The sixth double-decker bus from Gib-Pak HoHo Tours, the Gibor tour company, pulled up to the gates behind the others. Today, the drivers started to use the courtyard for parking next to the passage leading to the secret coffin room. To top things off, the little bastards were going to begin moonlight tours! Since the moon always happened to be full above Transylvania, this would be a nightly event!

Vlad, the evil Master-bat-or, was hanging forty feet above the tour group, hidden and hurting like a drug addict. The hunger pangs were not in Vlad’s stomach. He wasn’t thinking of the camera-toting blood bags beneath him. He was thinking about Elizabeth Bathory the Bloody Countess, or Betty as he called her. They rarely got to see each other as she had her own castle to attend to.

She’s probably in the bath, he Thought. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her beneath his wings, and kiss the bloodbles sliding down her ţâţe vith all the subtle finesse of a slobbering mastiff. Oops! Vlad could see that ‘Betty’ was reading his mind tonight across hundreds of fog-shrouded miles. She was picking out her trashiest pantyhose for their next date.

Betty, the Bloody Countess, the direct daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Satan, was awakened in her bath by the another noisy busload of the plasma pouches (Gibors) outside her castle walls.

When Betty was upset, the blood in her tub would begin to boil.

Over the ages, the countess’s supply of fresh female virgin blood had dwindled. The disappearance of the innocent maidens of yore had attracted the attention of authorities, which meant the countess was now forced to bathe in the unwholesome blood of Gibors — who no one, even their own families, ever missed. Most of Elizabeth’s higher quality bathwater only came from the fresh blood of virgin males who lived in their basements of their parent’s homes. These pallid geeks, hardly seen were also seldom missed. Guys with names like Irving, Seymour, Poindexter, and Marvin. Bathing in Le Nectar des Dorks had its plus side. Real virgin sap made her already impressive mellükön larger and decidedly perkier. Extracto empollón (nerd extract) was also good for firming up her yumalicious fenék. It also served as a coolant when the Countess’ overheated bod would threaten to spontaneously combust.

For four hundred years Vlad had loved her. Should I ask her to move in, despite the three humorless old bats already living…uh, undying in my cellar? He could feel Betty looking at him, through the sinister fog, drooling from over five hundred miles away—as if he were a rack of Famous Dave’s spareribs.

Vlad’s deep thoughts were interrupted “Blattttttt” by the sounds of twenty Gibors having a farting contest below in the main hall and laughing at the echoes. Even on the sacred Sundays, Jack Lord’s day of rest. How could such a tiny country produce so many noisy, dirty, ill-mannered, annoying little…ewwwww, just the thought gave Vlad shivers.

He twirled his aerodynamic mustache, When fate gives you lemmings, make lemming-ade! swooped down, eyes ablaze, and within his devilish trick of the five-second time shift, he was able to lift a Gibor woman up onto the rafters, chomp down on her fat neck, and extract all of her blood before anyone in the crowd could blink. The crowd below, farting in the long hallway, taking photos, and busy stealing clippings of Vlad’s tapestries, were moving in a slower parallel world as he enveloped his prey. The woman’s husband, Morty, only witnessed her dripping blood and gore running down a column. He was busily snapping photos when he noticed (“Hey, Lucy! Look at this ancient W(V)ibrator!”) that his wife was missing. She’s probably in the gift shop, he thought.Morty snapped a few hundred more shots as Lucy’s blood splatter was licked up by several happy bats that had escaped from the confines of Vlad’s faster parallel world.

“Vinged varmints! Get back up here!” Vlad demanded in a high-frequency whisper.

Morty the husband never thought to look up, or report his missing spouse to the big New Guinea bus driver, Xomerang, who was busy eating jerky-like pieces of his own grandfather’s buttocks as a snack.

Vlad had to get the crowds out of here — now(!) Betty is bringing her entire volf pack vith her this evening. Tonight is date night! Which reminded him…

Within another half-minute, Vlad snagged another half-dozen Gibors for his Gibor-matic chopper. He was going to make salsa to go with Lupta’s Nerd Chips ©.

Once a week, beneath Transylvania’s perpetual full moon, the Countess Elizabeth and Prince Vlad would relax within his double-wide coffin and listen to the music of Elizabeth’s pet wolves mating in the surrounding mountains. Hypnotized, they would lose themselves in passion. The pack’s leader, known as “Blue Eyes” Ferenc, would offer the lovebats his sad song of a lost love from 3 a.m. until dawn. Vlad sadly remembered that if the Ferenc hadn’t eaten his own daughter, Nancy, she might still be singing duets with him.

Date night at Poenari Castle this week was to involve Vlad drinking the Countess’ bathwater (the entire blood-filled tub). This was to be followed by a thoroughly invasive cleaning of every pore of her luscious body after he transformed himself into a hot steamy Mist-o-Matic. A concert of classical wolf song’s featuring Good Doggie Bocelli and a final game of Ingropa Batwurst (Bury the Batwurst) would round out their evening.

Below, another fifty chattering Gibor tourists entered the great hall and began to pose for each other’s cameras. Their ultimate plan, with the Van Helsing’s help, must be to erect a miniature Transylvania by 3D-ing their millions of photographs, demand that the old Transylvanian royalty shrink themselves, and then place the vampires into the tiny replicas of their ancient homes. Vlad was sure there couldn’t be any other explanation for the excessive picture taking.

Thank Hell (!) for my Betty-bun’s blind volf, Bocelli. The hound would clear the castle of tasteless Gibors with his famous rendition of “Con Te Partire” (“Time to Say Goodbye”).

They hated fine music.


Grieves’ dried-up old heart was touched by the Prince’s love for Elizabeth. The sad old butler’s face nearly cracked into a smile though Vlad was using his desiccated finger to stir a small mix of virgin blood, and a cup of Elizabeth’s used bathwater, over a candle flame. Though Grieves appreciated the attention, Vlad thought, I’ll let the poor old fellow go to his tomb and vallow in his bottomless misery. Torturing his dried-up butler would have given Vlad no pleasure.