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Liar, Liar: Vampire	HUMOR
Nothing turns a woman on like a guy with a cool job, and when your real job doesn’t qualify, it’s time to lie. This go around you’re a brooding Eastern European count with pronounced canines.

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Your Job
As a card-carrying member of the Undead, you wander the night, drinking the blood of the living for sustenance. Naturally, you prefer the napes of wide-eyed virgins, but you’ve been known to settle for geriatric widows in a pinch. Your duties include sneaking into the boudoirs of the unwary, keeping local peasants cowed by regularly turning into a bat or snatching the odd baby, and brooding endlessly about your horrible fate. Finally, as Lord of the Creatures of the Night, you implement policy for numerous rats, wolves, and other nocturnal critters, commanding them to do your evil bidding. A harder assignment than most jobs, but not as demeaning as running for office.

Your Training
After spending many years as a listless, semi-inbred minor member of eastern European nobility, you died. But you couldn’t rest easy in the grave because (choose one of the following): 1) you were cursed by your father or the patriarch of your local church, 2) you were born with a caul over your head, 3) a cat jumped over your coffin before it was safely interred, or 4) you were victimized by a vampire. Over the ensuing centuries, you carefully honed your maiden-seducing, sunlight-avoiding, and carotid-artery-locating skills. You did a brief stint with the IRS.

Your Gear
Whether you’re tromping morosely over the moors, kickin’ back in some castle ruins, or out on the town clubbing, you’re never without your trusty cape — classic goth styling in an E-Z-cleaning wool/poly blend. (Scrubbing gore and dried bat guano out of your clothes week after week started getting old around 1650.) Over your standard-issue white puffy shirt, you wear an ancient medallion to give you street cred with your Eurotrash pals: Yours was awarded to Daddy by Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund for fighting the Turks. The centerpiece of your cavernous basement is a king-size RestEasy 2000 all-mahogany coffin tricked out with a six-CD changer, mini-bar, and DirecTV. For traveling, you have a dozen steamer trunks full of dirt from your homeland and piles of old money to pay your minions with. You also keep a supply of hair oil — the wet look never really goes out, does it? — and a flask of industrial-strength Listerine to dispel your grave breath.

Your Lingo
Bleeders: Beautiful, buxom women, especially those with long, exposed necks.
Bat it: To leave. (“Let’s bat it outta here — all the bleeders left an hour ago.”)
Renfield: Moron; blithering fuckin’ idiot. (“OK, which one o’ you renfields ordered me the garlic pizza?”)
Riceheads: Groupies who dress like they’re going to Stevie Nicks’ funeral and hang around your gates, looking for autographs. They’re easy scores but kind of creepy.
Half pints: Affectionate term for the local village children.

Conversation in a Coffin
If she asks: “So, what’s it like being 750 years old?”
You answer: “Is tedious, no? To pass the time, I search for beauty-vool vooman to make my queen.” [Sigh; shrug soulfully]

If she asks: “Why can’t you go out in the sunlight?”
You answer: “But I can go out in sunlight — it doesn’t kill me, as in your American movies. Is just that my powers are at peak at night. You would care for demonstration?”

If she asks: “Can I drive the Batmobile?”
You answer: “You are getting very sleepy…”

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[1/7/2009]

CHECK OUT MAXIM'SHALLOWEEN HALL OF FAME

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HALLOWEEN HALL OF FAME