“My legend begins in the 1930s. It took merely a few decades for my ashes to reconvene and comprise this form once more. Recalling my previous death, I decided that rather than restricting myself to the Transylvanian lands and relying on world-dominating servants, I would follow my dreams and become a globetrotter, sampling the blood of different nations. (This was the old, wild Dracula, not the domesticated sort that I have become of late.)

“I happened to be sneaking around in Wales when I received news of a peculiar death: that of a certain Larry Talbot, who had been saddled with a werewolf’s curse. On a lark, I decided, ‘I want to suck his blood.’ So I did, making the journey to the university inspecting his body for post-mortem study. Sneaking in was no issue; imbibing what little blood remained, a delight. I even discovered that consuming werewolf blood temporarily bequeaths some measure of werewolf power on the drinker! This may be a little technical for you, but the effect is not unlike how drinking wine raises one’s Blood Alcohol Concentration...indeed, one might even say there exists a Blood Werewolf Concentration.

“Thus I became a treasure hunter, a ghoul gourmand, seeking odd individuals anywhere and everywhere so that I might sample them—and their powers—for myself. But to my growing shock, for many years I had little success. Even more greatly shockingly, I was soon to learn that the most astounding human beings on this green earth are in reality the weakest. Not the most beautiful, either.

“My ramblings took me to the French monasteries of Notre Dame! A favorite haunt; the aged architecture of France has always made a fine treat for the eyes. I explored its churches, which, with their rampant Catholicism, are thought to be the bane of all vampires. Well, know that a cross cannot hurt you if you do not look directly at it. Ha! And again, ha!

“One morning I found myself in an unkempt room of a cloister owned by the resident monks. They were raising an orphan, who rarely left that hogsty of a room. The mess, however, was books, sweetmeat for the mind. I eyed the charming things, trying my best to leaf through not a one as the orphan boy slept.

“Believe me, the literature's temptation was great. I knew well of the grand library by Bistritz’s esophagus, which comprised much of history and philosophies, but the volumes this orphan possessed were exclusively of the scientific variety. My mind was transfixed by one book left open, the pages of which explained how to sap energy from a mere potato. Could tubers truly contain such heavenly powers? Could the mechanical extravagances of the age have all stemmed from such simple vegetation? I was completely astounded—I had to read more!

“Before I myself knew it, I had turned the page…and even a boy just awakened, rubbing his tired eyes, could dimly see my monstrous hand and the tome it cradled.

“Such a simple mistake it was, to forget my place. Straightaway the boy pointed and cried, ‘What manner of devil are you, foul ghost? Release my book and be done with this house of spirit, spirit!’ To which I responded, ‘I am no spirit, sprat!’ I stepped out from the shadows and loomed above him, making grand display of my prized teeths.

“What an unfortunate son of faith he was. A quick examination proved that he had a hunched back like no one would ever believe. I almost thought he were the offspring of a dromedary camel, how humped was his back! And the first thing he did when he saw my fangs, poor urchin, was leap from his bed to kneel before me and beg for his own demise. For his peers had forsaken him, and even the monks his fathers scorned him, claiming that his back was as crooked as his sinful heart. Ashamed, rejected, he had cast himself into worldly studies, sequestered sorrowful in that tower of gray.

“His pitifulness was too utterly great to bear. I decided to take him under my cape. Thus Hunchback Igor became a vampire and Vlad Dracula became a man of science. Ours was a wondrous relation, I the itinerant count, he the young ward. A shame that our team-up terminated with a titanic shift in world politics...but let me continue.

“What I did to Igor on that fateful morning, as I did to you also, was inject, through my impressive dentals, my own blood. He became immortal just as you and I have. With infinite time all to ourselves, we set about making eternity as interesting as possible. I am still proud to say that my protégé turned me into a true renaissance vampire. We learned all the disciplines of every prestigious learning center—in secret! Only with Igor’s help did I breed dear Bistritz. Igor was my candle-bearer on the path of transformation from vampiric killer to vampiric inquisitor.

“We had many wild adventures—ha...many indeed. One moonlit night in a Romanian grove, we were caught unawares by a hungry werewolf; we subdued him, however, without issue, and sampled his blood. Normally I would have slurped such blood hastily, but Igor convinced me to take it to our study. We isolated the blood-borne virus responsible for a particular strain of werewolfism, coaxed it to reproduce...and Igor claimed its powers as his own, injecting himself with ichor of lupe! He was perhaps the first human in history to willingly, permanently become a wolf-man, and I joined him. Then we held a spectacular feast, toasting the increase in our powers as well as our shared bounty of knowledge!

“In hindsight, that night spelled the beginning of the end for our friendship. I believe that Igor’s heart is quite noble, even to this grave day, and I can scarcely believe that such a fine wolfman vampire as he would allow our world to grow so corrupt! But I must backtrack, for you know little of this, young Ramses. Indeed, one great mystery remains in this tale: what compelled Igor to take his heart and intellect to the polls as the first inhuman president...how came he to champion werewolf rights, eventually uniting this planet under the banner of a new, all-encompassing werewolf cultural identity...”

Dracula, curious about his guest’s comfort, stretched to peek over the table cornucopia. The mummy was fast asleep among empty plates. He was flouting a primo vampire rule: always sleep in your coffin. Fortunately, every room inside of Bistritz was a little long and featured six sides—ergo, coffin-shaped. However subtle the added corners, they seemed to do the trick. “Perhaps my monologue has run a tad too long,” Dracula reasoned, wearing a wry grin.

He traversed the tableside, reached his friend, and lifted him from the chair with ease. “You must still be groggy after your thousand years of sleep. Let me guide you to a more proper rest. Before you wake, we shall have arrived at another friend of mine’s abode.”

And so the big bat soared, far above the clouds. Futuristic wingless jet planes cruised hundreds of feet below, none the wiser.