The Transylvanian Tourist

“You have a guest, Sir.”
“A guest... at Castle Dracula?”
“A lady, Sir.”
The Count’s pupils dilated, flakes of dead skin falling from his face, “Is she... voluptuous?”.
“An American, Sir”
The Count’s ventricles palpitated, “Show her to the guest room, Igor...”
“Certainly, Sir.”
“Prepare my satin black dinner jacket... with scarlet cravat.”
The Count anticipated that mouth watering feminine smell and that exquisite prick... of incisors into carotid artery.
Teeth slipped through his smile... as he watched the woman wave her tour-operator’s pathetic plastic cross.
Do people still believe that religious stuff? Had she not read Richard Dawkins?