THE CLASSIEST VAMPIRE

Vlad descended the blood-red staircase of the Hotel Champagne, the definition of snazzy. He was clad in a blood-red top hat and blood-red bow tie. He was dressed in other attire as well, a blood-red denim jacket and blood-olive green polo shirt with an owl above his vampiric breastbone. His brown corduroy pants made a swishing sound with each step, like the waves of the Mediterranean lapping against a dying mermaid. He removed a wrinkled tissue and dabbed at the blood dripping from his fangs. The tissue was stained, not just with blood, but with the dried tears of the memories of his loves and conquests, and boogers. He winked at the chandelier, which did not respond to his advances as it was inanimate. He sidled his way up to the bar, whistling a nameless, repetitive tune. The bartender looked up from his meatball sandwich, locking eyes with the undeadly charmer.
“Yo, barkeep, get me a Ricky Ricardo,” he smiled, his teeth a crescent moon in the night sky of his face. The bartender poured his drink, which consisted of scotch, vodka, gin and whisky. It was named for the bandleader/ TV star, as it contained every kind of liquor found in his autopsy. Vlad sipped the cocktail noisily, savoring the flavors on his tongue, smelling the aroma in his nose, hearing the booze in his ears. Just then, a short blond woman with red hair and bald cap entered the bar, stumbling slightly as she shut the door behind her, the very picture of Romanticism. Her nose was sharp and prominent, like the tool of a gardener or a middle school custodian. Her eyes were reminiscent of Monet’s Water Lilies, wet and unfocused. Her legs reached all the way to the ground, and her arms did not. Vlad knew he must have her.
She locked eyes with him from across the room, and it was as if music was playing, or someone was humming loudly. He stretched his arm out toward her and gestured for her to sit next to him. She paused, removed her shoes and panties, and made a beeline for the bar. “What are you drinking, stranger?” she asked coquettishly, batting her eyelids like a Louisville slugger.
“A Ricky Ricardo,” Vlad replied, pointing his blood-red widow’s peak toward her generous bosom, which had just that afternoon made a sizable donation to the CCF.
“Ooh, I love Mexicans!” she giggled. Her name was Cecile, which was Italian for va –va-va-voom. Vlad ordered her a merlot, reading her mind as if it were a blood-red book. They toasted to their health, and to the bartenders, and guzzled their drinks like cacti in a snowstorm.
“You have the eyes of a woman,” he whispered, smelling her neck. She blushed, then turned a slight shade of blue. He ordered her another drink and stared deeply into her eyes. “I am a very mysterious stranger, but I am a sensitive, sincere mysterious stranger, and I can tell when I have met someone special. You are no doubt, someone of specialty.”
“And what exactly do you think my specialty is?” Cecile asked smokily, sipping her blood-red merlot seductively and swallowing with abandon. Vlad did not answer right away, savoring the suggestiveness of her query like a fine cigar, or a flirtatious fish taco. Their gestures became a symphony of sexual tension. She crossed her legs, and he licked his lips. He cocked an eyebrow and she eyebrowed his cock. She smelt it, he dealt it.
“Wanna get out of here?” Vlad thought he heard Cecile say. It was, in fact, the bartender, looking to close up shop. This was perfect. Vlad turned to Cecile, brushing his hand across her labia, and slyly suggested they venture to his room. Cecile turned slightly, then whipped around and waved jazz hands at him. This was how she was taught to show enthusiasm. It made Vlad laugh derisively, but fortunately neither knew what that word meant.
As they ascended the blood-red staircase to his room, Cecile felt she was making the best decision she had ever made in her entire life. Vlad was classy, he smelled like a leather sofa or the Library of Congress, and he seemed as if his wang would be humongous. At any rate, he’d be much nicer than that Frankenstein fella. Vlad smiled inwardly, with his stomach, because he knew what she was thinking. This was going to be like taking candy from a poorly secured candy warehouse. As he let Cecile into his room, he placed the blood-red Do Not Disturb sign on his outer doorknob. He most definitely did not want to be disturbed, not tonight. Disturbances suck ass. Vampires only suck necks.