At a Glance:Vampires are one of those legends that simply will not die, and in their case it has nothing to do with them being undead. People love vampires, from their charismatic evil to their varied weaknesses, and that’s probably why people like Anne Rice still have a job. Rice and her ilk have turned Vampires from bestial-but-brainy bloodsuckers into prancing homoerotic shitballs who do nothing but cry about how bad they have it living forever. To save you the trouble of ever having to read another melodramatic vampire cry-fest, we here at SA Story Time have worked to create the definitive vampire fiction.
Literary Hack Sub-Genre: Vampire Faggot Festival
Chapter One - Castle of Lost SoulsDarula's castle was very ominous and sinister.Count Armand Darula was not at first sight an imposing figure, with his dual buns of white hair and gray-tinted white skin, some might mistake him for frail. But others knew better, they could see it in his piercing eyes and his powerful chin, or the way he hovered an inch above the ground as he moved across the ancient stone floor of his castle. He looked out a window and right then some lighting flashed in the Transylvania sky, silhouetting him in this totally cool way that is hard to describe. He thought back to the times during the American Civil War when his troops raged across the battlefield. He was a conqueror, a beast, and was known throughout the lands as Armand the Impaler. Not because he impaled people, but because of the way he insisted on eating only with a knife.
When he discovered that his beloved Sexybelle had been killed by Union soldiers in Atlanta he forsook God and returned to his ancestral home in Transylvania. Soon he discovered that somehow forsaking God had caused him to become a vampire, and he began to hunger for blood. He could eat cow blood or rabbit blood, sometimes he ate bird blood, but it lacked the zesty full-bodied flavor of human blood. His favorite was the blood of an adult human female, and he indulged in it at least once a week by traveling to the nearby village and feasting on some poor unsuspecting wench.
Despite his wonderful musty castle and his nearby supply of fresh blood, Count Darula was depressed. He wanted to blame the winter weather, the short days and long dreary nights, but he knew it was not that alone. He had grown tired of being alone and he found on these chill nights the companionship of his undead concubines did little to offset this.
"Count Darula, I have brought you your mail as usual," commented Darula's undead butler named Chauncey.
Darula smacked the stack of bills and solicitations and menus from Chinese restaurants out of Chauncey's hand.
"Bah!" He said emphatically. "What do I need with correspondence when there is no one who I would choose to correspond with?"
Chauncey took a step back, always wary of the Count when he was having one of his infamous mood swings.
"My un-life is so horrible," complained Darula, daubing at tears welling in his brooding eyes with a lace handkerchief. "I am surrounded by cretins such as you but all I see is skulls and ravens. Perhaps I shall write another poem in my dream journal."Darula was nearly as ominous and sinister as his castle, but slightly gayer looking."Very good sir," replied Chauncey and departed the chamber quickly, although not hovering like the Count could because Chauncey's undead powers were not totally awesome like Darula's.
"What's this?" mused the Count as he noticed one of the pieces of mail.
He picked it up and examined it. It was a travel brochure for London, England. Inspiration struck the count and his deep depression lifted like a concrete slab being lifted into position during tilt-up construction. He realized he could travel to London and escape the oppressive atmosphere of his castle, perhaps even meeting someone who could take the place of Sexybelle.
"I could travel to London and escape the oppressive atmosphere of my castle," he declared, "perhaps even meet someone who could take the place of Sexybelle."
No, he realized, no one could ever replace Sexybelle. He began to sob tears of blood, but through them he picked up his cordless telephone and began dialing the number of his travel agent.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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