Spooktacular Classic: From the Blood-Stained Lips of a Vampire

Spooktacular Classics are dried-up chunks of word vomit which I like to regurgitate every time a Halloween Spooktacular event rolls onto the Interwebs scene. Today will feature Dear-John-style letters from classic icons who want to discredit classic tropes.

You’ve been warned.

Dear Bloodbags,

I do not sparkle in sunlight.  I don’t play footsie with teenage girls.  I don’t have some Channing-Tatum-esque sexual prowess.  You should not want me to creep through your window at night and kiss your neck.  You shouldn’t want to rip off your clothes and allow me to fuck the living shit out of you.

No.  I am a vampire.  I am Nosferatu.  The Undead.  You should shit in your pants if you ever see me. (And if you ever do shit your pants upon sighting me, I can assure you fucking will be the furthest thing from my mind.  I’d rather watch a homemade porn video involving fried chicken, Honey-Boo-Boo’s mom, and that fat guy from Jackass.)

I am sick and tired of these pansy-ass vampires permeating the written and visual markets.  I’m sick and tired of true bad-ass vampires being resigned to their coffins while little scrawny teenage kids get to fight werewolves and impregnate underage girls.  I am dead tired from watching gory vampire novels being overrun by that bullshit you call paranormal romance.

You know what I find romantic?  A vampiress who can ram her fist through a human’s chest.  A lady-vamp who can suck the meat off a bone without flinching.  A female Undead who will burn every human in sight and then ask if I want a candle-lit dinner.

It’s even better if she grins and lets her fangs catch the moonlight when she asks.

I’m also tired of hearing about Dracula. He was just another romantic sissy. I mean, I can think of no vampire who would allow a human in their home and not kill them within seconds.  Especially if that human was Keanu Reeves. He is a poor representation of our kind, and others deserve the limelight cast upon all his bullshit.

And don’t get me started on the new notion that society would learn to accept vampires if there were an alternate blood source.  True Blood?  Fuck True Blood.

I want true blood.

You human cows have no idea what I’ve seen.  What I’ve done.  I don’t waste away in a coffin, pining over a love I never had.  I plot.  I plan.  I devise ways to take over this planet.  I ponder how I can kill every last one of you and still survive.  I think of how I can become the supreme ruler of Earth while avoiding your shitty love-soaked imaginations and all of your two-faced politics and drama.

Without you, I would be complete.

I am Horror.  I am your nightmare.  I am not here to hold your hand or teach you the follies of mankind.  I am here to decimate mankind.  I’m here to drain your blood so that I may be strong and prosperous.

I’m a stalker, and you are my prey.

Stop idolizing me.  Stop putting fake fangs in your mouth.  Stop putting those stupid contacts in your eyes.  Stop romanticizing about me.  I’m not your lover.  I’m not your mentor.  I’m not your friend.  I’m a fucking vampire.  The very essence of my species’ name brings to mind parasites and blood-suckers.  If that’s your idea of romance, then by all means, marry a CEO and be done with it.

But stop making me seem less horrific than I am.

If you do not heed this advice, well, I guess it really doesn’t matter. Either way, I will take over this world. You will be my sheep, my food. Romance will be replaced by hatred and disaster.

And I will laugh until dust erupts from my throat.

From the Bottom of My Non-beating Heart,

Naas Furratoo

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