Dracula loves nothing more than fucking with time and space.

Dracula wonders why for fuck’s sake can’t they raise the ratio of peanuts to popcorn in Cracker Jack’s.

Dracula would happily pay more for this.

The other night, staggering drunk, Dracula bounced down the hall to the way too bright toilet and fouled the bowl with his own disgusting waste that reeked afterward like a grassy fetid swamp. Pulling from a plastic bottle of store brand Listerine he felt somewhat redeemed. A little less consumed with self loathing, he then turned to right wing radio and masturbated until his dick began to wrinkle and mottle.

Dracula loves staring at dogs in the elevator. Dracula lives in a tall building where more often than not there are dogs staring up at him in the elevator.

Dracula shows up to smack you around a little.

Dracula will pay you handsomely for your collectibles.

For Trick or Treat, Dracula hands out chili cheese dogs with mayonnaise, mustard and onion.

Dracula smells himself and is confused.

Dracula can really only identify with immigrant grocers and superheroes.

Dracula contemplates at first and later laments the sebaceous cysts on his nut bag.

Dracula languishes in a puddle of urine.

Hundreds of years ago, Dracula glimpsed a freak at a carnival beyond a tent flap parted by stiff wind and he flushed with warmth and excitement. So thrilled was he with knowledge that he was not alone in the world. That there were other odd people in the world. Other people who clamored for respect and belonging in a world that so emphasized glamor and sensation. A world so firmly ensconced in storybook endings and caviar dreams. A society that had consistently discarded him because of who he was and because of his diminutive stature and penis and because he wore a rather ridiculous cape. Dracula always takes the long way home.

Drinks for my friends.

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