the smuggler’s bible

Vlad Dracula

Vlad Dracula sails through the window in a flurry of glass and dead leaves. His dramatic cape flourish dies without a whimper in midair. He lands on the drink table, which buckles and collapses.

He groans wetly underneath the punch bowl. “Happy, uhm. The … uh,” he says.

The Wolf-Man helps him to his feet. He wobbles once, steadies himself.

“Tonight,” he says. “This very night, I have seen—ugh, ohmygod—such wonders. The dream is alive, I tell you, in the downtown college bars!”

“Was it spooky or, like, spooky-trashy?” someone asks.

“It was,” Vlad Dracula says, “better than nothing.”