Never Cross A Vampire

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A pudgy vampire with a soiled black cape sat on a coffin across from me sipping a bottle of Hires Root Beer through a soggy straw. His loose fangs kept slipping, and each sip brought a sound somewhere between an asthmatic whistle and terminal pneumonia. He was fascinating, but so were the other four black-caped vampires who surrounded my client in that damp basement. My client, wearing a conservative gray suit and a fixed, uncomfortable smile, used his cigar to keep the vampires at bay, but they weren’t to be denied, especially one white-faced woman with long raven hair parted down the middle.

“But Mr. Lugosi,” she panted, “When are you going to play a vampire again?”

Lugosi shrugged enormously, playing to his rabid audience. He was almost sixty and looked every bit of it and more. His face was puffy and white, his smile a broad V. He didn’t want to be here, but since he was, he couldn’t resist the urge to perform.

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