Chapter 2: Even Harder Times for a Vampire
In the form of a bat, Vlad Dracula flew silently, circling over the young couple making love in the backyard swimming pool, watching them with envious, hungry eyes. Yes, they would make fine prey. They were healthy, young and strong and he could hear their sexually aroused hearts pounding like cannon fire in his battles against the Ottoman Empire. He could smell their Norieshing, healthy red blood coursing through their veins.
But Dracula also knew that taking them would be his undoing.
It is not as it once had been, thought Vlad III Drăculea. Of course, he had not used that name for centuries, much less his even more infamous sobriquet, Vlad Țepeș: Vlad the Impaler.
Though the long centuries, he had been known by other names, as well. The Turks called him, "Kaziklu Bey;" Impaler Prince. His own countrymen called him the "The Son of the Dragon," and less charitably, (and in hushed tones,) "The Son of the Devil." Later still, it had been, "Lord of the Undead."
But lately, he simply called himself, "Lawrence Richardson." Before that, it had been "Richard Wayne." And before that, it had been "Barry Chase."
For the last two centuries, Dracula decided that common, unremarkable names were the best in terms of security. The day when he could call himself "Mr. Alucard," or "Dr. Acula," had long passed. During his long undeath, Dracula had acquired enough conservative wisdom to eschew such coy, potentially revealing names that might well raise any 'red flags,' even in this age of unbelief in all things supernatural.
In addition, Dracula also learned to mind his language. Not only did this mean to avoid speaking like a Renaissance-Era Warrior Prince to the local commoners he could not avoid interacting with, but to also affect a neutral, American Midwestern accent for these necessary transactions. His only 'concession' would be to accurately pronounce words, proper names and place names of the old languages he spoke; though he could well imagine an all-too near-future when he would have to abandon even that practice.
Again, Dracula found himself distracted by the young couple frolicking in the pool, thinking that, Five hundred years ago, I would have taken them, and feasted on their blood!
Of course, five centuries ago, no peasant would have been foolish enough to gallivant (much less canoodle) outdoors after nightfall, when it was too well-known that vampires stalked the earth, prowling for the blood of the innocent to sustain their unnatural existence . . . .
But now and instead, Dracula would dine on pig's blood obtained online from slaughter houses.
No, it was not like it had once been - those five centuries ago - when he first became a vampire. He had been a nobleman, a prince – a Voivode of Wallachia - and he ruled his kingdom with a firm hand. He was at once feared and beloved by his people. True, he did not suffer any challenge to his authority, as a woman who allowed her husband to go out in public with an un-mended shirt once learned the hard way. But also true, did he not hold back the infidel Ottoman Turk from all of Europe's back doorstep?
The smell of the young couple's passion was threatening to drive him into a mindless frenzy. But if he granted them the honor of slaking his undying thirst, these two youths would be missed, and questions would be asked.
They were - what did such folk call themselves in this so-called "classless society?" – part of the "Upper-Middle Class . . . ?"
Bah! For in the mind of Dracula, this so-called "Upper-Middle Class" was nothing more than mere peasants with an exaggerated sense of their own self-importance.
Nonetheless, they would be missed . . . .
Why, in this odd land, even the mysterious death of a homeless, alcoholic vagrant would raise a hue and cry! Not that Dracula would ever consider one such as a source of Norieshment. For a moment, he recalled how he dealt with such foul parasites during his time as Voivode of Wallachia. (The hall engulfed in flames. The futile, desperate screams of mercy that came from within . . . .)
No, it was not like those days. But times have changed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to adapt to them as the years, decades – yes, and even the centuries - passed.
Dracula was wealthy, and wealth – as ever – could pave the way. But it was getting harder and harder to do as time went on. Dracula reflected on the great difficulty he had in obtaining his newest identity papers, not to mention his new home at 1428 Elm Street in this small town of Springwood, Ohio.
And because he did not age, he could only stay here for less than a decade. Indeed, now that he was settled in his new home, he had to begin work immediately on obtaining his next set of identity papers and find yet another place to stay for the decade to follow.
And he could not do this if he shortsightedly gave into his base desires, and took the young couple debauching below him for a mere meal.
Cursing to himself in Low Magyar, the vampire flew unnoticed by the young revelers into the open window of the top floor of 1428 Elm Street. Reforming as a man, Dracula went to the kitchen where he fixed himself sustenance, (he would not dignify it by calling it "a meal,") by warming a bag of frozen pig's blood in the microwave oven. He would then go to his computer, and resume his work on a new identity to replace the one he currently used, before sunrise forced him to return to his coffin in the basement.
After working for several more hours, Dracula became aware of the impending dawn. Shutting down his computer, the Vampire Lord bade the five vicious hellhounds that guarded him during the day to take their posts. As always, three of his loyal canine daytime guardians would patrol the inside of the house while two guarded the back yard. And in his slumber, Dracula could see all that they saw; through their eyes in his dreams, should the need arise.
The Lord of the Undead went to the basement where he kept his coffin, lined with dirt from his native Wallachia, to sleep the day. And as he slept, he dreamed . . . .
In his dreams, Dracula once again sat on his throne in his castle at the Princely Court in Târgoviște, resplendent in his brocaded robes of fine, Ottoman silk, where he ruled as Voivode of Wallachia in the mid-15th Century. It was a dream that he had frequently chosen for himself; a retreat from this harsh, new world in which he was now forced to reside. A world not only alien to the one he had been born into, but a world which seemed bound and determined to remain unstable and forever changing.
A world that was becoming increasingly impossible for the immortal vampire to adapt to.
He came here often, to meditate and to relax in perfect solitude, alone in his thoughts.
And then, Dracula realized that he was not alone.
Casually approaching his throne was a man with horribly burned flesh. The intruder was dressed in a filthy pair of work boots, worn brown trousers, a garish red and green stripped knitted sweater, and a brown, Fedora hat that had no doubt seen better days.
Dracula's warrior's eyes also noted the bladed glove weapon the intruder wore on his right hand, and that the interloper had the smell of Hell about him; the smell of a demon!
Rising from his throne, the Lord of the Undead immediately drew his sword of Toledo Steel that once had belonged to his father, Vlad II, and demanded of the trespasser, (in a 21st Century Midwestern American Accent that clashed with his 15th Century Nobleman's garb,) "Who dares disturb the privacy of my dreams? Identify yourself!"
With an exaggerated (and mocking) bow, the intruder said, "Well, everyone calls me, Freddy!
"Your turn now, Fangface. Who are you . . . ?"
"You know who I am . . . ," said the vampire as though it should be immediately obvious to everyone; even to this low, uninvited demon.
"No, really, I don't," said the demon shrugging his shoulders, though Freddy could guess the answer to his next question since he heard it from vampires so often. "So, who are you, pal?"
Without changing his expression, the vampire said, "I am Vlad Drăculea."
"Uh, who . . . ?"
"I. Am. DRA-CU-LA!"
The burned demon snorted derisively, rolled his eyes, and chuckled. "Whatever you say, dude."
Dracula fixed the demon with a stern look that demanded an apology for his unabashed insolence. But the demon just sighed, shook his head, and continued, "Listen, pal, try to see this whole thing from my point of view, will ya?
"The last time I was in Hell, I met a dozen vampires, and ten of them claimed to be THE Count Dra-cu-la . . . ." Again, the vampire did not reply and the look on his face did not change. The intruding demon continued. "And the other two bloodsuckers were a couple of Black dudes, who were arguing over which one was the 'real' Prince Mamuwalde!
"So, you really have to forgive me for being just a little bit skeptical here, Leech-lips!"
After a long, uncomfortable silence, the vampire replied. "I am Dracula. I am Voivode; a Prince, not a mere "Count" as that idiot Stoker would have everyone believe."
The demon shook his head and sighed yet again. "Alright, dude, have it your way. You're 'Dracula.' I can play along, for now . . . .
"Now, please allow me to properly introduce myself," said the demon, doffing his Fedora with another, exaggerated bow dripping with insolent mockery. "My name is Freddy Krueger.
"But as I said earlier, you can just call me "Freddy." All of my victims do."
Dracula's face sharpened at demon's Germanic surname. Though sounding more Hanoverian than Saxon in origin, Dracula had a long memory, and his hatred of the insufferable German Saxons who had first colonized his beloved Transylvania in the 12th Century raised the vampire's wrath even more.
Freddy said, "Now, 'Dracula,' let's get down to business, shall we? What the hell are you doing here in MY house?"
"Your house . . . ? I think not . . . .
"This is now my house, German pig," said Dracula evenly. "I did not tolerate your kind in Transylvania when I ruled Wallachia, and I shall not tolerate your presence here in my home, now.
"Be gone, wretched demon!"
"Oh, no, no, NO!" said Freddy, shaking his bladed forefinger admonishingly. YOU 'be gone,' Batboy! This is my house, and I'm back for good!
"And by the way, I ain't no garden-variety 'demon,' either, Bloodsucker!
"I'm the BOGEYMAN! The One-and-Only Bogeyman!"
But the vampire was not impressed, much less intimidated. "If you think you are the equal of Vlad Drăculea, you are dreaming, foul 'bogeyman.'"
Snarling, Freddy said, "I'm not the only one here who's dreaming, bitch!" Freddy lunged through the air at Dracula, his right arm transforming in mid-leap from a bladed glove into a large, wooden stake, slamming it into the vampire's chest.
Dracula roared; a mixture of pain and surprise. Freddy let out a roar of laughter as he watched the vampire's skin start to crack and turn into dust. But the bogeyman's laughter was short-lived as the vampire immediately resumed his normal appearance, sidestepping as the bogeyman's stake-arm passed through him as though he were an apparition.
"Huh? What . . . ?" Freddy stammered, his expression shifting to one of shock, followed by near panic as the vampire clamped his right hand around Freddy's neck, lifting him off the ground.
"Fool," said Dracula. "You claim to possess 'dream-powers?' Well, so do I . . . ."