mother."
"Yes, Mom." The blond dutifully replied, while his redheaded sister hid (read as: did not try to) a smirk.
Ah, yes, vampire nuclear families, who not so dutifully revolve around their father. That is the only way for a vampire clan to survive, right? WRONG!
"Jezabelle!" the matriarch screeched. "How do you work this flippin' thang?"
"It's just a toaster, mama." Jezabelle replied.
"Back in my day, toasters didn't have all these newfangled doohickies!" She exclaimed.
"Yes, Mama." Jezabelle said calmly.
"Don't sass me!" The matriarch screamed.
"And in other news," the television broke in, "UFO Trackers Go Missing After Investigating Mysterious Lights."
"That sounds suspicious, doesn't it, Mama?" Jezabelle asked.
"It's probably some dumbass white folks investigating more dumbass white folks. Prolly some kinda nuke testin'. Don't go messin' around with none of that tomfoolery, ya hear me?" replied the matriarch sharply.
"Yes, Mama."
But you know teenage vampires these days, they just don't listen.
Meanwhile, back in some rainy part of the Northwestern US…
"You know what sounds good for vacation?" Hattie asked rhetorically. "We should go to the desert, where it's warm and let loose a little."
"You mean sparkle all over the general vicinity?" her brother, Dave asked.
"Don't be mean to your sister, Dave." His father ordered.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Hattie! Remind me to get lots of postcards!" her mother exclaimed.
Goddamnit. Both Dave and his father thought simultaneously.
It took Jezabelle several days to sneak out of her mother's house. It took several more days to hitchhike to the "Ground 51" as it was now dubbed. She was further slowed down by her prey constantly leering at her short skirt. Normally she would have ignored this, but after the twelfth time, she snapped and started leaving behind a trail of bodies. It did not help that number twelve had harassed her, either.
"Hey sweet thang." Number twelve had called.
She resolutely ignored him.
"I said, 'Hey sweet thang.' What are ya, deaf, you stupid bitch?" Number twelve tried again, swinging his hand toward her face.
Jezabelle caught his hand effortlessly, before bending it backwards and breaking it.
"Fucking whore!" Number twelve cried out. This did not garner the attention of the other bar patrons. It was a dive joint, complete with neon signs advertising everything from light beer to hardcore vodka, all in bright primary colors. The color shone across the darkened bar, reflecting off anything even remotely shiny and bathing the walls in harsh light. His screams were drowned out by the drone of the sports TV and the clacking of pool sticks against balls, which in turn clacked against each other and the sides of the pool table. The other patrons continued to shout at their various games, completely engrossed.
Once she was sure no one was looking, she bit into the side of Number Twelve's neck, creating a hole in his artery. She then calmly pushed the side of his neck against her empty flagon. Once it was full, she released Number Twelve, only to grab him by the hair and ram his head into the side of her table, hard enough to kill him instantly. She drank straight out of her flagon as bits of brain matter, bone, and blood dripped onto his corpse. Nary a person noticed a thing.
She shook herself out of the memory as her ride tapped her on the shoulder.
"Heads up, we got cops." The trucker informed her.
The trucker dutifully pulled over as the agents waved him to the side of the road. He and Jezabelle stepped out of the truck.
"What seems to be the problem, officers?"
"Agents," the darker man corrected as he and his partner flipped their badges. "Agents Blake and Ross. You mind telling us what you're doing in a restricted area?"
"Well, you see-" The trucker began.
Jezabelle sprang at the one called Blake. She drained him dry in a matter of seconds. She then sprang at his partner and bit him, too. She stepped toward the trucker.
"Any last words?" She hissed through her fangs.
A bullet got her in the shoulder from behind.
"Thanks, man!" The trucker called to Ross. "Believe me, I had no idea she-"
Jezabelle bit him in the femoral artery, through his jeans. His blood tasted a bit like cloth. She then ripped the bullet out of her shoulder. Turning to Ross, she stepped on his hand with her high heels, driving the stiletto through his wrist. Ross screamed, but not for long.
Licking Ross's blood off her fingers, she turned into the desert, leaving another three corpses behind her as she turned to investigate the sands.
"Are we there yet?" Hattie complained as they zipped through the Arizona desert.
"Shut up, sis." Dave replied.
"You know what, Dave? I am sick and tired of your attitude. This whole trip all I've heard out of you is whining, groaning and complaining and now you tell your sister to 'Shut up?' You better learn some respect real fast, young man and you better hope-"
Whatever Dave was supposed to hope for, his father never got the chance to say. The minivan tires hit something in the dirt and went airborne. Of course, the glittery ones were not dead from this.
"What the-" the dad cursed.
They had hit a massive anthill in the road. Massive enough to look like a mirage, what with the heat waves coming off of it. That may have explained why the minivan went airborne, or it might have been the dad was a terrible driver, even with his full attention focused on the road. Of course, no one would dare mention this to the dad.
"A+ driving there, Dad." Said Hattie.
Except Hattie. She could get away with murder.
With that, everyone stepped into the blistering dragon's breath that was the windy Arizona desert. The ground contrasted sharply with the sky; orange/yellow/tan against Crayola sky blue. For a few seconds, the desert air was a welcome balm from the freezing minivan, but then it quickly became just this side of unbearable, complete with sucking the moisture out of the sparkly ones.
That was the least of their worries. The anthill had come alive and thousands of tiny, misshapen ants came crawling out of the little hill. They swarmed the vampires before they could flinch. Not that they would have, with their skin being stronger than stone and virtually impenetrable. The smaller ants eventually gave up, milling uselessly on the ground, helpless. Just as the dad was about to put his foot down and crush them out of existence, three much larger misshapen ants crawled into view. Distracted by the leader momentarily, for he had begun to speak in his hissing, clicking language, the dad never saw the attack coming.
The "ant" on the left spat greenish viscous venom that stuck to the dad's skin. Screaming, the dad began to dissolve into a puddle of glittery green goo. From there, it was quick work to takeout the mom and Dave.
"Please don't kill me!" Hattie cried out. "What do you want? Money? I could get you-"
The "ant" on the right spat at her. Then the voices of all three monstrosities began to click and hiss in harmony. Hattie was not fully dead nor dissolved when they began speaking.
"Come feed children."
Hattie could neither move nor scream ad she and her family were once again swarmed by misshapen ants.
Jezabelle clapped a hand to her mouth. While the creatures were feeding, she turned directly around and fled.
One of the creatures spoke.
"Should we go after her, Radb?"
Their leader replied harshly.
"No Orn Buh, the desert exists to kill their kind."
Jezabelle was hiding in Chicago, afraid of facing her mother's terrible wrath. She had been in hiding for over a week now and knew her mother's tempest of a temper would get worse before it got better. It had been a hot day, but it promised to be a cold night and she was looking forward to getting some hunting in before going to bed. It was not like she could not hunt during the day, as, unlike her mother, she did not burn in the sunlight.
When asked about it, her mother only growled, "It's because of that good for nothing father of yours," and refused to say any more.
Jezabelle could hunt during the day, but she knew she would sleep better on a warm, full belly rather than an empty one. A hot drink would taste even better on this cool night.
Just then, a human wandered under the awnings of the building on whose roof she was perched. She could smell his cheap aftershave, but even a human could have smelled it at fifty paces. To say it was strong would have been an understatement. Another, subtler scent clung to his skin. It was the sickly sweet smell of one who spent far too long in a cemetery. Yet he did not smell too strongly of earth. Nor did he smell of wood and chemicals the way a morgue attendant might. Perhaps he was a mourner, then, rather than a gravedigger. Besides, his clothes were too well made and too vintage for that.
His skin was sickly pale. He had a certain length about him. It showed in his face, hands, nose, and general frame. His hair was a little long too, with waves brushing against his neck in a not-too-subtle temptation.
Jezabelle jumped lightly to the ground. She froze after the quiet thud. Even after decades of doing this, she was nervous her quarry would somehow hear her. Perhaps he had for he had whipped around and called, "Who dares frighten the king of vampires?!"
Jezabelle had to fight down a laugh. As far as she knew, vampires were matriarchal. Therefore, he was not so much a 'king' as a 'consort'- at best. There again, what did he know? He was very clearly some poor sap who had read one too many cheap vampire novels. She and her mother had had many a laugh over posers pretending to write "real" vampire fiction. They clearly did not know the first thing about her kind!
The memory of her mother faded until she recalled her mother was angry with her. It was time to bite this guy and leave. She had wasted enough time here as it was. She started forward.
Strong hands shot out, halting her progress. A presence seemed to melt out of the shadows of the wall behind her. A purring Transylvanian accent crawled its way into her ear.
"Vhy are you attacking my stunt double, my child?"
"I am no child of yours!" she hissed angrily as she struggled in his grip.
"But you are Jezabelle, daughter of Theresa, yes?"
"That's Mama's name, but how? How do you know my name?"
"You are my daughter and I have been watching you for quite some time."
Jezabelle stopped struggling. This presence, it was her father? How could that be? Mama had told her that Daddy had been killed in a house fire before Jezabelle had been born. Jezabelle, born a dhampir, had been turned by the same man who turned her mother when she had just been seventeen. So how could this presence be her father?
"Your mother lied to you, child, at my own request. I confess, I already had a family and did not wish to burden them with the knowledge that I had a child out of wedlock."
Jezabelle's eyes stung. After all this, she was just a mistake? The bastard child of a cheating manwhore with a strange accent?
"You are so much more than a mistake, my child, in fact you are the key." He said, politely ignoring the manwhore thought.
"The key to what?" asked Jezabelle.
The presence flipped her in his grip. She noticed that he and his "stunt double" were almost identical. With one exception. While his stunt double's eyes were hazel, the presence's eyes were a fiery blood red.
"You are the key to binding all of the vampire clans together." He said, eyes glowing.
She frowned. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Because, as the humans say these days, 'I want these aliens off my land.'" The presence told her.
"Word!" called his stunt double.
She frowned again. "First of all, never do that again, stunt double-"
"His name is Andrew." Corrected the presence.
"-Andrew, whatever! You're not cool! Stop acting like you are! And second, why would I help you get rid of these aliens?" Jezabelle continued.
"Simply this: I can protect you from your mother." He purred again.
"Let's get started." Jezabelle replied.
Ah, yes, getting started. Speaking of getting started, it is high time we met the bottom of this tale's food chain.
"Republicans love me! I tell the truth, even if it's not what you want to hear! Let's make America, America again! Return to old values!" Recited a bald, blond man in a suit. He was growing a beer belly and wore a ridiculous combed over toupee (it was so fake it belonged in the eighties along with hot pink leg warmers). He squinted shiftily at his audience and spoke again, this time accompanied by grandiose gestures.
"Vote Capitalism! Vote America!"
Much to the surprise of his speech writer, and to the surprise of his audience, Mr. Capitalism failed to say anything overtly transphobic, racist, sexist, homophobic, or against any of his opponents. They supposed it was so Mr. Capitalism would not sound too repetitive. Having lost any hope of any liberal or moderate support, he was reduced to groveling for votes, although he had a strong right-wing extremist backing. The whole Bible belt seemed to be on his side and he was too close to the presidency for comfort.
After his speech concluded, his PR man came jogging up to him.
"Mr. Capitalism!" he called, "I set you up with a TV spot! It will help you get more votes!"
"What TV show am I going to be in, then?" Mr. Capitalism asked.
"It's called Forget the Lore. It's a show about vampires pretending to be human It had great reviews on both IMDB and Rotten Tomatoes. Because it's weird, it will appeal to more liberal audiences!" His PR man ratted off.
"That's great! You're still not getting a raise though." Mr. Capitalism said flatly.
"What? Why?" His PR man queried.
"Because I have to maintain my profit margins and it's just not in the budget." Mr. Capitalism replied.
"But even your paralegal makes more money than I do!" his PR man protested.
"She's not getting paid for her job, she's getting paid for her pair a' legals!" Mr. Capitalism held his hands cupped to his chest, indicating breasts. "Believe me, all the ugly broads are making way less than you!"
His PR man deflated. "Yes sir, thank you, sir."
A few weeks passed and found Mr. Capitalism chanting the same speech he had several weeks before.
"Make America, America again!" he said, as though that would magically prize votes from the left-wing voters.
"Uh, Chief?" asked one of the roadies.
"What?" Mr. Capitalism snapped.
"Well, there's a freak storm brewing and we're packing up to leave-" said the roadie.
"No, we're not!" Mr. Capitalism roared. "Do you know how much effort went into this? " He asked, gesturing toward the set of Forget the Lore. This week, much to the actors' delight and the characters' chagrin, the set was on Venice Beach. The crew had booked a spot of ground and hired a bunch of extras to mill about, along with filming the crowd that normally collected there. Was that, strictly speaking, legal? No. Was it the best they could do with the budget that they had? Yes. Although, judging by the reaction of the man on roller blades and in a light blue speedo (who had zoomed back and forth in front of the camera yelling, "whoo! I'm on TV!") they were unlikely to get sued.
Spotlights littered the air above the space. They had been checked and rechecked a hundred times (well, a hundred and thirteen and a half, but who was counting?).
The freak storm continued to roil for the next five minutes, during which Mr. Capitalism gave another long, waffling speech about how the domestic terror attacks of the previous week were weeding out the "UnAmericans" and that we, as a country, should sympathize with those who did the weeding in a way. He said that terror against the UnAmericans was done by more UnAmericans and we should let them kill each other until all sides were eliminated.
The freak storm reached a fever pitch. Lightning began flashing across the sky. Thunder rolled and boomed. The wind began to howl like a werewolf with a hemorrhoid. Sand, carried by the wind, flew into everyone's eyes. Mr. Capitalism had just reached the conclusion that he could no longer give a speech in this weather and had better head to his trailer until the storm blew over, when it happened. Like a biblical story of old, a lightning bolt struck the light directly above Mr. Capitalism's head. Mr. Capitalism had just enough time to glance up when the light fell on him. No one could have gotten there in time to save him, and in any case, they were too stunned to move. The light hit Mr. Capitalism directly on the head, crushing it and impaling his skull on his spine, before reducing the rest of him to a blood stain. His remaining bones stuck out at odd angles. The electricity from the bolt had not dissipated and was conducted through the metal of the light. This caused, however briefly, for his broken limbs to dance grotesquely.
Then they stopped. There could be no doubt that Mr. Capitalism was dead.
Mr. Capitalism's PR man cursed and threw his hat at the ground. "I'm not paid enough to deal with the fallout from this shit!" he shouted and left.
None of the crew blamed anyone for Mr. Capitalism's death. How could they, when they had tried to drag him away from the freak storm and there should have been no problems with the lights, as they had been checked by every crew member, including the director himself? The crew could draw but one conclusion as they each grasped a crucifix or a cross.
It had to have been an act of God.
The presence, better known as Dracula, sighed and rubbed his temples. He had known that bringing the vampire clans together would be difficult, but he had not known it would be this difficult. Of the vampires who had actually shown up, many did not believe other types of vampires existed. He supposed he could not blame them. His own comprehensive knowledge of other clans came from an extensive amount of travel and conversing with the locals. He, of course had neglected to invite the more ghoulish vampires he had met, along with their masters. The ghouls would not be able to comprehend the debate. Their masters would be too power-hungry to meaningfully contribute to the debate. He likewise left out the more demonic vampire. There was no point in starting a fight if it could be avoided. Yet it seemed he would have no choice in the matter.
He really should have known better to invite both the Count and Stanle, but it could not be helped. They had a right to be here. "Here," of course being Dracula's newest and greatest lair. Beneath a privately owned cemetery, sitting on cliffs overlooking the sea, the lair was only accessible by a secret passageway in a mausoleum locked from the inside. Then, one would walk down the fire lit passage way to secret rooms in the cliff face, hidden amongst the rocks and containing the most airtight, sunlight-proof curtains money could buy. The architect who had designed it had a field day. First, there were legal documents to be signed agreeing not to disturb the graves. Second, the hill had an unstable slope to build on. Third, because of the pounding waves, the whole structure was slowly being reclaimed by the sea, a few inches at a time per year. However, the structure was a good place to talk endlessly out of sunlight and in private.
The Count was still speaking.
"A proper nosferatu does not marry, have children and hire a stunt double! Therefore, there is no possible way that Jessica-"
"-Jezabelle." Jezabelle corrected.
"Vhatever! There is no way that she and you are vampires!" The Count continued.
"Have you quite finished?" said Dracula. His tone promised a slow death by impalement should the Count fail to shut up.
"Vhat my husband is trying to say is, although he thanks you and your lovely daughter for your hospitality-" the Countess began.
"Leave my daughter out of this, madam. It is your husband being a hypocrite and a liar that needs to be addressed. First, nosferatu are not to marry and have children? Is that not what he himself did? Second, what makes him think the child's mother and I are married?"
"So, she's a bastard." Said the Count's son, Anton, only to find Stanle staring at him.
"Anton, leave her be! She still has great power, I can sense it!" snapped the Count's daughter, Lahmia.
"You do not know what you speak of, child! There is no power to be had in that bloodline!" the Count whipped out.
"But father, she is beautiful! And strong! Stronger than a human-"
"Has this witch put a spell on my daughter, to have bewitched her so utterly?" the Count demanded of Dracula.
Another vampire (who pulled double duty as a witch) piped up at this.
"I am the expert on witchery here. The child has committed no crime, aside from leaving her mother," Aswang said.
"How did you-" Jezabelle started.
"Witches know everything." Aswang replied.
"Be that as it may, there cannot be more than one kind of vampire!" the Count continued to deny, stubborn as quartz.
"Calm thyself, Count. We are all vampires here." A voice, dry and cold, replied from the shadowy doorframe.
"Penanggalan!" Shouted Stanle, who like Dracula had made extensive travels and easily recognized the latecomer.
"Ve were afraid you would not come." Stated Dracula, stepping forward to greet her.
The Count, however, gasped in fright. The latecomer was a severed head trailing pink and slimy entrails behind her. She also possessed two large, translucent brown moth wings, which were barely visible in the torchlight and bore her aloft.
Erutuf, Stanle's wife and resident vampire alien for the past three thousand years, also raced to meet the newcomer. She was glad of the distraction, as her husband had been subtly making eyes at Anton this whole time.
"Now that everyone has arrived, perhaps we could discuss what to do about these trespassing aliens?" she said.
"But my dear," said Dracula, "are you not an alien trespasser yourself?"
Erutuf's bright red tentacle hair stood on end. "I have walked this Earth for millennia, Dracula! These newcomers, what do they know? What have they seen? Bah! Alien or not, I was here first and I want them gone every bit as badly as you do!"
"Now that we all know we're on the same side, perhaps a plan is in order?" Jezabelle said, trying to avoid another four hour argument.
Unfortunately, neither Jezabelle nor Dracula were getting their way that day. It took another hour for the Count to come around to the idea of other vampires, and another hour after that to convince him to work with them. Part of that hour was spent in bitterness that neither Jezabelle nor Dracula had to hide from the sun like the rest of them. Nor did Aswang, for that matter, but as her weakness was related to wood (thistles, brambles) it was quickly overlooked. It was unclear whether Penanggalan was affected by sunlight or not, but as the eldest vampire there besides Erutuf, if she was not telling, the others (except the Count) respected that. There was another hour-long argument about the inclusion of the stunt double, Andrew. According to Dracula, his stunt double pretended to be him for so long and drank the blood of his vampire master so often that he should be just as included as any of the vampires. The Count, unsurprisingly, disagreed. In the end, however, he was outvoted.
"We all want the aliens gone," said Jezabelle, "all that remains is how to get them gone."
"They should be slaughtered in droves with as much bug spray as we can throw at them!" Erutuf exclaimed.
"That would be bad for the ecosystem, my dear," said Dracula. "Perhaps we should simply run them off?"
"Why?! So they can come back and steal our food again?" Jezabelle exploded.
"I believe we should velcome these aliens and then, when they least expect it, eat them alive!" the Count burst out, flashing his fangs.
"For once, I agree with the Count." Penanggalan stated.
"That will take too long, though" spoke Stanle who could see what Anton was bursting to say but could not, and so took the liberty of saying it for him.
"Perhaps we should just chase them off? I mean, they have as much right to live as we do." Spoke Andrew.
"Trust the human to support the bloodless decision," sneered the Count.
"Vhat did you say?!" Andrew burst out, reverting to his Hungarian accent in his fury.
"You heard. Or are you deaf as well as bloodless, mortal?" Taunted the Count.
Aswang whistled shrilly, preventing yet another argument, for which Dracula and Jezabelle were extremely grateful.
"Perhaps," Aswang continued, "we should kill these aliens. I've never had alien organs to work with and I'm excited to see what it does for my spells."
"Countess?" Jezabelle asked politely.
"I must support my husband's decision, my dear. Pray tell me, what your blood type was?" the Countess said languidly.
"Why don't you ask if she was a virgin next?" groused Lahmia.
"An excellent question, dear daughter," praised the Countess.
"You are not getting an answer to either of those questions. And ya ain't getting a drop of my blood, neither!"
"Oh, I would never stop at one drop, my dear. No, I would practically bathe in you." Purred the Countess.
"You have to excuse my wife, Jezabelle. Sometimes, even I cannot control her bloodlust." Said the Count.
"You shouldn't have to! She should know better!" Jezabelle fumed.
"She should and yet, that did not stop her from taking all the young virgins in the nearby village, even those of noble birth." Said the Count smoothly.
"If your bride thirsts, perhaps I should call for refreshments." Dracula said and clapped his hands.
A human, bound in ropes, was led into the room. It was Mr. Capitalism's PR man. He had been taken under the assumption no one would miss him.
"P-please don't hurt me!" he cried.
The vampires in the room leered at him, enjoying his terror. Aswang in the corner cackled.
"I-I could bring you others! Yes, a whole army, but please let me go!"
"An army, you say?" Dracula asked.
"Yes, a big one!"
Dracula leaned forward, so they were almost nose to nose.
"We will not be needing refreshments after all." He declared to the room at large. To the PR man, he added, "What is your name?"
"D-Don. They call me Donny T."
"Well, Donny T., I need you to listen very, very carefully…"
"But we don't have a plan!" Jezabelle exclaimed.
"But of course we do. The Count and his family will welcome the aliens, then we will wipe them from the face of the Earth!" said Dracula.
"What happened to driving them off?" asked Anton.
"Playing devil's advocate are we, boy? I know you agreed with Jezabelle." Said Dracula. He continued, "I know when I have been bested. Since everyone but myself and Andrew think they should be killed, they should be killed and Aswang allowed to harvest their organs." He turned back to Donny T. "Back to what I was saying…"
Donny T. lugged Stanle's coffin out into the scorching Arizona desert. Wiping his brow, he asked, "Are you sure this is the right place?"
"It is." Jezabelle replied.
"Are you certain that your people will be able to find us?" asked the Count, who, like other vampires who were weak in the sunlight, held a parasol. Jezabelle could get by with her melanin and some sunblock. The other vampires painted a grim picture in their dark clothes and parasols. Jezabelle looked out of place next to them in her bright yellow sundress.
"It's called GPS, old man." Donny T. replied.
"A most ingenious invention," said Dracula, who, after the arguing from two days ago, was eager to avoid another heated debate. Fortune smiled on him that day, as the Count, who looked ready to start all kinds of fights, dropped the issue.
"How do we find them?" asked Donny T.
"I am thinking they will find us." No sooner had Dracula spoken, than a shimmer detached itself from the desert air. A triangle- shaped ship seemed to fade into existence. Erutuf, as the resident alien, stepped out to greet the newcomers.
"I, Erutuf Ehtfow Retir, would welcome you to this planet. We bring gifts and would entreat you to speak to us!" she declared with all the diplomacy she could muster.
The alien ship did nothing for a moment. Then a hatch opened, really slowly. Then, whip-fast, a laser gun popped out and shot the coffin containing Stanle's body. The coffin exploded into flames, burning Stanle alive inside. The whole event lasted two seconds before nothing was left but ashes.
Erutuf was beside herself-
"No shit, Sherlock! Of course she was upset! You went and killed off the bisexual character who happens to be her husband and you call that diversity?!" shouted the person listening to this particular tale, a Tumblr social justice warrior.
"This is not a story. I am simply telling you what happened."
"You expect me to believe this crap actually happened?"
"It did happen."
"You schizophrenic weirdo!" yelled the ableist social justice warrior before stalking away, as they were attracting unwanted attention and stares, despite the mind-control the people were under.
The man who had speaking frowned. The people went back to milling about the park, completely ignoring him again. He continued to sit on his park bench, enjoying to shade. He also continued feeding the pigeons, who had regrouped after scattering. He leaned forward to feed some of the pigeons in the back and as he did so, his sunglasses slipped. His eyes were an iridescent blood red. None of the other park patrons paid any notice, as they had been mind-controlled not to. He grinned, revealing rows of sharp fangs.
A bug crawled out from under his bench. It vaguely resembled an ant, but had orange markings all around its head and a silver, not black, body. Without a moment of hesitation, the man crushed it beneath his boot.
"Long live the king of vampires." He said and grinned again, before rising and strolling into the sunlight.