Count Slothula opened his eyes. A dark, supernatural instinct told him that the sun had fallen below the horizon, that he no longer need fear the burning crumbling daylight; that it was time to rise, go out into the darkness, and feast.

Not again , he thought.

He was in one of those moods, the kind his Therapist had warned him about. "You have trouble living in the moment," she'd said, repeatedly. He couldn't help himself, though: peeling back the coffin lid, rising, going through all the trouble of transforming into a bat, flying all the way into the village just to hunt down some virgin...just thinking about it left him feeling drained. And what are the odds I'll even find a virgin? he thought. It's so hard nowadays, ever since the villagers got TV...and why? To suck some blood, prolong this un-death, for what purpose? So I can come back here and lie in the coffin another night? What's the point of that?

It always came back to the same question. Why? Why? Why?

For a long time he lay unmoving, his head filled with leaden thumping fuzz. Then, incredibly, he heard voices. Unbelievable. Someone was actually stupid enough to venture into Castle Slothula after dark.

"Look, Martha," a male voice boomed. "Just like they said, a real, live, Transylvanian Castle."

"It's scareeeee," whined a woman's voice.

Tourists. Americans, by the sound of it. They would be fat and gorged with blood, like ticks.

"Let's go upstairs," the man suggested.

Yes, that's it, thought the Count. Just come a little closer.

He could hear them trampling up the stairs now, the stones echoing beneath their clomping feet.

"I'm frightened, Henry," said the woman.

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you," said the man, but the Count could hear his heart pounding fast. Pumping blood...sweet blood...

If they enter the antechamber, I will rise up and kill them, thought the Count.

A minute later, they did enter the antechamber, and now the Count began to realize what a miscalculation he had made. The antechamber was really rather large. If he waited for them to actually entered his private vault, he could save himself some trouble.

But when they plodded into his vault, he still didn't move.

"Oooh! Look, Henry, a coffin!"

"Dare ya ta open it," said the man.

"Hen-reeee!" shrilled the woman.

Yes, yes, open it , thought the Count. Open it and I will show you a real vampire. I will pounce like a wolf and sink my powerful teeth into you and drink you up. Open it.

"You open it," the woman said.

"You open it," said the man.

" You open it," the woman said.

Oh for fuck's sake , thought the Count.

There was silence, then, and the Count knew that the man was considering it. He also knew that if they failed to open his coffin, he would have to open it himself, and with that knowledge came the dreadful realization: he would have to go through with it. Pounce on them -- pounce , at his age! -- and drink their flat, tasteless, watered-down American blood. Had he really hesitated earlier, at the thought of hunting down a Virgin? That seemed ridiculous, now. Virgin blood, so thick, so rich and fragrant (and sweet; with a hint of raspberry) was infinitely better than whatever these two would provide. The thought made him sick --

He waited, corpse-still, on edge.

"Ahhh, maybe next time," the man said, backing off from the coffin.

And then they were gone, leaving him to reflect on the lethargy that sapped him of even the simple ability to kill, and fear gave way to shame. He rolled over onto his stomach, feeling disgusted with himself.

God , thought the Count, I suck .