Ten miles outside of town Willie found a suitable dive called Mort's Bar & Grill, but he had a bad feeling going in. The idea of getting some innocent girl drunk enough to pass out and stuff her in his truck just didn't seem right somehow. Maybe if she were a hooker it wouldn't be so bad; at least he could pay the lady for her time.

There was live music on Thursday nights, and the sound was deafening. After scanning the room for single women, he approached a blonde with bright pink streaks in her hair, realizing too late that it was Carolyn Stoddard watching her boyfriend, Buzz, onstage with the Rude Mechanicals. Once again, she was drunk off her ass.

"Willie Loomis!" She screamed, pulling him into the chair next to hers. "My favorite guy—I mean, second favorite guy!" she yelled to the stage. Buzz acknowledged by aiming his bass guitar at her, accentuated by a pelvic thrust.

"Hey, Carolyn," Willie said uncertainly, "I should go. Your boyfriend don't want me sittin' here."

"Buzz is cool." She confided in a slurred voice, "Buzz is very cool. So, what are you doing here all by your lonesome? Why aren't you getting hammered with your best buddy pal?"

"Jason and me aren't friends anymore." He pulled out a cigarette with slightly shaking hands.

"Oh, right! You're with dear old Barnabas now." She winked and took the pack from him, helping herself a smoke. "Yes, why are you living with my bachelor cousin?" He lit them both. "The last time I saw you, you were going bye bye. But little Willie, Willie won't—go home…" She blew a smoke ring in his face. "Well?"

"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse, like in that movie."

"Uncle Roger says you're the pool boy. That's so funny, because Barnabas doesn't have a pool."

"Your uncle was just kiddin'. Mr. Collins hired me to fix up the Old House. I know a lot about carpentry and plumbin'."

"Well, good—for—you! Because my mother needed just one more thing to completely freak her out. Now, because of you, she's cancelled her wedding. That's why you're my favorite guy!" She threw her arms around Willie, gave him a big wet kiss, then spoke to him nose to nose. "All you have to do now is get that big Irish creep out of our house…I'll make it worth your while."

He was going to end up in so many different kinds of trouble, Willie didn't even want to think about it. He pried her arms from around his neck and grabbed the cigarettes.

"I gotta go." The handyman stood as Carolyn pulled at his belt buckle.

"Aw, don't you like me anymore?" She placed his hand on her hair. "Do you still want to touch it? I won't pull a gun on you this time."

"You're drunk," he said glancing up nervously at the stage where the gentleman with the blue Mohawk was abusing his base guitar. "I know you're only seeing him to piss off your mom but, ya know, Buzz is an okay guy. He's got a nice bike."

Carolyn began to bounce in her chair, blow kisses and wave at the stage. "I'm dumping him tonight after the next set." She pushed her companion away. "Bye bye, Little Willie, go home!"

The young man left the bar wondering if he was that obnoxious when he used to get drunk. He found another truck stop a few miles further down the road.


The following evening, Willie drove farther away from Collinsport, all the way to Bangor, which was 50 miles away. That would be a pain in the ass, making two round trips, totaling 200 miles, in one night, but at least he wasn't likely to run into anyone he knew. Maybe he could do the return trip in the morning.

He cruised the downtown streets in search of a place which might be frequented by a girl who would be willing to get into a stranger's truck. Yeah, right. Whose stupid idea was this, anyway? Add vampire pimp to my job description.

Then he spotted it. The Vampire Club.

The inside looked like something out of The Addams Family, with dark red walls and black drapes, chandeliers and candelabra powered with flame-shaped light bulbs; the phone booth was a coffin. There were strobe lights and dry ice on the dance floor. Vampirella tended bar.

Willie laughed out loud as he brushed aside a cotton cobweb and pulled up a stool. "I'll have a rat blood martini."

"Straight up or on the rocks?"

His smile dropped. "Just kiddin'. Beer'll be fine."

There was an equally interesting clientele. Guys and girls, sometimes indistinguishable from each other, were dressed up like it was Halloween, with white faces, black eyeliner and candy-apple red painted on their lips and chins. Willie smiled at the thought of Barnabas dribbling like that.

A pretty, slightly chubby girl approached and sat next him. She had dyed black hair and enormous amber eyes.

"You're not one of us." She said mysteriously, staring at him.

"I guess you can tell. Is that alright? I mean, can I stay if I buy you a drink?"

Three Bloody Marys later, she introduced herself as the Countess Bathory. He responded that his name was Igor; he kissed her hand, looked at it, then removed her dragon ring and replaced it on her index finger.

"That's what real vampires do." He told her in confidentiality.

"What do you know?"

"I know a real vampire."

"Yeah, who?"

Willie smiled. "You know I can't tell you that; he would kill me."

"Are you his slave?"

He ignored the question, but instead looked about, checking for eavesdroppers, then looked into her eyes.

"He sent me here tonight to find you." The young man whispered seductively in her ear, "He wants to drink your blood."

She pulled away and stared at him incredulously. Willie held his breath.

"I'll get my coat."

The vampire's pimp stood abruptly and pulled out his wallet to pay the bill. "Meet me in the parking lot. White pickup truck."


The next night Willie was back on the road to Bangor, banging out Bohemian Rhapsody on the steering wheel. The previous evening's adventure had gone off without a hitch. The vampire was happy. The countess was happy. Willie was relieved and happy. She had smiled idiotically all the way back to her apartment at 2 a.m., and was humming as he led her up the building steps. The young woman fished out her key and blew him a kiss as he sprinted back to the truck, looking over his shoulder for witnesses.

No police cars came to the Old House the next day, and nothing of the incident was heard on the radio. The whole thing turned out to be a good idea, so he was going to try it again. Willie pulled into the parking lot of the Vampire Club at 8 o'clock the following evening.

His truck barely missed hitting a ghoul. Willie guided the pickup at a snail's pace to the center of the lot, parting a sea of Gothic re-enactors that had gathered and were waiting for him. They clamored as he descended from the cab and mobbed him like a rock star until he escaped by climbing into the truck bed. The young man stood there staring in disbelief at the hoard of willing victims who had seen Frank Langella in the sexy Dracula movie and wanted some of that action in real life.

Willie held his hands up. "Hey everybody, listen," he said too quietly, unaccustomed as he was to public speaking. This caused a roar, cheering and shouted questions. He looked around nervously, fearing that the ruckus was definitely going to attract unwanted attention, and took a deep breath.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" he shouted, his heart pounding. The crowd silenced and looked expectantly at him. "If you got a question, raise your hand."

He proceeded as best he could, making up answers as he went. Yes, boys were okay as well as girls. No, there was no age limit, as long as they were at least 18. Hell, Barnabas had bitten that grandpa in the cemetery; how picky could he be?

"Okay, here's the deal: I'm takin' one a' you tonight—just one." The crowd protested as the man lifted Vampirella into the truck with him. She may have been the bartender, he wasn't sure and it didn't matter; she was really hot, even wrapped up in her high-collared cape. "But, come back tomorrow—same bat time, same bat channel—and I'll bring instructions so everybody can have a turn." The group roared with disapproval. "Come on, you guys, knock it off!" he shouted in frustration. "There's gotta be some rules here!"

Willie waited in the cab with Vampirella until the crowd dissipated. She lit a joint and offered him a toke.

"No, thanks, I gotta drive." Then Willie realized what he had just said; he really had changed. Ch-ch-ch-changes.

"So, I get to meet a real vampire; score for me." Smoke was starting to fill the darkened cab as she appraised the young man staring dutifully at the clearing parking lot, his left leg twitching. Maybe he was gay. "What do you get out of this?"

Willie tried not to gawk at the bodacious brunette. "Nothin' I guess."

"My job sucks too. I live on tips." She put the joint in his mouth. "Just a little hit." He obediently took a little hit. "How about you? Do you accept tips?"

The young man swallowed, and his eyes widened as Vampirella's hand reached out and turned his face to hers. "I dunno."

"I'm a big tipper."

Willie considered the situation ever so briefly. He didn't want to get in trouble, but the boss never said he couldn't "accept tips." And, oh god, it had been so long. He never even packed condoms in his pocket anymore. "I d-don't have anything—you know—"

"That's okay, I do." She pulled one out of her ample cleavage. "Cherry flavor."


The following evening he handed out slips of paper with numbers and dates on them. Each person was to meet him in the parking lot on a specific day at 8 p.m. sharp and should arrange to be picked up at the same place at 1 a.m. by a designated driver.

Willie would drive the lucky victim back east and blindfold them as they entered the sleepy village. They seemed to like that, as it added to the suspense. He would then escort the guest through the service entrance and into the ballroom. That particular room had been chosen for these rendezvous for a number of reasons, but mainly because there were no immediate renovation plans, and it reeked of atmosphere.

The walls were lined with period murals and full length mirrors, and the vampire's lack of reflection added to his credibility. It was furnished only with a red velvet chaise and a harpsichord, both adorned with authentic cobwebs and lit only by a candelabrum and whatever moonlight shone through the towering arched windows which looked out upon the terrace. The Gothic guests never failed to be impressed.

Willie would leave them for just long enough and, with a flourish of his cape, the vampire would make his entrance. The cloak, it was determined, was essential to the mood of this piece. Barnabas would serenade his date with Mozart's Fantasy in C Minor on the harpsichord, with which they were invariably enraptured. Willie, however, heard the same fucking song every night because, apparently, the master had a repertoire of one. At long last the meeting would climax as victim and vampire joined in their unholy alliance and, a short nap later, the guest would awaken to find Barnabas had disappeared and Igor was waiting to drive him or her home.

Willie saw the advantages of this scenario. Most importantly, no one was harmed; on the contrary, everyone seemed quite pleased with the arrangements, and the ravenous vampire had no reason to invade the privacy of his servant's bedroom. The only drawback was the time he spent on the road and the wear and tear on his clunker vehicle. Some rides held him prisoner with inane conversation; others came with big tips. Barnabas never mentioned the tippers, so the chauffeur felt it safe to presume that it was an acceptable practice.