by Jackie Rose
“Well, she obviously does not need the money now,” Tiffany reassured him, as she cuddled against him in bed. “You gave her at least as much as she needed, along with your other three Brides, after you married me.”
“I just wish that my other former Brides agreed with you,” he muttered. “Some are earning much more than they need…like Crina, who has been selling real estate, with some success.”
“Well, it is a perfectly respectable profession, so we can be proud of her.”
“Of course it is, and she has done very well in it…but I just wonder if she will still keep doing it in a respectable way.”
“Do you suspect that?”
“Yes…I suspect that, just like Simona, our Crina might be selling something else besides real estate…and it might very well have something to do with…” (crash of thunder again) “…Draculacare!”
Chapter Three
Crina Vyrdelek, The Golden Girl
at 21st Century Golden Real Estate.
Top Sales Producer,
with more than $2 million in homes sold.
So read the elegant scrawl on her original business card and Web site.
Recently, however, she had had to throw out whole box of cards, since they did not promote her current specialty. Her new cards added the following announcement:
Now also an Eternal Care Act provider,
serving your needs at no charge.
Evening hours only.
In other words, she planned on combining her old profession as a Realtor with her new service as a Draculacare specialist. If she had any luck, she could practice them both together.
With that happy thought in mind, she was more than glad to greet the young couple who had called for an appointment that night.
Based on her experience, she was not surprised that Susan seemed rather uneasy, so Crina was quick to put the young girl’s fears at rest. Tactfully, she refrained from holding out her own hand in welcome, since it was always rather cold.
“So how can I help you?” she asked.
Obviously, the plump young girl had another question in mind. “Are you…I mean…are you really a vampire?” she asked in a nervous tone, as she clutched her hands together.
“We prefer the title of Undead Americans,” Crina replied, with her sweetest smile, tossing her blond curls back onto the collar of her Realtor’s trademark red blazer. “Although, as you can hear from my accent, I am an Undead Transylvanian-American.
“And as you can see, your country has been very good to me, so I will try to return the favor. My only question is…do you want me to find you the home of your dreams, or to fulfill your dream of eternal bliss?”
“Eternal bliss!” George answered quickly, ignoring his sweetheart’s discomfort. Putting his arm around her plump shoulder, he explained, “We are so happy with each other, we want our joy to last forever.”
“And I wouldn’t mind losing some weight, either,” the bride added. “I mean, I am not sure that I could ever be as slim as you, Ms. Vyrdelek, or have such beautiful blond hair and perfect make-up.”
Tactfully again, Crina did not mention that all of her face paint was meant to hide her naturally…or unnaturally…pale complexion.
“But of course you could!” the Realtor exclaimed. “In fact, I know a lady who specializes in Draculacare clients, right nearby at a Clinique counter in Tysons Corner.” She saw no reason to explain that that cosmetician would pay her for the referral.
“But of course, I could never see myself in a mirror,” the girl sighed, and Crina thought she saw tears in her eyes.
“You would never have to!” her groom retorted, in some exasperation. “Not if you looked as pretty as this lady does.”
“And whatever I did for you, it would have to be strictly consensual,” Crina assured her. “In fact, I have a form that you must both fill out, proving just that.”
Providing that I could ever get it posted to that accursed Web site, she thought. Luckily, almost no one else can get onto that site either, in order to check up on me, so we should be safe.
“So how are we going to do this?” the groom asked eagerly…rather too eagerly, the Realtor thought, as though he wanted her own services in more ways than one. “I mean, will you bite my throat to drink my blood?” As an afterthought, he added, “And then I will bite Susan’s throat too, right?”
“No need for anything so…intimate,” Crina replied. “Unless, of course, you want it done that way…”
Seeing her female client shake her head decisively, she hurried on, “Nowadays I can give you some of the fluid that I keep in the fridge, if you prefer.” With her usual tact, she refrained from mentioning that the fluid in question was her own blood. “And I can serve it in genuine crystal glasses,” she added cheerfully, “which you may keep as a souvenir.”
“And there is no charge at all, even for the goblets?” the groom inquired in a suspicious tone.
“None at all! That would be against the federal law, not to mention the Realtor’s Code of Ethics. However, as Undead Americans, you would need special lodgings, and I could provide those for you…at my usual small percentage of the sales price.”
“We were hoping to start with a condo,” the bride said.
“Oh, no, no!” Crina replied, with a wave of her slim white hand. “You need something that would suit your needs…including a private lower level.”
That term, as her professional colleagues had always told her, was much more elegant than basement or cellar…even though it was obviously needed by vampires, no matter what they called it.
* * * *
As tactfully as always, she did not tell them exactly why they would need a lower level. Instead, she looked for listings that met her new clients’ requirements…namely, single-family houses with finished lower levels and no mirrors on any of the walls.
What’s more, she knew that those lower levels must be without windows to keep out both the sun and the nosy neighbors. Above all, there must be plenty of room for two caskets. And she had one home listed in mind that would truly fill the bill.
* * * *
“This is a true classic red-brick colonial,” she enthused, as she shepherded them through the pillared front door. “As you can see, the dining and living rooms are on either side of the entrance hall, and the stairway goes down to the lower level.” As she spoke, she opened the door that led downstairs and they obediently followed her.
“As you can see, this level is luxuriously carpeted, and it includes a built-in TV and wet bar,” she enthused. “That TV could show programs all night long, if you are inclined to watch them…and the wet bar could be stocked with bottles from the blood bank. Don’t you agree that it meets your needs?”
“I am afraid it would not meet our budget,” the groom objected. As always, Crina waved that objection away. “You forget your mortgage,” she reminded them. “And it can be a very, very, very long-term loan. Centuries, in fact.” At the thought, the couple clutched each other’s hands and smiled happily at each other.
“But what about all those mirrors?” he asked, his smile fading. “When I looked into the living room, I saw that there was a very large one, covering an entire wall. And that might be rather…unwelcome.”
It certainly would be, she thought…since you could no longer see your own reflections in it. Mentally, she cursed the foolish owner who had neglected to take it down, or at least to cover the space with a mural painting.
“Well, this is only the first home we have looked at,” she told them, in her most cheerful tone. “If you want something more daring than the usual Northern Virginia colonial style, how about a split level or a Tudor?
“It would be an authentic Tudor, too…since I know the man who owns it, and he was there when the first Tudor houses were built, shortly after King Henry Tudor the Seventh was crowned.”
They felt silent then, staring at each other in awe. Crina also saw a touch of horror in their eyes, as they realized how long their
forever could last. Quickly, she added, “I can confide in you that the owner is moving to a mansion in Florida, since he earned so much money over the years in long-term investments…and you are sure to do the same.”
This brought the light back into their eyes quickly enough. All it takes is salesmanship, she thought happily. Now, if only our own government leaders can keep their wretched computers from crashing when we are filling out all those forms. Fortunately, they were not required for recording home sales.
* * * *
In fact, Draculacare was having even more serious problems than that…as Tim Johnson, the handsome, hulking undead model who had posed for the Draculacare Web site, soon learned to his dismay.
“Hey, aren’t you the guy who has his picture on the Web site?” a young man shouted, as Tim walked towards the blood bank in search of his usual late-night dinner.
“I am indeed!” Johnson beamed. “Would you like my autograph?”
“Are you kidding?” the lad cried. “I would tear it to pieces! It’s bad enough that a Black brother like you is promoting that mess called Draculacare, and making all the rest of us look bad.”
Hearing the shouts, a mob soon gathered around him…and if they didn’t have any pitchforks, they more than made up for it by forming crosses with their fingers. Since that gesture affected him the way a very bright, shining light would have struck a victim of dry-eye-syndrome, he could not help turning and running as the crowd raced after him.
To his utter humiliation, he was forced to take refuge in a police station…where the cops stood there grumbling and shaking their heads. A couple of them were Undead Officers, too…but they joined their comrades in complaining to him about those Draculacare Web sites and all the trouble they made.
“I spent hours trying to get my wife on the site,” one of the officers told him, as the others nodded in angry agreement. “It was the worst day I have ever spent…or the worst night anyway…since I became an Undead American myself. And then the kids will have to go through it all again, when they reach the age of consent.”
“Things will get better,” Johnson feebly assured them.
But as he soon realized, they were about to get even worse.
Chapter Four
“And what about animal rescue?” Ingrid Foha demanded. “Draculacare is all very well…but don’t animals have the right to the government’s protection?”
“I agree with you completely,” replied the First Lady (or, more accurately, the First Witch). “As you probably know, I am the head of the Black Cat Rescue group…just as you are the leader of PUMA. They are both very worthy causes.”
“Yes, and I am very proud to be the director of People United for Mercy to Animals, Mrs. O’Neill. But right now these are both merely private charities, and the government should play its part in supporting them with tax funds.”
“Call me Evelyn, please. And you could say I am trying to do just that, by inviting you here to the tea in the White House green room, so we could decide how to help our four-legged friends. Although, of course, I am well aware that you are two-legged during the day and four-legged at night, since you are a werewolf.”
“A were-Maltese,” Ingrid corrected her. And indeed, the First Lady thought, the girl really did seem likely to turn into a fluffy little Maltese dog at any moment, thanks to her great black eyes and long white-blond tresses, which were the hallmarks of the popular breed.
“I am a werewolf, though,” her companion Constantin put in. With his shaggy red hair, his bright brown eyes and his tall, muscular form, the First Lady found that easy to believe.
“Well then,” Evelyn O’Neill responded, seating herself gracefully on the gilt brocade sofa and gesturing to her guests to sit beside her. “What would you like us to do?”
“We want you to recognize us werewolves…and were-Malteses…as citizens, just as the vampires are.”
“You mean, Undead Americans,” the First Lady put in firmly.
“Of course!” the werewolf replied. “You must forgive me, because we name things differently back in Transylvania. So I suppose we should call ourselves Were-Americans.”
“Naturally! And I will be sure to ask our son-in-law, Congressman Zagorsky, to make your position perfectly clear. He should be happy to do it, since he is an Undead American…and leading the fight for Draculacare.”
It never hurt to put in a pitch for the Eternal Care Act, she thought, since everyone knew it had seen better days. Or, in many cases, better nights.
* * * *
If anything, Rep. Zagorsky (D-Calif, of course) was always happy to show the world his undead roots. He did it largely by starting every speech by saying, “Gooood eeeevening,” in his best Bela Lugosi voice.
“Our Were-friends have made it clear to us that they have the same needs and rights as we Undead Americans,” he said. “So we are eager to show our alliance with them, rather than sitting around like mindless zombies and waiting for our mutual enemies to attack us, just as they are attacking Draculacare.”
Hearing his wife’s gasp of shock as she stood on the platform beside him, he knew at once that he had made a dreadful mistake. It was so bad, in fact, that she had to stuff both hands into her mouth to keep her from shrieking “ochone!” in utter misery, like the good Irish-American banshee that she was.
“Not, of course, that zombies are not good citizens,” he added quickly. “In fact, I apologize abjectly to the zombie community for using that term, and I hope they will forgive me. I will apologize again in print, of course, and in the Congressional record as well. Needless to say, I will also make a large contribution to the Zombie Defense Fund.”
Even more desperately, he raced on, “And since my wife is, as you know, a banshee, I am sure she will be proud to keen for the zombies the moment they die, just as she does for our military heroes, high government officials and top campaign donors.”
* * * *
But it was too late. The damage had been done, and the zombies were on the march…even if it seemed more like lurching and staggering, to the untrained eye.
“We are called the walking dead but how does that make us any different from the undead vampires like our own president?” The female spokes-zombie spoke into the microphone, in a perfectly toneless tone that made her sound like a, well, zombie.
“And they call us mindless zombies but I happen to be a member of Mensa or was, before a fellow zombie ate my brains,” she went on. “Also they say we eat human and animal flesh but how is that any worse than what almost all mortals do except for some of our vegetarian werewolf friends. And once again I will say that when they call us The Walking Dead they forget that our friends the vampires could be described in just the same way.”
“Maybe neither one of you is really human,” Mr. Bill retorted, with his most disgusted sneer. “You are both among the walking dead.”
When she spread her lips in order to protest (or whatever part of her lips had not fallen off already), he went quickly on, “But I don’t care about all that vampire-versus-werewolf-versus-zombie thing. All of you creep me out!” And he made his most theatrical shudder.
As usual, he drowned out her obvious objections by saying, “But you can all live and be well…if you call it living. The real problem is Draculacare, which is hurting us all…even people like you, if people is the word for it. The next thing you know, we’ll have werewolf care and zombie care, and who will pay for it all? Taxes paid by normal human beings, that’s who…and we’re all getting tired of it.”
Actually, he had not gotten tired of the topic at all, since he went on attacking Draculacare each and every night, thus attracting higher and higher ratings. But the zombie managed to answer, “Well we are pretty tired of you people too always stalking and hunting and persecuting us when we are just trying to stay alive…or undead anyway.”
“But I thought you people…if that’s the name…were working against each other, like our vampire Democratic Congressman George Zagorsky, who accuse
d some people of acting like, excuse the expression, zombies.
“I know he apologized all over the place, the way people seem to do nowadays if anyone says anything that might possibly offend anyone else…but you came on our show to tell the world how much you resented that insult, and now you are defending the vampires instead.”
“Well maybe I was wrong,” she answered. “Maybe we undead minorities really do have to stand together against the really cruel creatures like you human beings although you often seem pretty inhuman to me.”
“Then we normal human beings had better stand together against you, hadn’t we?” he demanded, with his most withering sneer.
And this time she had no answer.
* * * *
“We certainly must stand together!” the Republican Speaker of the House told the television set in his living room, leaning towards it eagerly. “Our motto could be ‘We’re the Human Majority…or even better, ‘We’re Alive and We Vote!’”
I will soon have the public waving pitchforks, he thought, with a happy smile. Sure, I remember how some people were practically waving them during the government shutdown due to Obamacare…but that was just a figure of speech…and this time it will be the real thing.
Chapter Five
Once again, the villagers and other protesters rallied in front of the White House, waving pitchforks, crosses and garlic cloves. They were only too ready to march against the vampires, werewolves, witches, zombies, banshees and other undead minorities. Above the pitchforks, the banners read, “We’re Alive and We Vote.”
It reached the point where Yvlenia Vyrdelek, the First Lady’s bodyguard, was on constant alert in the White House, for an attack on the President’s wife. She was one of the few vampires who could endure a garlic attack, having already suffered through one by standing bravely in the line of garlic, to protect Mrs. O’Neill.
