"I can't take too much more of this bloody wacket." groaned the Count, not even bothering to try and disguise his speech impediment. He buried his face in thin white hands, and I watched enviously as the strobe lights made the blue highlights in his thick, dark hair flash electrically. Wouldn't I just die all over again for a head of hair like his.

It was Halloween. All Hallow's Eve. The night spirits can return to the mortal realm. Not many do though. The mortal realm isn't all it's cracked up to be. Most of the living -impaired prefer to stay in the Great Beyond. We have our own Halloween celebrations to attend to.

It's not generally known, but Halloween's also the night the living can pass through and join us. And with the mixture of alcohol, general tomfoolery and bad judgment that happens more than you'd expect. Unlike us though , they don't get to go back.

"And I can tell you Iggy," the Count continued, "if I don't get something to eat soon it's going to be the living end of me. Despite popular belief there's more ways to slay a vampire than by the twusty stake or silver bullet."

"Silver bullet? I thought silver bullets were used to slay werewolves," said I. The Count shrugged.

"It's not common knowledge, and fwrankly we vampires don't want it getting awound, but yes, one can slay a vampire with a silver bullet. I'd appweciate you keeping it under your hat though. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, starving to death is another alternative and I've got to tell you Iggy, it's pwobably the worst of the lot. Oh, what I wouldn't give for the taste of thick, wed, warm blood gushing into my mouth, bathing my tongue with it's wonderfully coppewy taste and wunning down my parched thwoat." The Count closed his eyes with imagined bliss. Sighing heavily, he took a sip of the tomato juice in front of him and grimaced.

"Ugh, Iggy, this stuff is bloody disgusting."

I'd been listening to the Count whining and complaining for a good few hours now and I was getting a little weary of it. I was beginning to wish I'd stayed in the Great Beyond and left Marilyn and the Count to work out their own problems, but no, I had to go and stick my nose in and look where it had gotten me.

"Anyway, it's not my fault Iggy. I didn't ask for this, if it hadn't been for your girlfwiend I'd still be sleeping like the dead and not sitting here and wowwying about starving to death."

"Listen Count," I said patiently. "Stop calling me Iggy. Call me Igor. It's bad enough that I have this hump on my back, but calling me Iggy is doing nothing for my image here in the mortal realm. Capisce?"

The Count had the grace to look a little humbled.

"Sowwy Iggy - err, I mean Igor." While the Count sat nursing his head in his hands I scanned the smoke fogged room. On the dance floor masses of sweaty, writhing bodies jerked spastically beneath the flickering strobes: a n assortment of monsters and witches strutting their stuff. Those who weren't writhing on the dance floor milled around or lounged at the crowded tables that lined the dark, outer perimeter of the room. There was music and laughter and mortals getting into the Halloween spirit. everybody seemed to be having a good time.

Everybody that is, except for the Count and I.

I caught a glimpse of flaxen blonde hair bobbing amongst the others out on the dance floor. Well Marilyn certainly seemed to be having a good time. Silly bitch. If it wasn't for her I wouldn't be in this hell hole and the Count wouldn't be whining away in my ear. We'd both be in the Beyond; me enjoying the Halloween celebrations and the Count snoring away in his coffin. Trust a woman! Now there's a paradox.

I watched as Marilyn fought her way through the churning bodies, accompanied by:

"Hey, great costume doll."

"Way to go babe."

And

"Cool. Marilyn Monroe, Dude."

(I have to tell you, in my day we weren't nearly so abusive of the King's English.)

I could see Marilyn was just lapping it up. Flashing her sexy, white toothed smile left, right and centre. Couldn't really blame her, it had been a long time since Marilyn had a taste of such adulation. In the beyond we're not so hung up on physical appearances. Mostly we're into the spiritual side of things.

"Oh you guys, but isn't this just divinely fun?" Marilyn gushed, sliding herself into the booth beside the Count, nudging him further along so that he was pressed up against the wall.

"Fun!" I was incredulous. "You sit here with the Count for a while and see how much bloody fun you have. I don't know why I have to baby-sit him anyway. It's your fault we're here. If you knew how to handle your spirits we wouldn't be in this predicament."

Marilyn looked aghast. "I'll have you know Iggy, that wasn't just any old spirit. That was William Shakespeare." She closed her eyes and a look of bliss passed over her face. "Oh, you should hear the poetry he recites. I tell you, I don't understand one word of it Iggy, but he's got the most marvellous tooshy. Just thinking about it makes me go all gooey

"So what are you saying? Are you saying that we have William Shaespeare's derriere to blame for this intolerable situation?"

She looked at me blankly with big, blue eyes and then said, "Oh no Iggy. It's because of his tooshy. All wrapped up nice and snug in those darling little tights, I just had to have a feel Iggy." She opened and closed her hands.

I guess she was replaying the moment when she grasped the poet's tight, little bottom and sent him reeling across the room shrieking like a man demented to collide with the Count's coffin and bring it crashing to the floor, spilling the disorientated Count onto the cold, marble tiles. I must say I couldn't really blame the poor sod as I watched Marilyn's long, red talons biting together as she opened and closed her fingers. He must have felt them biting through the thin material of his tights and thought the demons of hell were after him. (We worry about that sort of thing in the beyond you know.)

"I couldn't help it Iggy. Really I couldn't. I saw his buns and all the blood just gushed to my head, so to speak." On hearing the word, blood, the Count let out an anguished moan. Marilyn turned to him.

"Oh Count. Poor, darling Count. Are you sure you don't want to have a suck of my neck? Maybe it'll ease the tension a little." She tilted her head to one side, exposing a long expanse of soft, white skin. Her voice was husky when she said, "Look Count. What do you say hmmmm?"

She shook her blonde head and a stale puff of Chanel no: 5 wafted over to me. My eyes had begun to glaze and I could feel my tongue lolling from my mouth. The weakness of the flesh is easily remembered. The Count, however, was untouched. He looked at Marilyn's offering and grimaced.

"Ugh! Formaldehyde. If there's one thing that tastes worse than tomato juice it's got to be formaldehyde." Tears again welled in his black eyes and he buried his face in his hands, his back heaving with suppressed sobs. Marilyn and I looked at each other in dumb horror.

"Listen Count. All we need to do is find you a nice, girl and Bob's your uncle. You get your teeth in, get your pound of flesh, so to speak and then it's back to the beyond we go and you can sleep for another thousand years or so."

The Count mumbled something into his hands.

"What's that?"

"Don't like girls."

"You don't……"

Well, well, well, the Count had finally come out of the coffin, er, closet.

"Well does anybody here appeal to you?"

The Count muttered something else into his hands.

"I'm sorry Count, you'll have to speak up." I said leaning across the table in order to hear him better.

"The man at the door when we came in," said the Count taking his hands away from his face. "I thought he looked rather . . . tasty."

"He's the bouncer," explained Marilyn. "And I don't know that you'd have much luck with him Count. These are new times now. Things have changed. You can't just jump on someone and have your way with them. They have to consent; otherwise, you're likely to end up in the slammer and I'm pretty sure haemoglobin isn't on the menu in there." The Count’s face began to crumple.

"I know!" exclaimed Marilyn. "The hospital. There's always blood at a hospital."

"Hospitals are where sick people go," said the Count, screwing up his face in disgust. "Sick people. I don't want sick people's blood. I haven't eaten for I don't know how many hundreds of years and you want to give me sick people's blood?" The Count's voice was rising hysterically.

"Easy Count. Conserve your energy," I told him.

"How about the blood bank then?" suggested Marilyn.

"Blood bank?" the Count and I echoed.

"Sure." Marilyn was excited now, bouncing up and down in the booth. "It's where they store lots and lots of blood for when the hospitals need it. And it's all from healthy people."

Hope seeped into the Counts eyes. "Where is it? Where is this blood bank?" He turned in his seat and gripped Marilyn's shoulders. "Where?"

Marilyn stopped bouncing and shrugged, "I don't know."

The Count glowered. I could see his knuckles whitening as his grip on Marilyn's shoulders tightened.

"You don't know?" he hissed.

"Don't fret Count." Marilyn soothed. "We'll find one. All we have to do is ask someone."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"Chwist almighty." The Count threw his hands into the air. "What do you know, you stupid cow?"

"Now, now Count." I soothed. We were beginning to attract attention.

"Don't you bloody well 'now, now' me!" screeched the Count, finally losing control. His face had mottled and his eyes were rolling maniacally around in his head. "I'm the victim here, you hear me? I'm the bloody victim!" As the Count's shrieks grew louder, more and more eyes turned in our direction. I felt myself shrinking beneath the table. I have a fear of mobs.

Marilyn on the other hand wasn't having a problem. She was pouting and preening and thrusting forward her décolletage and cooing things like, 'There, there Count. There, there."

And batting her eyelids. I watched as one fell off and landed on the table. Without batting the other eyelid, Marilyn picked it up and tried to fasten it back onto her face.

"Don't you patwonize me, you silly, blonde cow," bellowed the Count.

"Hey there mister, watch your mouth." A masculine voice shouted from somewhere over near the bar.

"Yeah. Ain't no call calling women names like that." Came another, this time from the opposite side of the room. Murmurs of agreement floated around the room.

"What d'ya mean mean ya don't talk to women like that? What are ya anyway? A male chauvinist pig?" said a woman's voice nearby and echoes of "Yeah, yeah," floated around the now musicless room.

Uh oh. Remember that I said that I have a fear of mobs? Well, I'm downright terrified of angry mobs! And it looked like that's what we'd soon have here.

From my position halfway under the table I watched as a tall, bald headed man shoved his way through the audience. It was the bouncer who had been on the door when we arrived. The one the count had taken a liking to. He came to a halt at our table, looming over it menacingly.

"Orright, orright. Enough of that, enough of that," he demanded. The Count whom I assume at this stage was insane with hunger, swivelled his head in the bouncer's direction.

"Don't you tell me what to do!" he sputtered, his eyes bogling from his head. "Don't you bloody well dare tell me what to do." The Count climbed onto the table and began to wave his fist furiously. "I don't bloody believe this!" he continued to rant. "Do you know who I am? Do you have any bloody idea who I am? Huh? Well, do you?"

"Just get off the table fella, just get off the table," the bouncer demanded. He held out his arms to help the Count down.

"Get off the table, get off the table," the Count mimicked. "What are you anyway? A bloody pawwot?"

There was silence as the crowd waited to see how this would go down. The bouncer, his face crimson, bared his teeth in an animalistic snarl. "Bite me!" he growled into the expectant hush.

A beautific smile crossed the counts face and I watched as his body visibly relaxed. "I thought you'd never ask," he whispered.

Mr. Mancia submitted several stories last year. All of them would have qualified for our forum but, alas, his competition was stiff: most notably, this story by T. K. Mancia! I compromised by giving his tale a "place of honor" as our Halloween Editor's Extra. I think I chose well. How about you?