We were somewhere around Tomorrowland when the bloodlust began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about a hundred miles an hour with the top down to Anaheim. And a voice was screaming: "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?"
Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring beer on his chest, to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish sunglasses. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the highway. No point mentioning those bats, I thought. The poor bastard will see them soon enough. It was almost noon, and we still had more than a hundred miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out. Press registration for the Disneyland Adventure was already underway, and we had to get there by four to claim our credentials. We had come to cover the story. Jules Winnfield vs. Dracula, the Ultimate Showdown of the Century. It was the main event of the Transylvania Terror Fest, a three-day horror extravaganza that drew thousands of freaks, geeks, and weirdos from all over the country. And the winner would walk away with a cool million bucks, plus the title of King of the Monsters. But we also had a different agenda.
We were here on a mission of vengeance. We were here to kill the bastard. Dracula, that is. The Prince of Darkness. The Lord of the Undead. The son of a bitch who had killed my partner, Vincent Vega, and left him in a pool of blood in a cheap motel room in Vegas. That's why I had quit my job as a hitman for Marsellus Wallace and joined forces with my attorney, a well-known journalist and expert on vampire lore. He had a personal grudge against Dracula too. The fiend had seduced and bitten his girlfriend, a fine-looking blonde who worked as a stripper in one of his clubs. She was now one of his brides, a slave to his will, doomed to an eternity of damnation. We had a plan. A simple one, but effective. We would pose as reporters, get close to Dracula, and then blast him with our .44 magnums, loaded with silver bullets. We had a trunkful of them, along with garlic, crosses, stakes, holy water, and anything else that might give us an edge. We were armed and dangerous, ready to take on the most powerful creature on earth. But as I drove across the burning desert, I began to wonder if we had really thought this through. What if we were wrong? What if Dracula was not the monster we believed him to be? What if he was just misunderstood, a victim of circumstance, a lonely soul in search of love? What if we were the real villains, the ones who deserved to die? I shook my head. No, I thought. That's impossible. He's evil. Pure evil. And we're the good guys. The heroes. The avengers. We're doing this for Vincent. For the blonde. For humanity. We're doing this for God. And we're going to win. We have to win. We can't afford to lose. Not here. Not now. Not at the happiest place on earth.