Nigel was so mad. It happened all the time. He had to do most of the running. Well, not anymore. He climbed out, banged the lid and set off. He arrived there in a blink of an eye, of course with his prowess.But he was still angry, and you wouldn’t want to see Nigel on an angry day or any other day for that matter. He stood over six feet tall in his stocking feet, as broad as the prow of a ship. With his long black unruly locks tinged with silver and a face that could seduce a harem of females. He was Hot (in more ways than one, actually). But Nigel wasn’t interested. Well, in a manner of speaking he was but for his purposes any sex would do. Male or female. But the fairer sex were always that little bit sweeter.  Apart from James. He was so beautiful, should have been a woman, and he was heading that way with the operations and all, until he was stopped mid-change. Tragic, really.

Anyway, that was Nigel and he was livid. As he approached his friend Dermot’s front door he slowed down dramatically and landed a few feet away. Wow! Dermot had a new door and what a door! Shaped like a church window, Dermot always liked his wee jokes, it was a wonderful dilapidated sight. All black, decaying paintwork, rusted, gothic hinges, huge decrepit cast iron knocker and decorative Fleur de Lis. Two crumbling, slippery, moss covered steps led up to this artefact and all were liberally splashed with red. Dermot was always a sloppy feeder. The steps were treacherous but they had to be. Method in his old friend’s madness. Oh yes. They were cleverly boobytrapped  for unsuspecting delicious tourists who were not supposed to be there. They weren’t supposed to be anywhere near this castle, idiots. The residents of the village knew only too well to stay away although Dermot did do one of them a favour long ago. Petra Slogaviche had a philandering husband who took his latest filly into the forest for a bit of Bumpetey! Bumpetey! That soon ended with Johann separated from his manhood and the lady now a part of Dermot’s harem.

But crazy, unread people risked their lives to find this place. How they found it was down to modern times and modern damn equipment. Mobile phones, ipads but especially those cursed inventions, Sat. Nav. The castle was buried deep, deep in the mountainous region of the country but all they had to do was key in location and destination and voila! They died!! Wanted to get their names in the papers, they did. Become famous they did. Earn vast amounts of money. Well, two out of three ain’t bad. They became famous alright and got their names in the tabloids after being found pale and drained dumped on the outskirts of the town. WARNING! They sometimes carried ridiculous pieces of things. A wooden stake, a cross and some edible plant!Morons! They sure must have read something. Our two friends blame that Stoker fellow, never did get his facts straight.  That lady, Anne Rice, seemed to be more in tune with the subject. Sure, didn’t the friends have mouth watering Irish stew one night laced with garlic. His name was Paddy O’ Grady who ventured too close to Dermot’s home. But waste not, want not. Boris, we shall meet him later, made a gourmet dish for His Master. Some still stocked in the freezer actually. If a nice Italian should chance this way, spaghetti bolognese.

If Dermot was in a pleasant frame of mind he would offer adoption to the hapless person.  No breath or no Breath. Live and die or die and live. Not much of a choice really when you think about it. So the inhabitants of Dermot’s castle grew. He had more subjects than The Shah of Persia and all in tune to his every need. Nigel was one of his protegees but refused to be intimidated by the man.  Still he admired him for his prowess and his well filled fridge.

Nigel lifted the heavy, iron knocker and rapped thrice, hard. The signal for Boris to open the door without his trusty, rusty sword. The sound reverberated through the castle. Boom! Boom! Boom! Dermot was so egotistical. Why not just an ordinary bell sound or even a scream. But no. He had to have the best. A sound to burst the eardrums. An unmistakable sign of his wealth and stature.

“Yeah,” thought Nigel, “about that stature. It was increasing with every passing year.”

If it kept on like this Dermot could apply to be one of those Santa people or Satan people, if you like. His girth was enormous although funny enough it didn’t affect his speed. But soon they wouldn’t be able to find a receptacle to hold him at night.

The door creaked open to reveal the face and figure of Boris, the English butler who had strayed too near to Dermot’s lair. He had chosen the second option, die and live, and was now the faithful servant of his Master. He stood well over six feet as well with very long arms dangling almost to his ankles. His blond hair, grey streaked, framed a face no mother could love. It was once a normal visage with a healthy English blush, straight, aristocratic nose and piercing blue eyes. He was called Hot at one time by the ladies of his country and pursued mercilessly by the same. But they would recoil in horror now. Boris had changed dramatically. Those English rosy cheeks were sunken and scaly. An unidentifiable shade of greenish grey. The eyes shrivelled, no longer blue but fiery red with a smidgen of black. His hands were long and thin, practically translucent, with nails , the length of which would make a Diva jealous. But sharp. like a razor. His dedication to his Master was legendary not like Percival, the peeling Zombie. Nigel’s unfaithful retainer. Never mind the fact that he left parts of himself all round the house for Nigel to trip over, his shedding skin was disgusting. And he was so slow. The dead flies were falling off him. Well, they actually were. It took him half a night to shuffle to the fridge for some AB negative or Rhesus. It was bloody warm by the time he got it, That was alright in the Winter but in Summer Nigel liked nothing better than lying back in his wooden recliner with the satin cushions, a nice cool glass of red nectar by his side.

Ah Well!! Shouldn’t be long now. At the rate Percival was going there wouldn’t be anything left of him soon. Nigel thought he would try a werewolf next. At least they were fast but the hairs in his food? But then it was better than an eye or a bit of thumb from Peeling Percival.

He addressed the waiting Boris: “Good evening, Boris. Where is he? ”

“The master will be with you shortly,” replied Boris, in a voice that would have cracked corn. Deep and dark and so very, very scary.

“Boris, drop the accent, For Hell’s Sake. you’re a British butler and drop the attitude. Is he not up yet?”

“Oh. Nigel, I have tried to revive him. he got stuck coming out of his sleeping place. Scattered his night dirt all over the floor. I had to follow him around and shovel it up. You know he needs that. It’s crucial to his well being. Home turf. He’s on his way up now.”

“What he needs is a six week boot camp to get that weight off. Boris, no more tasty meals from foreigners. They’re too delicious and he can’t resist them. Get us two snifters of the Ordinary, vintage 2017. That’ll get him going for the night ahead. It’s a cheeky wee blend. A little dusty, old with hints of fear and confusion. Am I right , Boris?”

“You are indeed, sir. A solitary visitor to our humble home. Plucked from the forest before he reached our door. Please be careful going down the steps. There is a body there. Not yet drained and bottled. My work is never done.

“You’re a good ‘un, Boris!”

And off Nigel went in search of his inflating friend, yelling: “Dermot Dracula, get out of your lazy coffin right now. We have hours to fill with fun and and fear and stocks for the fridge.