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

by Alan Goldsher

  At the final snap, the Baroness’s eyes popped open. She glared at Maria and said, “You. You.”

  “Might you have something to attend to?” Maria asked. “Some seed-sowing, perhaps?”

  The Baroness snarled at Maria, then smiled at the Captain. “I’ll leave you alone with your children, darling. See you tonight.” And then she gave him another one of those kisses that brought him to his knees and left him drooling. As she left the ballroom, she said to Maria, “Try that one on for size, Vampire.”

  The Captain crawled back to his chair and gasped, “Governess … you … may … begin … the … next … portion … of … the … performance.” He looked at his lap and shook his head. “Another pair of trousers ruined,” he mumbled.

  Max sat down beside von Trapp and said, “Let the festivities begin!”

  Maria beamed. “Gentlemen, may I present our first performer, Fraulein Liesl von Trapp!”

  Liesl leapt out from behind the stage, clad in a Maria-like black cat suit. She said, “Thank you, Governess. I’m now going to demonstrate for you the quickness of the Vampire. But I must warn you: Don’t blink, or you’ll miss all the fun.”

  And then Liesl disappeared.

  But she didn’t really disappear; she was simply moving too fast for the naked eye to discern. Fortunately, we have the benefit of being able to describe each and every one of her actions in slow motion:

  First, she zipped along the walls of the ballroom and opened each window.

  Second, she hustled to the bar, fixed the Captain a drink, and placed it gently in his hand.

  Third, she stole Max’s wallet from his back pocket.

  Fourth, she stripped the wallet bare.

  Fifth, she replaced the wallet from whence it came.

  Sixth, she jumped through one of the windows.

  Seventh, she broke a pile of sticks from the big oak tree in the yard.

  Eighth, she jumped back through another one of the windows.

  Ninth, she made a little house from the sticks.

  Tenth, she stood in front of her father and Max, and offered a demure curtsy.

  All in twelve seconds.

  The Captain poured his entire drink down his throat, belched, and said, “That was … that was … that was remarkable.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Liesl beamed.

  Max shrugged. “It was acceptable. Not as impressive as the puppet show.”

  Liesl said, “Is that so?” then she pulled the contents of Max’s wallet seemingly out of mid-air. “Does this look familiar?”

  Max peered at the items in her hand. “Money and paper. So what?”

  “Look closer. And take a look inside your wallet.”

  Max pulled his billfold from his pocket and gave it a gander. An expression of utter anger flicked across his face, followed by an expression of utter glee. “Liesl, I apologize. You’re a genius.”

  Again, she curtsied. “Thank you. Might I now present to you my little brother, Friedrich von Trapp!”

  A bat flew down from one of the chandeliers and lighted upon Max’s head. Max tried to swat it away, but the bat was far too slippery and tricky. After a minute or three of jousting, the bat landed on Max’s left shoulder, at which point it transformed into Friedrich. “Greetings, Herr Detweiler,” he said as he clumsily fell to the ground.

  Max said, “You’ll have to work on your landings, Friedrich.”

  “Maybe so,” Friedrich said, “but my flying is all but perfect. I shall demonstrate.”

  And demonstrate he did.

  Friedrich flew into all eight corners of the room—floor and ceiling—one, right after the other, right after the other. And then again, and again, and again. He moved through the room so rapidly, he created heat waves that made the air ripple. Finally he touched down daintily in front of the audience of two, then transformed back into his Friedrichian self and offered a bow.

  The Captain clapped his son on the shoulder—a bit harder than he intended to; he was getting tipsier by the moment—and said, “Fine job, my boy. I knew you had it in you.”

  Friedrich said, “Really? You knew? Then why have you called me a useless tosser for all these years?”

  “Heh heh heh. I was only kidding around, son. You know, jocular banter between a father and his boy.”

  “Right,” Friedrich said, “jocular banter. Now without further ado, I’m pleased to introduce Louisa von Trapp!”

  Louisa—who was wearing a cat suit of her own, although hers was red—was the only one of the children who actually did acrobatics: A Geinserschweiger double-back twist with a half-spin, a Linzerzen triple somersault, and a reverse Hansbroucken flip-flop, all capped off by the rarely attempted Wanzerschnagger-Belderschaden single-toed whirly. At the completion of her routine, the Captain and Max oohed, ahhed, and clapped appreciatively.

  Louisa said, “And now, please enjoy the comedy stylings of Farta and Brigitta von Trapp!”

  Vampires can fly. Vampires are flexible. Vampires can do magic. But Vampires are not funny. A few minutes into their act—just before the Captain was going to break his tumbler into shards and cut his carotid artery—a black cloud appeared above the girls’ heads. The cloud then turned red, then blue, then orange, then white, after which a rainbow climbed up to the ceiling, after which the cloud floated to the chandelier.

  And then the rains came.

  The downpour that fell from the cloud was unlike anything the Captain and Max had ever seen. It wasn’t a rainstorm, so much as it was a waterfall, and it took only several seconds before the two men were soaked to the bone.

  Farta and Brigitta then told a series of knock-knock jokes that caused the rain to cease and the chandelier to explode, then curtsied and said, “Thank you very much.”

  The Captain and Max clapped, although with noticeably less enthusiasm. “My dears,” the Captain said, wiping the water from his face, “that routine might need a little polishing.”

  Maria said, “If we ever give another performance—which we won’t, despite the previous foreshadowing—I guarantee you it will be better. But it’s a moot point, because we’ll never give another performance. Unless it’s absolutely necessary. But it will never be absolutely necessary. Anyways, I ramble. For our final act, may I introduce Gretl and Kurt von Trapp, who will read Dracula.”

  The Captain said, “You mean read from Dracula, correct?”

  “No, Captain,” Maria said. “Your daughter insisted upon reading the entire novel. So stretch out those legs and get comfy.”

  We’ll spare you the details of Gretl’s pompous reading of Bram Stoker’s classic; suffice it to say that even with Kurt acting out all the characters—and acting them out quite well—Gretl’s snotty voice made the whole thing difficult for one to sit through without repeatedly stabbing oneself in the eye with a pointed stick. Fortunately, Max was lost in dreams of glory, and Captain von Trapp was lost in a gin-induced stupor, so they suffered through the seventeen-hour-long performance piece none the worse for wear.

  After some tired applause for Gretl and Kurt, the remainder of the children met on stage for a curtain call. “Well done, brats,” the Captain said. “I’m quite impressed.”

  In unison, they said, “Thank you, Father.”

  He turned to Maria. “You certainly seem to have whipped them into shape, Governess.”

  Maris shrugged modestly. “They’re your kids, Captain. All their good attributes come from you. They just needed a little push.”

  The Captain took Maria by the elbow and pulled her in close. Their eyes met, and in that silent moment, thoughts were exchanged, secrets were told, and hormones flew. They moved their faces toward one another, and they might have kissed had a voice not called from the doorway, “Is there anything you can’t do, Governess?”

  It was Baroness Elsa Schrader.

  The Captain and Max chuckled. “Oh, Governess,” von Trapp said, “I have confidence that you could do anything you set your mind to. And I have confidence that you’ll
be with us for a long, long time.”

  As the children cheered their Vampire mother, the Baroness said, “Not if I have anything to say about it.” And then she barked out a series of sharp, sinister laughs that would have made Bela Lugosi proud.

  A TRANSCRIPTION OF NPR’S “BOOK WEEK,” NOVEMBER 1, 2012

  LIVE FROM THE 92ND STREET Y

  HOST: ARIEL PORTNOY

  ARIEL: Good evening, everybody. Thanks to all of you in the audience for coming out on this snowy day, and thanks to all of you listening to us on your local NPR outlet … especially those tuning in on Chicago’s WBEZ. Now I’m certain everybody out there’s thinking about next week’s big election—as am I—and I don’t know about the rest of the country, but I need a break from all these serious issues, which is why I’m thrilled that we’re devoting today’s entire show to the acclaimed, no, revered comedic novel My Favorite Fangs: The Story of the von Trapp Family Vampires by Alan Goldsher. We have a wonderful panel on the stage here at the 92nd Street Y on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, so first off, please join me in welcoming the author of nine books including his new memoir-in-essays, Frankly Speaking: An Old School Monster in a New School World, Dave Frankenstein. Good to have you back on the show, Dave.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Great to be here, Ariel. And I apologize to those of you in the audience who suffer from seizure disorders. I missed the weather forecast, and didn’t bring my hat, which meant snow on my ear sockets. And as all my fellow monsters know, when those things get wet, they blink like mother-you-know-whats.

  ARIEL: That’s great, Dave, that’s great. To Dave’s left, making his Book Week debut, book critic for the New York Observer, The Blob. Thanks for joining us, Mr. Blob.

  BLOB: Thanks for inviting me, Ariel. I’m a long-time listener, and I’m thrilled to be here. And please, call me The.

  ARIEL: Will do, The. Finally, off to Dave’s right, please give a nice round of applause to a gentleman who flew in all the way from Cairo to be here, author of the international sensation A Crypt With No View, The Mummy.

  MUMMY: Thanks, Ariel. All of Egypt sends their regards. We loves ourselves some Book Week. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Unnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhh.

  ARIEL: Glad to hear it, Mummy. So let’s dive right in. My Favorite Fangs. Transylvania meets the Great White Way. Any opening comments?

  FRANKENSTEIN: I’ll field this one, Ariel. It’s a nice piece of work—very nice—but, like most of today’s paranormal parodies, it has some inherent flaws, the most obvious one being that the characters’ voices sound nothing like their on-screen counterparts. Me, I’m wanting Goldsher’s Maria to sound like Rogers and Hammerstein’s Maria, but most of the time, well, it’s almost like they have nothing in common.

  BLOB: I’ll agree with Dave that the book characters and the film characters are radically divergent—as is the majority of the plot, for that matter—but that’s part of the fun. Viva la difference! Throwing in subtle sprinkles of lyrics and dialogue is exciting for both casual and hardcore fans of the original film. And it’s also completely legal.

  FRANKENSTEIN: I can’t argue with that. But I do have a quibble, and this one is, well, this one’s a biggie. Over the last few years, the huge majority of these paranormal parodies has utilized Vampires or Zombies, and nothing else, and that’s flat-out exclusionary.

  ARIEL: Terrific point, Dave. Anybody care to comment? The?

  BLOB: Dave’s absolutely right, but frankly, I don’t have an issue with that, because …

  FRANKENSTEIN: Because there’s no way that any author would use The Blob as source material, so you have no expectations. Robots comprised of dead people’s body parts offer the parodist myriad possibilities. Admittedly, Zombies and Vampires are ideal for this sort of thing, because they have templated mythologies that you can plug anything into, i.e. The Sound of Music, or the Beatles …

  ARIEL: If I may interrupt, regarding the Beatles, Dave is, of course, referring to Goldsher’s 2010 outing, Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion, the acclaimed remix novel in which Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison were Zombies, and Starr was a Ninja. The entire Book Week staff—heck, the entire NPR nation—was appalled that didn’t get a National Book Award nomination.

  FRANKENSTEIN: As was I. But as wonderful as that was, and as wonderful as My Favorite Fangs is, Goldsher could have gone to the next level. He could have included a piecemeal monster such as myself, or even a Mummy, or, yes, even a Blob. Heck, he could’ve even done something with an NPR host!

  ARIEL: Ah, that’s hilarious. Great stuff, Dave, just great. But I should point out that Alan did have a Succubus in there.

  MUMMY: Alan had to have a Succubus in there. Ddddddddrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnn. Maria couldn’t have a human rival, because there’s no way a human could take a Vampire in any kind of battle. No way, no how, no sir, no hhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

  BLOB: But why a Succubus? Do you know any Succubi? Because I sure don’t. I do, however, know plenty of Blobs. Even female ones.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Of course you do. And I know plenty of robots, and Mummy here probably knows plenty of his kind, but, as Blob said, none of us know any Succubi, because—are you ready for this?—Succubi don’t exist. That being the case, why didn’t Goldsher use an existing entity … like me? Heck, he could’ve even interviewed me for verisimilitude. I’m easy to reach on my Web site … which, by the way, is Dave.Frankenstein.com. Plenty of great merch on there. For instance, I’m offering autographed copies of Frankly Speaking for only ten bucks, while supplies last. And if you order today, half of the proceeds will go to National Public Radio.

  MUMMY: Must be nice to have a Web site. For that matter, it must be nice to have fingers that aren’t permanently wrapped up in gauze so you can type on a laptop and add content to your Web site. Nnnnnnnnuuuuuuunnnnnnhhhhhhh.

  BLOB: Hey, quit complaining. I don’t even have limbs.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Which explains why there aren’t too many Blobs around. I mean, how in God’s name do you guys reproduce?

  BLOB: We lay eggs.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Where do they come from? I don’t see any exit holes.

  ARIEL: Gentlemen, let’s get back to the book. Throughout the novel, there are numerous mentions of the great saxophonist, John …

  BLOB: Listen, Frankie-boy, I may not have limbs or genitals, but I can handle myself in a fight.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Is that right? You want to go at it? Right here on the 92nd Street stage? Hell, I’ll wipe the floor with you the way John Irving wiped the floor with Susan Orlean.

  ARIEL: If I’m not mistaken, that was the other way around. But regardless, we won’t be having any fights today. It’s not …

  MUMMY: Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnnnnnmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmppppppppppppppppppppooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmggggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

  FRANKENSTEIN: Hey, no fair using chairs, you Mummy freak! Just fists.

  BLOB: I don’t have fists, Frank. But I have this!

  FRANKENSTEIN: That’s it? That’s what you’ve got? That’s the best you can do? Didn’t feel a thing.

  MUMMY: Hey, watch it, Frank. Lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.

  ARIEL: Gentleman, if I can ask you all to sit … ow! Jesus Christ, Dave, watch it with the kicking!

  FRANKENSTEIN: Sorry. Who knew that if you kick a Blob, your foot goes right through?

  BLOB: Nobody knows that. Which is why Goldsher needs to do a book with Blobs. The Great Blobsby. The Blobber in the Rye. Wuthering Blobs. I could go on forever.

  MUMMY: Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnoooooooooooooooooo. Please. No. Don’t.

  ARIEL: I’m afraid we’re … ow … going to take a quick … ow … break, but when we get back … ow … we’ll be … AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Goddamn it, guys, this is a major clusterf—

  IRA GLASS: And now, a very special edition of This American Life.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE BRAINCHILD OF a failed Austrian composer named Rudolf Schteinm
etz, the Graz Gala of Gaiety debuted in 1925. Initially, it was strictly a musical event, and the majority of the participants were a capella singers. Audiences stayed away in droves—solo vocal versions of Austrian folk tunes had not yet caught on; that wouldn’t happen until the last revolting days of the thirties had come and gone—so Schteinmetz decided to allow any type of performing artist to participate: string quartets, forty-member choirs, solo bassoonists, oompah bands, clowns, gymnasts, magicians, hypnotists, synchronized goosesteppers, and, beginning in 1932, Vampires.

  Every year since 1929, Max Detweiler had brought multiple acts to the Gala, and each year, his acts finished out of the top three. As a talent scout, Max’s primary problem, musically speaking, was that he had what his fellow Austrians liked to call ohren aus zinn, or ears of tin. What sounded beautiful to Max sounded cacophonous to the average music fan, and vice versa. After years of failure, he came to the realization that, at the very least, he should hedge his bets and mix things up, so from 1936 on, Max came to the Gala with a variety of diverse acts in his back pocket. His non-musical talent scouting proved to be equally questionable, and the only client of his who ever sniffed one of the top three prizes was a contortionist who could bend himself into a pretzel. Unfortunately, one of that year’s entrants was another contortionist who turned himself into the spiral, and there was no way the Gala judges would award prizes to two contortionists, so Max and his talent went home empty handed.

  When Max saw the von Trapp Vampire extravaganza, he knew he finally had a winner.

  The morning after the command performance, Max stood in the middle of the living room and yelled, “Attention, everyone! I have an announcement to make! Out of bed, everybody, rise and shine! Uncle Maxie has some news!”

  The Captain was the first von Trapp to lumber down the stairs. Holding his head with his right hand and rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his left, he grumbled, “Why is the house spinning?”

  “The house is perfectly still, Georg.”

  “So you say. What are you doing up this early?”