Where would Count Dracula be now? He might be on the internet.
Count Dracula adored the slow creaking of the hinges as he lifted the heavy oak lid of his casket with one arm. He savoured the deepening of shadows as nightfall crept into the room. When only the light of human creation disturbed dear darkness, he levitated. Somersaulting, he spread out his cape and neatly landed, evoking a panther on two legs.
With soundless fluid motion, he stepped to his record collection and selected an LP. As he listened to the mournful, yet soothing notes of Mozart's Requiem, he stared at the needle bobbing on the dark rotating disk as it wobbled like a small life boat on a tempestuous black sea.
He fingered his computer on. Sitting down, he opened his home page to see if anyone had downloaded the file he had created. Soft blue light enhanced his wolfish grin, for someone had. He wondered if the contraption that Dr. Frankenstein had set up would really do as he had promised. If so, then giving the doctor eternal life would finally pay off.
Arthur Cabot returned to the computer with a tall glass of clinking ice cold cola. He plunked it down on the corner of the table and slid his overweight frame into the chair, which creaking and squeaking, fought the immense squiggling cheeks.
He lifted the glass, took a sip, and burped. His eyes bulged. From the left edge of his screen Mickey appeared dancing with Minnie. They cavorted right and left and up and down, obliterating the report he'd been working on all week.
Fingers flew over the keyboard. Clicking and clacking, they raced to gain control. Blackness rolled from right to left. A large white circle popped into the center.
Standing up, he paced back and forth in front of the mocking screen, running his meaty fingers through his thin hair. He stopped. What would happen if he clicked on that circle? Of course, he could call the help center, but on a Saturday afternoon he would have to be patient. Impossible! Maybe it was just a harmless prank and his report would reappear. Besides, what worse could happen? He tormented the chair once again. Grasping the mouse, he slid the cursor over to the circle and clicked.
Tiny bats flapped from the center, growing bigger as they neared the edges, only to disappear into the blackness. Arthur expelled a breath in exasperation. From the screen, blue energy corkscrewed out. He looked down. His shirt was unravelling. Before he could blink, his chest was bare.
Into the screen red life spiralled. Screaming, he pushed against the table. The chair rolled back on its wheels empty, the backrest bobbing. Held in the power of the whirlpool, he rose and shook in a jerky scarecrow dance; the flabby, thinning arms and legs swayed as his innards flowed in. Finally, a wrinkled bag of chalky white skin sagging over protruding bones rattled onto the floor.
Halfway around the world in another room, a totally unique machine hummed as inner motors whirled. An indicator rose as it accepted energy, converted it to body fluids, and centrifuged blood.
Count Dracula placed the goblet under the spigot and, twisting the tap, slowly filled it with blood. Its warm thickness had little clarity. He sniffed and found the bouquet lacked character. He sipped, spit it out, and shattered the goblet against the wall. Snarling, he opened the window and flew out into the hateful never ceasing neon glow.