My Favorite Fangs: The Story of the Von Trapp Family Vampires

by Alan Goldsher

  Maria gave him a quizzical look. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “In March of 1961, Atlantic Records will release an album called My Favorite Things by yours truly.”

  “What’s Atlantic Records?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What’s My Favorite Things?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What does this all have to do with me?”

  “I’ll answer that with a question, Vampiress: What are your favorite things?”

  “That’s easy: Blood drops on roses and bloody-nosed kittens, and…”

  John Coltrane raised his index finger and said, “Shh, shh, shh. Save that bit for later. It’s a showstopper. And I’ll perform it on soprano saxophone, and it will be a watershed moment in my career.”

  “This is gibberish.”

  As John Coltrane faded into nothingness, he said, “If there’s anybody in this story who knows gibberish, Maria, it’s you.”

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER GAWKING AT THE MANSION for a good ten minutes, Maria finally tugged at the gate.

  Locked.

  She tugged a little harder.

  It barely moved.

  She tugged a lot harder … ripped the door clean off its hinge. Chuckling, she casually tossed the door over her shoulder; it flew several hundred yards, narrowly missing a stray dog, a lost child, and a confused Sea Monster.

  Maria took a few steps into the yard, cleared her throat, and whispered, “Help.” No response. A little louder: “Help!” Nothing. Louder yet: “Help!” Bupkis. Even louder yet: “HEEEEELLLLLLLLPPPPPP!”

  She heard a cranky, Cockney-accented voice call from the house, “What in the name of the Lord is the problem out there?”

  Maria called back, “I have confidence in confidence alone! Besides which you see I have confidence in me!”

  “What in the name of the Lord are you talking about?”

  “I left home yesterday evening, and soon after I began the long journey, I pulled my trusty tenor saxophone from its case, and after I played several arpeggios—arpeggios which, I should note, killed a flock of geese, thank you very much—I was visited by a Negro spirit who went by the name of John Coltrane. This John Coltrane and I skipped for miles and miles, all while talking about confidence, and responsibility, and Atlantic Records. And now, here I am.”

  After a lengthy pause, the voice called, “You must be the freak from the Abbey!”

  “You can call me all the names you want, sir, but it won’t bother me. Because I have confidence.”

  “Of course you do. Approach the front door, please.”

  Maria clutched her saxophone and her suitcase to her chest, then skipped across the lawn. Halfway to the door, she caught a reflection of herself in the fountain—yes, we’re aware that according to the familiar lore, Vampires don’t cast reflections, but this particular Vampire did, and that’s the way it is because that’s the way we say it is, so don’t complain about this on your blog—and, realizing how silly it looks for a centuries-old Vampire to skip without the accompaniment of an innovative neo-bop/avant garde saxophonist, she slowed to a walk.

  Once on the porch, she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Right after the ding, and right before the dong, the door opened, and there stood a man who had the posture of a weeping willow, the complexion of an overcooked marmoset stew, the hairline of King Mongkut of Siam, and the hangdog expression of Michael Caine.

  The butler—whose name, according to his “HELLO MY NAME IS ALFRED” nametag, was Alfred—gave Maria a dismissive look. “So,” he said, “you’re the freak from the Abbey.”

  She smiled broadly and waved. “Hello! Here I am! I’m the new Governess!”

  Alfred took in her shiny cat suit and her rancid hat. “Nice outfit.”

  With a p’shaw of her hand, she said, “Oh, this old thing? You’re too kind. I’m Maria. What’s your name?”

  Glowering, he pointed at his nametag.

  “Oh. Right. Alfred.” She proffered her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Alfred.”

  He stared at her hand, grunted, then headed into the house.

  As Maria followed the old butler, she thought, I shall kill him tonight; perhaps I’ll suck him dry as he sleeps. Before she finished hatching her plan to murder the elderly servant, her jaw dropped and her cases crashed to the floor. She spun around, and around, and around, so taken was she by the opulence of the von Trapp’s entryway: The gilded furniture, the glittering crystal chandeliers, the pristine white tile floors, and the opulent staircase that led to the divine balcony all added up to a sight unlike any Maria had ever seen. The Vampire had called the Abbey home for so long that she had no idea people lived like this.

  And it repulsed her. Maria couldn’t wait to cover the entire floor with Alfred’s blood … especially that pristine white tile. That will show these rich arschlochs to disrespect …

  Alfred interrupted her reverie: “You’ll wait here, Maria,” he Cockney’d. “I shall fetch Master Wayne.”

  “Who?”

  “I mean, I shall fetch Captain von Trapp.”

  Offering him a sugary smile, she simpered, “Wonderful!” As he strolled away, she bared her fangs and hissed.

  Maria glided across the room—when she wanted to, she could glide with the best of them, unlike her Zombie Sisters—stopping only to knock over what she assumed to be a priceless heirloom of a vase. After she hid the evidence by eating the shards, she walked toward a closed set of double doors. Touching the knobs, she peeked furtively over her left shoulder, then her right, and then, comfortable she was alone, pushed open the doors. It was a ballroom, and it was magnificent: More crystal chandeliers, tremendous picture windows covered with beautiful curtains, an ornate bar, and mirrors everywhere. (Yes, she could still see herself in the mirrors. Now please do shut up about the reflection issue already.)

  She tiptoed to the middle of the floor, then, holding an imaginary partner, began to dance. Badly. Very badly. Like a toddler on absinthe.

  And then she turned into a Desmodus Rotundus.

  (Let’s explain: Once in a while, when Maria went into her artistic place—e.g., when she sang and/or danced—she shifted into her rodent form. Why? One doesn’t know. Why does one not know? Because one doesn’t care, as isn’t important to our story. So why does one even mention it in the first place? Because sticklers about Vampire legend and mythos will complain even more than they’re already complaining, and one wants to nip at least a few of these complaints in the bud right now, as one knows that one will have either the word count or the inclination to deal with these complaints later on down the line.)

  Unprepared for the transformation, our bat-girl flew about the room as if she were unprepared for the transformation. She crashed into a wall, then the bar on the far side of the room, then a window, then a mirror, then another mirror, then another wall, and then, finally, a chandelier, before coming to an awkward landing right by the door. After she regained her footing—or her winging, as the case was—she began the bat-to-Vampire transformation, a process too complex to describe here. Suffice it to say that the explanation contains words that don’t have a language, a dictionary definition, or something that can be turned into a pun.

  When she retook her human form, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, dapper, lantern-jawed gent who reeked of gin. She coughed, then, unable to stop herself, blurted, “Aaugh, you stink.”

  The gin-scented gentleman said, “I stink? No, I don’t stink. You stink! You stink!”

  Self-conscious about her body odor, Maria blushed. “It isn’t my fault. If you lived in close proximity to Zombies for centuries, you would stink, too.”

  Somewhat regaining his composure, the man slurred, “I assume you’re Fraulein Marjorie…”

  “Maria, sir.”

  The Captain burped. “Right. Maria. I’m Captain Georg von Trapp. In the foo-sure…” He cleared his throat, then said, “In the future, you will not enter a n
ew room unless you’re invited into…”

  And then he vomited onto his shoes.

  Maria’s stomach was already a tad on edge due to both nerves and the gentleman’s prevalent juniper berry scent. Trying her best to hold down her gorge, she gurgled, “Yes, Captain. Sir.”

  And then she coughed.

  And then she gagged.

  And then she upchucked.

  All over the Captain’s crisp nicely-pressed, impeccably-tailored jacket.

  The Captain stared at the chunky Technicolor mess on his chest. Unfazed, he turned around and closed the doors to the ballroom, then spun back around to face Maria. “I guess you can take the girl out of the Abbey, but you can’t take the Abbey out of the girl.” He took a deep breath, scrunched up his face, looked at his chest, then regurgitated on Maria’s regurgitate.

  Maria’s stomach did another somersault as she watched the piles of vomit intermingle. She said, “Captain, I apologize for my…” Before anybody could find out what Maria was going to say sorry for, a stream of red-flecked bile shot from her mouth, and into the Captain’s face. A second serving then flew from Maria’s maw, splatting on the floor in front of the ballroom doors.

  Pawing at his eyes, the Captain roared, “It stings! For the love of Gott, it stings!”

  The doors flew open and Alfred said, “Is everything alright, master?” He took two steps into the room, then slipped on Maria’s spew, falling rump-first into the mess. He attempted to lift himself from the floor, managing only to slip again; this time, however, he landed face first. Alfred then sat up, gulped, then discharged last night’s dinner, this morning’s breakfast, and this afternoon’s lunch all over his lap.

  The Captain knelt down and touched his loyal servant’s shoulder. “Alfred, I apologize for…” Before anybody could find out what von Trapp was going to say sorry for, a stream of green-flecked bile shot from his mouth, hitting Alfred squarely in the face.

  Near tears, Alfred crawled toward the door, stopping twice to hurl. By the time he made it through the doorway, he had nothing left in his stomach, so he dry-heaved his way toward the living room.

  The Captain crawled through the puddle of sick and closed the ballroom doors. He grabbed the doorknob, lifted himself up, took off his foul jacket, and leaned against the wall. Noticing that Maria was staring at him, he said, “See something green?”

  With the sleeve of her cat suit, Maria wiped some chunks from the side of her mouth, then said, “Well, yes. But my question is, what kind of Captain are you? Because I don’t picture you as a seafarer.”

  “Oh? And why do you say that?”

  She gestured at the myriad piles of vomit and said, “I’d suspect that seafarers could hold down their gorge … even in the presence of other gorge.”

  The Captain pulled at her sleeve; Maria winced as the stretchy material snapped back. “Well,” he said, “you don’t look like the kind of person who can take care of a family.”

  Maria mumbled, “Racist.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly. Nothing. Now turn around, please.”

  Maria blinked. “What? Why?”

  “Do as I say, Maggie May.”

  “Maria, sir.”

  The Captain burped. “Right. Maria. Now turn around. Let me see your hindquarters.”

  As she showed the Captain her rump, she felt his eyes running up and down her back … and she liked it. She moaned softly and was seconds away from showing the Captain her bosom, when he roared, “That’s the most foul hat I’ve ever seen or smelled! Lose it!”

  She faced von Trapp, then seductively took off the rancid hat and rubbed it in between her legs. The Captain looked on, unimpressed.

  “You’ll have to put on different clothes before you meet the brats, er, the children. I don’t think Friedrich could handle…” He gestured drunkenly at the cat suit, “… this.”

  She said, “But I don’t have any other clothes!” That was a fib. She had dozens of other outfits. The problem is, they were all cat suits.

  “Why?”

  Thinking on the fly, Maria lied, “When we leave the Abbey, our clothes are donated to charity.”

  Again, the Captain pulled at her sleeve, and again, Maria winced as the stretchy material snapped back. “What about this … this … this thing? Why didn’t this get donated?”

  “Oh, I tried. No charities were interested.”

  “Is that right? So if I understand correctly, had the poor accepted this … this … this thing, you would have left the Abbey without clothes.”

  Maria beamed. “Correct!”

  “So the head of the Abbey is comfortable sending her minions out into the world naked?”

  “Is that something you would like, Captain von Trapp? Me out into the world naked?” She pursed her lips and jutted out her right hip.

  “I could use a big stiff one,” he grumbled.

  Screwing up her face, Maria said, “What with all your children, I wouldn’t have guessed you swung that way, sir.”

  The Captain shook his head. “I’m referring to a drink, young lady. Now can we do something about this outfit? I kid you not, Friedrich will burst out of his pants if he sees you in this.”

  “Hmm, is that right? Tell me about this Friedrich. He sounds fun.”

  The Captain ignored her. “Now, Mariska…”

  “Maria, sir.”

  “Right. Maria. I don’t know how much your Mother Zombie told you about the family von Trapp.”

  “Not a thing, sir.” Pursing her lips, she added, “But I intend to find out everything about everybody, both above and below the waist.”

  He opened the ballroom door and called, “Alfred!”

  “Yes, sir!” Alfred called back.

  “A big stiff one!”

  “Right away, sir!”

  Moments later, Alfred tiptoed into the room—mindful to avoid the drying pools of sick—and handed the Captain a drink so large that it could have inebriated the entire Bazillus Bar-Betriebsgesellschaft on a Friday night, and those of you who have spent a Friday at the Bazillus Bar-Betriebsgesellschaft know that that’s saying something.

  Von Trapp took a substantial hit of his gin, made the contorted gin-face that all longtime gin drinkers have made at one time or another, then said, “You’re the seventy-eighth Governess who has come to look after my brood since their mother died. Your predecessor left after six or seven seconds, which is why I’ve reached out to Mother Zombie. I told her that only a Zombie could keep those brats in line, but she disagreed. Apparently she felt that you had a better chance.”

  “I can tell you exactly why she sent me instead of a Zombie. She wanted me gone. She exiled me.” Maria sniffled, then a single tear of blood rolled down her cheek. “She exiled me to a beautiful mansion in a lovely part of the country. Mother Zombie is awful.”

  “Right. Now back to the brats.”

  “Brats?”

  “A term of affection.”

  “Ah. Brats. What’s wrong with them?”

  “There isn’t a thing wrong with my children!” he roared. “They’re innocent, and warm, and caring, and they mean nobody any harm, and they had nothing to do with the fire and subsequent robbery at the Bank Vontobel Osterreich! They were nowhere near downtown that evening! They were with me! The entire day! They never left my sight! And anybody who tells you differently is full of scheisse!” He cleared his throat, polished off his drink, flicked a dried chunk of vomit from his sleeve, then said, “What I meant to say was, there’s nothing wrong with the children, only the Governesses.”

  Nonplussed, Maria said, “If you say so.”

  “I do say so, Morticia…”

  “Maria, sir.”

  “Right. Maria. The fact is, the other Governesses were weak. Those brats need somebody with physical strength, because if they’re not ruled with an iron fist, this house can’t be properly run. Mother Zombie said you’re strong.”

  In the blink of an eye, Maria was o
n the other side of the room. She ripped one of the three wet bars from the floor, lifted it over her head, then tossed it into the air. As it crashed to the floor, she said, “I indeed possess physical strength, sir.”

  The Captain rubbed his temples, opened the door, and yelled, “Alfred!”

  “Another beverage on the way, sir!”

  “You read my mind!” To Maria, he said, “Every morning you’ll aid the children with their schooling, lead them in marching lessons, and give them an hour of etiquette lessons, because those brats need to learn how to mind their P’s and Q’s. And you’ll work them, and work them hard. I won’t permit them to dream away their summer holidays, nor will I permit them to rob another bank…”

  “I thought you said they were nowhere near the bank, sir.”

  “Of course they were nowhere near the bank!” he snapped. Regaining his composure, he said, “Bedtime is to be strictly observed, no exceptions. They’ll fight you on that, Morgana…”

  “Maria, sir.”

  “Right. Maria. They’ll fight you hard about bedtime. But you tuck those brats into bed on schedule, or else there will be Hölle to pay. And do you know what Hölle to pay means?”

  “Better than anybody, sir. One other thing: Are they allowed to, well, um, let’s see, how should I phrase this, have fun?”

  “Have fun? Fun?! Fraulein, you don’t want my children to have fun. Last time they had fun, they caused 50,000 shillings worth of damage to the guesthouse. I shudder to think about it.” And then, as if to prove his point, he shuddered. “You’re in command. Do with them what you will.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  Saluting him, she said, “Yes, Captain!”

  “Very good, Monogram.” He left the ballroom, and gestured to Maria that she should follow; both neatly avoided the yet-to-have-fully-dried lake of sick. Once in the hallway, Captain von Trapp pulled a whistle from his pocket and said, “Here we go.”

  Vampires are sensitive to shrill, high-pitched tones, so when Captain von Trapp blew his whistle, a glop of blood dripped from Maria’s left ear and fell onto the white tile floor with an audible splat. The Captain stared at the gob and said, “You repulse me, Fraulein.”