Congratulations Celibate Vampire!

Vampires are renowned lotharios: they’re filled with lust and they hunger for the very essence of life: blood. And sex-fluids, too. Those are a big part of life, we guess. Anyhow, that’s what vampires are known for.

But even before you were turned, you hated bigotry like nothing else. And if there’s one thing you’re gonna do with your un-life it’s buck stereotypes wherever you find them (and tirelessly volunteer for various civil rights organizations). You figured the best place to start would be at home, and so since turning you’ve withheld pleasure from yourself, both onanistic and otherwise, in order to hone your mind and prove that you’re far more than the sum of your lusty parts.

The end result is that you are the world’s most organized and fastidious, well invested night watchman. When you aren’t working one of your many night jobs, you’re cleaning your apartment or preparing wonderful deserts for sale at one of the many baking themed raves that occur at least once a week in the greater Seattle area. This means that you’re constantly surrounded by attractive young men and women who are rolling their skulls off, so your celibacy is constantly tested, as is your commitment to only drinking locally sourced cow and goat blood from ethical farmers.

Sure, all of this celibacy and clean living means you’re kind of an insufferable, self-righteous, judgmental douchebag who talks at length and with only the slightest prompting about Buddha, Jesus and a bevy of other people who are, at this point, more fictional characters than they are historical human beings. It also means your apartment is absolutely spotless. So you regularly manage to get incredibly attractive women home where you, in true dipshit form, just talk their ear off about whatever the shit you’re reading most recently happens to be about. If you get a bug in your craw to tear into that ass or take a bite out of a given neck, you suppress it, compulsively re-arranging the magazine collection on your coffee table so that, instead of being arranged alphabetically or by date received, they’re arranged by subject, or in the same fashion they’d be arranged in a Barnes and Noble or by Library of Congress’ obscure magazine filing system (which you’ve committed to memory at this point). If that doesn’t work you excuse yourself and begin cleaning your bathroom intensely, emerging only to give the young woman some literature about improving her self-awareness and then retiring to your blacked-out room, where you calmly do your best not to be masturbate until you’re relatively sure that your lady-friend has fallen asleep. Then you cook a delightful brunch with bacon-avocado omelets and freshly ground coffee and wake her up just after noon in another room without any natural light so you can enjoy your meal together.

Today, disaster is going to strike: you’re going to discover that the avocados you bought at Safeway are no longer any good. Luckily, you’ll still have one person from your old life as a human (a sixty year old widower named Saul) who will still speak to you. He’ll agree to stop by a farmer’s market and get some avocados for you, permitting you don’t lay any New Age bullshit on him while he’s handing them off to you this evening. You’ll agree and the most serious crisis you’ve encountered in the last decade will be resolved.

Congratulations Celibate Vampire!

Congratulations Vampire Fucker!

You’re not actually very interesting, and not nearly as unique as you think you are. The fact that you frequent clubs filled with people who are dressed exactly like you should’ve given that away by now. But you still get out there and twitch arthymically on the dance floor until some cute boy is sufficiently relaxed by your total inability to move your body to work up the courage to ask you to come home.

Tonight you’re not even going to make it out on the dance floor. While you’re downing your third appletini, checking your fishnets to make sure they’re torn in all the right places, a young man will walk up to you. He’ll place his hand on your shoulder, put his lips by your ear, and speak.

“Let’s go. Now.”

You won’t be able to resist.

You’ll follow him home through alleys and side roads, winding footpaths through concrete jungles that you later won’t be able to recall or even describe aside from the inordinate length of the shadows and the whispers that seemed to emerge from them. When you reach his apartment you won’t notice walking up stairs or opening any doors – you’ll simply be inside of his apartment suddenly, sprawled across his couch with his hand between your legs and his mouth on your neck.

What passes in the night will be in a fog as well, a mist of passion, pleasant sensations accompanied by shocking intensity that will plague your dreams for weeks to come. The only thing you’ll remember is waking up on an unfamiliar stoop, wrapped in a blanket. Your neck will feel sore, and when you touch it you’ll notice a pair of red marks, conspicuously spaced dots, adorning your neck. You’ll feel along your body, checking to see if you’re dressed, making sure you still have your purse. After a few minutes of fumbling you’ll find a small note, hastily scrawled.

“That was fun,” it will read. “You should get tested.”

You’ll crush the note in your hand, stand up and walk home, cursing under your breath for the loss of your perfect record.

Congratulations Vampire Fucker!

Congratulations Vampire Promoter!

Vampires have been huge for the last decade, and it’s no secret why. As Americans get fatter and oranger, vampires grow slimmer and paler. They embody everything we wish we could be, and they do so effortlessly. They don’t have to work out to be incredibly strong, or pretend to be working on a novel in order to justify the hours and hours they spend inside avoiding human contact. They can be what we all desperately dream of without even lifting a finger. They’re badass sexy loners who can draw the ladies to them without trying.

But they never really needed publicists. Cameras can’t photograph them, and public appearances usually end in assassination attempts by some “wronged family member” of a person they “drained the fucking life out of.” It’s a vicious cycle.

Or it was a vicious cycle, until you stepped on the scene and found the perfect way to let these blood sucking fiends cash in on the popularity of the Twilight novels. By making it seem like vampires are just killing the terminally ill and the mentally handicapped and encouraging people to see the movie Thirst you’ve managed to make vampires incredibly sympathetic despite the fact that they are little more than fiendish killing machines from the bowels of hell. And through a combination of book deals, audio interviews and Lifetime style specials, you’re going to commoditize your process and turn it into raw money.

So Congratulations Vampire Promoter! Things are going to go great for you until one of your clients gets hungry or someone whose had a vampire kill their entire family figures out where you live and murders you in a fire.

Congratulations on Surviving the Onslaught!

On the first night only one vampire will come. You’ll dispatch him easily by shooting him in the head and destroying his brain, a feat accomplished mostly because you sleep with a loaded gun under your pillow, safety off so there’s a faint hope it might go off and end your miserable existence.

Most people would assume that’s that. Just another failed B & E involving a meth head and a cop with nothing left to lose. But you saw 30 Days of Night. You know better. You’ll head out to your cruiser and take your shotgun and the excessive amount of ammo you decided to bring with you and stockpile it in the your motel bathtub. Then you’ll assemble a small, diverse group of potential survivors using your authority as a police officer and do your best to keep them alive.

Everybody who’s anybody will be there. The mayor, the hottest co-ed in town, the sluttiest co-ed in town and several other people. One of them probably knows about computers, which probably won’t help but could be handy, so you’ll keep him around just in case.

They’ll start to get picked off one by one as they leave your motel room to respond to poorly faked cries for help and smoke cigarettes. That’s how the geology professor will go (altruism doesn’t pay) and how the hottest co-ed will go (smoking doesn’t make you cool). Then the vampires will give you a break for around an hour or so before they assault your room.

You’ll use the shotgun and various household objects to reasonable effect, but body shots won’t do anything and you’ll be low on ammo after less than an hour. Even after you turn away the first attack you’ll have lost a lot of okay people. The mayor and his dog will both be gone, along with the computer guy and the Russian bride.

Only the football coach, the crazy old man and the sluttiest co-ed will be left. But as it turns out the sluttiest co-ed will also be the smartest co-ed (she’s got a scholarship) and she’ll know enough vampire folklore to tell you how to kill every last one of those fuckers.

She’ll hand out some shovels that were just laying around the room for some reason (maybe the mayor really liked digging?) and inform all of you that a combination of blunt trauma and decapitation are your best weapons against the undead.

She’ll be totally right, but the final wave will take its toll. The coach and the crazy old man will both die while shouting crazy shit, and you and the co-ed will survive. The two of you will have victory sex and then sleep in a little bit. But it won’t be long before the booze pangs take over and you leave the comfort of her embrace to find some more liquor and take the fight to the vampires, wherever they are within the city limits of Tillotson Mill.

Congratulations on Surviving the Onslaught!

Congratulations on Eliminating Two of the Suspects!

You’re not a very good cop. You drink a lot, dislike people and pretty much just took the job so you could have a firearm. If you were in any state other than Vermont you wouldn’t be a state trooper. You wouldn’t have a job, period, actually. But right now you’re a small Vermont town’s only hope.

Five of the five police officers in Tillotson Mill have been murder over the course of the last week, and thanks to the town’s relative unimportance you’re the only person who has been sent to solve the cime. Your superiors think that its probably a small smuggling ring, nothing that you can’t take care of with your violent type A personality, a little gumption and a total lack of oversight giving you carte blanche to kill members of Tillotson Mill’s incredibly small unsavory element.

When you come to town you’ll shoot your lead suspect in the face within seconds of apprehending him in order to both eliminate him as a potential and show the townspeople you mean business. Then you’ll set to asking questions.

Turns out some of the uneducated hicks who call Tillotson Mill have also gone missing recently. And several of the weed smugglers, upon whom the town relies for a full third of their income (the rest accounted for by a combination of surliness and beards) have been found drained of all blood.

You’ll track down the last remaining smuggler and kill him amidst the townspeople’s protests, hoping that’ll stop the murders. But after only one night in the town’s only motel you’ll be awoken by the cries of townspeople. They’ll have found Old Man McGullicutty, the town’s oldest citizen at the age of 37, murdered in his bed. The crime scene will be quite grisly, but there won’t be any clues as to “who-done-it.”

When you ask around you’ll discover that thanks in part to your efforts the entire criminal element of Tillotson Mill has been eliminated. That means you have no more suspects and nothing to do except wait for more clues to come your way, which will happen tonight when vampires attack your motel room.

Congratulations on Eliminating Two of the Suspects!

Congratulations on Being Published!

As an aspiring writer there’s been only one goal in your mind for the last few years, aside from a shallow grave: publication! For many people it’s simply a matter of sending out their flowery, wondrous manuscript about growing up Puerto Rican in Alaska and watching the cash fly in, but you’re a white dude from New Jersey so it’s been a tougher journey for you.

No one would buy that “from the streets” crap, since you’re a skinny guy from Hoboken. You’re slightly less physically intimidating than Ruth Bader Ginsburg and can’t go through a conversation without referencing your favorite pretentious books, most of them Russian translations.

That left documenting your struggle and your triumph with an invented drug problem, but then that Frey cunt had to ruin that one by beating you two it. You thought about making an even edgier “memoir” about rehab, but it eventually devolved into a novelization of the film Saw as you considered various ways that people could be tortured into no longer doing heroin.

No one accepted the manuscript.

That left an “edgy” crime drama about vampires having sex with teens while solving murders and a three hundred page diatribe about modern politics centering around a small town in upstate New York and its slow descent into collective madness. You decided to write the crime drama and Putnam ate it up.

So tomorrow you’ll be sitting at the release party when George Saunders arrives. You’ll leap out of your seat to shake his hand but before you reach him he’ll have his fist in a ball and you’ll be laid out on your ass. He’ll then depart your book release in his traditional mix of style and poise and return home to write some more books of actual value.

His actions will generate a whirlwind of press around your title and lead to record breaking sales. Since your book is terrible this isn’t a good thing, and after an overwhelmingly negative critical response you’ll publish a second, considerably less successful book before becoming the pariah of the creative community.

Congratulations on Being Published!

Congratulations on Giving Blood!

Tonight is going to be one hell of a Saturday night for you. In fact, you might consider just singing the song right now to get in the mood. Ready?

S-A-T-U-R D-A-Y NIGHT!

Nice.

That’s pretty much how it’ll go, all 80s hits and booze. You’ll hop from overpriced bar to overpriced bar, from Fenway to Cambridge and back again, until you finally come to rest at a small, run down little place in JP.

You’ll be too deep in to remember the name of the place, but once you reach there you’ll meet an attractive young woman in a lime green tank top. She’ll be deathly pale, but that’s kind of your thing so the two of you will end up going home together.

The next day when you wake up she’ll still be in your bed. You’re in sales, so this is strange enough, but there will also be tinfoil on all of your windows. Unsure, you’ll rise from your bed, feeling a strange nausea which increased with every step.

You’ll start to reach towards the tinfoil, to pull a piece off and see just what time it is, but before you touch it the girl will be upon you. Her arms will be wrapped all around, holding you back.

“No,” she’ll whisper, soft and harsh into your ear. Then she’ll sink her teeth into your neck and you’ll jizz your pants and pass out.

This isn’t that unusual for you, but when you wake up you’ll still be aroused. That’s beyond unusual for you. You were actually driven to pursue a high paying business career because of your embarrassingly serious impotence.

It’s because you’re a vampire now. She was a vampire who was turned in the 80s and had a serious thing for the fashion and music of that period.

Try to enjoy yourself, since vampire sex is fucking amazing. And congratulations on giving blood. Get it? It wasn’t consensual!