De-Drug-Dealing Dracula Deconstructed, an op-ed by John Jameson Jr.

Thirty-one. The current number of low-life scum removed from the streets by the vigilante known only as Throat Bite. No one has seen this valiant hero in action. Even his handiwork caught on cctv only shows his victims. This mysterious figure is making the city safer every night. I, John Jameson shall endeavor to enlighten our wonderful readers about the wonderous efforts of our city's newest hero. From a totally unbiased perspective.

This month our city's PD has reported a nearly sixty percent reduction in hard drug availability on our streets. Frankly, the best part will be transient vagabonds leaving our great metropolis for filthier municipalities. If I met Throat Bite today, I'd take him out for a nice steak dinner; paid for by the rapid increase in property values his valiant violence against villains has awarded me.

But who is he? In the many decades of vigilante reporting I've developed a certain understanding of the city's vigilantes, gleamed from their comic-bookesque modus operandi. First, let's look at the facts. His low life victims are drained of blood, from punctures on the neck as if by a vigilante vampire. Hence the name, Throat Bite. He can't be seen on cctv video. He targets street dealers working at night. He's never been seen by anyone in the act. The answer as to the who and how should be obvious, at least for any seasoned vigilante reporter. He's an ex-deep state operative! Fed up with the problems of our city. Active cloaking technology conceals him from both cameras' and people's perceptions. He has tools that drain over a gallon of blood in less than a minute. Only someone with ties to shadowy organizations could have this sort of capacity, and-

"Stop", hissed the pale figure sitting across from Mr. Jameson. He waved his gangly phalanges as he spoke. Jameson's eyes glowed dimly in response. "You do drone on. That's what I like about you, thrall. While I find your drivel insipid many fools in this city find it to be as delectable as the sweet ambrosia of a plump vegetarian's circulatory system." He continued on, "publish this article. Start work on another. Keep up the good work and you may one day taste immortality for yourself."

Jameson nodded. Throat Bite had no intention of turning the greying middle aged man before him. However, he found the false promise of immortality kept his thralls obedient for longer, especially thoughs feeling the effects of time. The vampire's pale visage transformed into a thin dark smoke and trailed out the open window into the night.

Journal entry : 31/01/23

When I first saw it, I was mightily confused. There it was, my latest victim's photo in the newspaper. But that itself wouldn't be confusing, No, it was the headline accompanying it that got me confounded- "The Nocturnal Blood Demon". They have attributed a series of my latest target's deaths to some sort of vigilante and gave him a cool name, too. I am almost jealous, anyone would be, with a boring name like Charlie. The article was speculating that the 'Demon' was riddling the city of crime. This posed a huge conundrum for me. Vampires must walk a fine line between infamy and staying under the radar. Vampires gain more power the more infamous they are. But, get too famous and you will get hunted down. Any old vampire will tell you that the secret to living a long life as a vampire, is staying under the radar. That is true, many would say being less powerful but safer would be better than burning too quickly. My main reason for choosing the victims I chose was that no one would dig too much into them. After all, they were drug dealers and criminals who always avoided prison on technicalities. I even made sure to pick an equal number of people from rival gangs to make it appear like two gangs sabotaging each other. But, this was the best of both worlds. My persona would gain infamy and as long as no one suspects vampire involvement, there was no problem.

But still, the safer path was to change up my M.O., the sensible option. I would have gone with that too if I didn't have the memories. You see, vampires get the memories of humans we drink out of. Vampires just don't drink blood. If that were the case, I would have somehow stolen blood from blood banks instead of going after people. No, when we drink from someone by inserting our fang into someone, we drink their soul, through their blood. And once a vampire starts sucking blood from a human, even if not much blood was drunk, the entire soul of the victim slowly escapes from the human from the wound made by the vampire. So, any human a vampire selects to drink from, surely dies. And with the soul that is drunk, the memories of the human are absorbed too. This is the reason why older vampires are very wise. They have memories of lots and lots of human years and a wide knowledge of a lot of things.

Alas, I digress, I saw something from the memories of my latest victim, He was planning with some of his friends to plant a bomb in a train, the boss of a rival gang was going to travel in. Something in me wanted to prevent that from happening. Not like I care about the innocent people going to be killed in the blast. No, it would have sparked a big gang war, and a lot of criminals would die needlessly, a waste of their souls. But, this way, I could stage a vigilante action on these people and "discover" that they had plans to bomb a nearby school. Yes, it was not a school they actually planned to bomb. But they would not be alive to contest it and I get more fame and avoid a gang war too. Yes, the rival gang could be used later for more souls and infamy.

​

- Charlie, the local evil scheming Vampire

(PS: My first attempt to get into writing prompts. Please provide feedback)

As the vampire walked on the wet sidewalk illuminated by the bright moon over the city, the young boy on his shoulders finally mustered the courage to speak.

"You're quite scary," he said.

"I look just like anyone here- even with my high fashion," the vampire replied.

"It's not that... it's what you did to those three back there. And your look; those eyes," the kid continued. "They're cold, like there is no life in you. And you're really, really, tall!"

"Correct on that, young man," the vampire retorted with a smirk, raising his eyebrows upward to the boy. "But- tell me... why do they believe I am an enforcer of their laws? I do not care for any of them."

The boy gulped nervously. "Because... you're killing bad people, making good people safer," he replied.

"Incidental," the vampire stated firmly. "Simply put, I presumed it would be easier; not much of an affair if I consumed the dregs of this place. No?" the vampire inquired as he looked up to the boy.

"I guess," replied the kid who was having fun being so high up. "My parents said the police are looking for you."

"Here we are," the vampire said. "251 East 17th Street. A nice building, indeed." He lifted the boy off his shoulders with one hand and set him down as if he was the most delicate porcelain ever created.

"How about I leave it up to you..." the vampire said, bending down to reach the boy's height.

"Leave what?" the boy asked.

"If I should continue eating those kind of people or go back to the blood bank," the vampire replied.

The boy took a moment. Then, he looked up at the vampire that just minutes ago saved him from being abducted.

"Just those people, ok?" the boy innocently asked.

"Then it's settled!" the vampire exclaimed in satisfaction. "Next time, no wandering off alone," the vampire continued, petting the boy's hair.

As the boy walked toward the building entrance, he turned to the vampire.

"What's your name, mister?" the young kid asked.

"I don't remember," he whispered to himself as he slowly walked back into the night.

We all have our ups and downs. High highs, low lows. Barely anything in the middle.

Vampires gets high when they feed. With mortal blood in their veins, they feel as if for a second, they have all the power of a vampire and the happiness only mortals could achieve. They are as close to living in that moment as they ever could be. A state of utter euphoria. Like a drug. In this state, they take risks they never would. Get into fights they'd never dare to start sober. Commit acts of love and happiness they wish they could. They even look alive.

When they don't feed, the connection to the dark powers that bind them, enslave them, sucking this happiness out of them. Their minds turn bitter, turn to despair. When they are like this, there is no positive emotion within them of any kind. They simply cannot feel it, and their souls know that this kind of existence is simply wrong, and unnatural. They gaze into the abyss from whence their power came, feeling themselves drawn to this void that will consume all life, in the end. They are dead, but even they fear this entropy despite the tightrope of power. Immeasurable mobility, strength, regeneration and awareness of their surroundings on one end. On the other, an infinite life barely lived as they crave to feed on their kind and kin, weaknesses of all kinds placed upon them by the abyss that forged their new selves. And all know that if the cold void in their dreams touch them, they are lost forever. And so they feed, to keep away from this void.

Many vampires draw from the power of this void to stave off their deaths. Their desire for immortality fulfilled, at the cost of knowing that they can only extend that existence at the costs of others. Many lose themselves to the cycle of euphoria and despair. They live in the moment, craving one feeding after the next, running from boogey who come to wipe them from the face of the earth.

But not all live like that. Some pick the road less travelled by.

A heavy set man sat down in a chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket. The rains were not merciful this night, as the gentle clattering on the windows surged with the winds. In the reflection, only a single light remained on, behind him, with the gentle glow of a mother's caress. His own reflection was barely visible. A silhouette, dark and broad, stared back at him.

On the thirty-fifth floor, the penthouse, he had been cooped up by orders of his superiors. Word had leaked on the streets of his arrival to those who knew of what haunted the scum of this city. Over the last month or so, gang associated murders have skyrocketed. Patterns stuck out so blatantly that it didn't feel a mob war of any kind. This was a calling card. Someone was looking for attention. The visceral and violent deaths now ran up to thirty-four as of yesterday, the number spread across three months with a rising amount over the last one.

While a deep cleaning of the streets was not something regrettable in and of itself, the issue was that it was unsanctioned. Unsanctioned murders on the streets are unacceptable. The aggro a story like this could accumulate would blow open a tidal wave of misery the world had never faced, from which it couldn't recover.

By itself, this sounded like an exaggeration. If only it simply was.

The man had committed the thirty-fifth murder, same as the others. Painstaking details were replicated and no expenses were spared. The tearing wounds in the neck, in the middle of the night at the center of its territory. No cameras, no witnesses. Just a quick call, a gurgling gasp and the ripping of flesh. No blood on the scene. Last but not least, an invitation to the current location of the man who sat patiently.

As he was about to check his watch, a knocking on the glass balcony door disturbed this. Outside stood a drenched woman in a raincoat, gazing through the door. The man got up, unlocked the door and held it open. She did not move in.

"So," She almost yelled with a raised voice, making herself heard as the winds swept the lashing rain without a care, "this was you, right?"

He gestured for her to enter, which she quickly did. As he closed the door, with one fell swoop, she unbuttoned her raincoat and moved to the door to hang it there. A braided ponytail came away from the hood, a leather jacket and jeans from under it. A stark contrast to the man's three piece suit.

After leaving her coat on the rack, she looked him up and down.

"I don't appreciate people trying to take my gig."

"The Conclave does not appreciate your activities in this city, Miss..."

"Call me Jean."

"Jean. Sure. Then I'm Logan."

"Subtle."

"Jean, you have the attention of those whose attention you don't want."

"Good. Took you guys long enough. Though I wouldn't have minded if you dropped by a little later."

"That would have gathered even more attention."

"As if the invitation wouldn't."

"We figured you were proud of your handiwork."

"Not really. Just a matter of convenience."

"Convenience? That's what blood banks are for."

"Listen, jar-head. Blood banks are for people who need that stuff in surgeries. I'm not taking blood from those who willingly give it. I'm taking it from those who don't deserve it."

"Who gave you the right to play judge, jury and executioner?"

"Who gave you the right to intervene? Who watches the watcher?"

"Those who understand the order of how things are better than you."

"I suppose so. No one ever really 'explained' any of this stuff. This whole mess only happened pretty recently. I'm new to all of it."

"Quite the mess, indeed. You have gained the attention of the masses. You target selection has left you in their good graces."

"I did more about the gang problem in one month than the police that's supposed to protect and serve us did in over a decade. Heh. I've done more noticeable and useful things for the place I was raised in in death than I did in life. I don't really plan on stopping."

"Very altruistic. The crusader who bloodies their hands so that others may stay clean. You're not the first to start out this way. I've seen it time and time again."

"Oh? How does it end?"

The man pulled open his jacket on both sides. Dozens of tiny vials of holy water on one side and three stakes, one of iron, one of silver and one of wood on the other.

"Speaking of judge, jury and executioner."

"You know what these do?" The man asked.

"I'm aware." The woman said, now a little more shaken.

"You're a recent convert. That's good. It means you can be reasoned with. For now. But your link to the void is strengthening. Soon, the hunger will consume you."

"The void?"

"The darkness in your dreams that seeks to consume you. It stays its distance when you drink blood."

"What do you know about this?"

"This 'Tobias' didn't tell you much about what you are, did he?"

"No."

"Then I will take on a new role, tonight. And if you take to the lessons I'm willing to teach you, we can discuss the mess you made and how to handle it."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll handle you. You get two minutes to decide. That's more mercy than you gave the people you killed."

"Why do you get to decide who lives and who dies? What have you done to get to do that?"

"I will explain, if you accept my offer."

"This doesn't feel fair."

"Life is unfair. Why does undeath have to be any different? The ones you put in the morgue didn't have a fair chance either. The scales will be balanced. One minute and thirty seconds. Choose, before a decision is made for you."

When it first started, the desire for blood was unquenchable. I don’t remember how it happened, or even who I was before it. It was as if the thirst overtook everything.

In the beginning I fed on whatever I could: men, women, children, animals, carcasses. As time went on, my abilities improved. I became faster, stronger, my thoughts more clear. Even some desires from my past life returned. I occasionally found myself in bed with beautiful women. Some I let live, others I enjoyed completely.

In the year 1911, I was discovered for my crimes. Pictures of my pasty face were scattered all over the city with the words “WANTED” above it.

I was foolish back then. I embraced the fame, descending from dark alleys and rooftops, undisturbed by the onlooker who watched me feed. I knew they couldn’t stop me. Of course they tried. They'd set traps, thrown rocks, attempted to hit me with bats, shovels, pitchforks. Still, they couldn’t hurt me…

Until fire.

The first torch lit my entire body in flames. The pain was unlike anything I’d felt, living or dead. It burned until every inch of fair skin was gone, leaving only boils and the raw flesh underneath. The next day, the entire city was armed with torches, and my reign was over.

I had no choice but to run. I went into hiding. For years I fed on rodents and people wandering too far from the cities’ edge. My strength weakened, my thoughts became unclear. I became more creature than man, a monster with only instinct and desire.

Slowly my burns healed and my skin grew back. As the years passed, the world changed, but the thirst never went away.

I decided to do things differently. I learned to scope the places where criminals and addicts roamed. These were the sort of people who went missing everyday, and no one cared. To be safe, I made a simple set of rules: no groups, no cameras, no innocents.

That’s when everything changed. Criminals had a taste for drugs, and soon I did too. It was addictive. The heroin in their veins was my favorite. I could taste it, sending waves of pleasure up my fangs. Eventually it became my preference, and I learned to smell it while hunting.

One night I came across the sweetest smell. The hunger took over, and I broke my own rule. I snuck into a warehouse and killed six men to get to the one they were guarding. His scent was overpowering. I took him to my lair and fed for three days. I didn’t even mind the blood going cold. I savored every drop.

Six days later I was walking the streets, face covered by black cap and hoodie, when a group of teenagers began trailing me. Even from fifty feet away, I could hear their whispers.

“It’s him.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Look, same hoodie. Pants. Freaky shoulders. Everything.”

Amused, I turned around and exposed myself to them. To my surprise, they didn’t cower. Usually my copper eyes, lifeless face and sharp bone-structure frightened the bravest of men. Not these. These begged for autographs.

“Told you!”

“Did he cry when you killed him?”

“What did you do with the body?”

“Will you take a picture with us, please?”

I awkwardly ran away. I’d never been so humiliated. For as long as I remembered, I’d been feared. Somehow these boys were smiling and laughing at me. Was I loosing my edge?

For hours I’d wondered what'd changed. I inspected my face and teeth in the mirror, but everything appeared the same.

Then, later that night, I heard it. As I walked a narrow street, brooding and seeking a heroin-laced snack, my ears picked up the sound. The voice of a broadcaster on the other side of a wall pierced me like a stake to the heart.

“He’s being called, ‘the hero of our time', 'zombie man', and 'hooded vigilante'," the telecaster said, a woman with a deep voice. Even with the television on low volume, I heard clearly. "After being caught on camera breaking into the warehouse of drug lord Santos Esteban, this hooded figure was seen fleeing the scene with Esteban’s lifeless body. Since then, federal authority’s have stated they're now looking for this figure, for the body of Esteban, and insisting the vigilante is, in no way affiliated with the FBI.

"Speculation has arisen as to the motive of the vigilante, though many believe he is simply acting on heroism. Videos of him decapitating the six armed guards to get to Esteban have circulated online, but the footage is too graphic to show here. There has been several alleged sightings of this man since the death of Esteban, one week ago, but analysts agree, none are real.

"Well, just today, four teenage boys have come forward and they are certain they have, in fact, spotted the hooded vigilante. Before we show their footage, I urge viewers to view with discretion. The face beneath the hood is… difficult to look at.”

My fangs nearly fell to the floor. For the first time in my life, I was a hero.

"Good evening, My Lord," Han said following the nighttime ritual of hundreds of years.

Master Theon slides gracefully from the sapphire-blue silk bedding to stand at the edge of the Timna armored casket, his movements are smooth and of a single, fluid grace. Pale skin hissed softly against the cotton cloth lining as Han helps him into the beautifully worked day robe. Han pulls it closed, ties it at the waist and then moves around Theon, straightening and smoothing the robe, his hands running over the complex needle work of the fine garment with practiced easy.

The scenes depicted on the robe are bloody and cast a stark contrast to the sky-blue colour of the material the robe is made from; blood red, dark wine, and magentas dominated the images with silver and gold edging and trim. The detail imagery was a thing of transcendent skill but the subject matter would have turned the stomach of many.

Having finished with setting the robe, Han steps to the small table against the wall as the casket retracted into the alcove and secured itself. He lifts the silver plater with the single, old Venetian tradition glass on it. The glass is filled with a red fluid and its outer surface is covered in handed painted flowers and plants that would be at home in a summer field at noon.

Han steps back to Theon to present the glass. The liquid in it barely reacting to his movement.

Theon takes the glass and drinks. The blood is body temperature and slides down easily after the long day of sleep.

Finishing it, Theon returns the glass to the plater. Han, in turn, returns it and the plater to the table. Theon begins to walk toward and out the only door in the room.

The room was designed to be a grand piece of art but also to protect Master Theon from those things that are anathema to or might threaten the life of a vampire. A thick, Indian rug covers the floor to within a few feet of the walls. Around the room, set quite tastefully to make the room feel 'lived in', are a few pieces of furniture made from night dark Oak. Cloth covers are set across the flat surfaces and are all sky-blue with silver trim. The walls are covered in a powder-blue wallpaper that has depicted on it a forest of willowy, white trees with speckled black bark under a canopy of light green leaves. The image seems to have a depth to it, as it extending into illusionary distance. Each alcove has a security casket of identical make and model to the one Master Theon just stepped out of. Each on armatures that allowed the casket to be extended into the room for use.

Even the mechanism of the caskets are finely crafted and, while a brass coloured metal, did not seem out of place in terms of the rest of the room. The room is quite large , big enough that if all three caskets were extended, a person standing in the middle of the room could touch them all without extending their arms very much.

The room radiates luxury but had been designed for security. No windows to allow sunlight in or an intruder to use to gain entry to it. The room is located under Master Theon's main house with surveillance and defensive measures built into recesses or hidden away that can respond in an instant to any threat as needed. Those same devices extended up into the house proper and are monitored twenty-four/seven by bonded members of the household staff. Only Master Theon and Han, however, can enter the hallway leading to this room without being met lethal force.

In the words of the twentieth century security expert whom had designed the systems, "Master Theon owns anyone who enters his house."

This does not distract from the style displayed however. The entire house radiates wealth, power, and age. Each room is a masterpiece of design, function, and elegance married to a deep love of history. The hallways are reminiscent of an imperial palace of the sixteenth century; tall, long, and well lite. Paintings of a rare pedigree and furnishings of master craftsmen filled every corner of Master Theon's household.

All of this contained in a two block rectangle of the most populous city in the world.

Having walked through the hallway, up stairs, and then into the sitting room, Theon sits and picks up the day's newspaper. It and another Venetian glass of red liquid sits waiting for him on the table in front of Theon. On the paper, once again, is news of the city's protector and the drop in crime as told from the reports over the last month. Citizens are all applauding the hero who is cleaning up the streets of the city where the police are unable or unwilling too.

"Han, what do you think of this idea of me as a protector?" His voice is the controlled alto of a trained singer; strong, measured, modulated.

Theon knew that Han would be ready to serve him as he seemingly spoke to the empty air. He did not even have to turn to know that his servant would be standing by the largest door to this room. Not even if they were behind him to know that Han was there.

"You have ever protected your bloodline, Sir" Han nodded even as he spoke those words with respect. By that statement he meant any whom had been turned to the life of service to the Master.

"Yes, yes...but what do you think?" Theon asks with the tone of an pampered aristocrat, pressing the matter. Sometime Han needs a push to reply beyond the scope of Master/servant expectations.

Han did not even hesitated before replaying.

"Sir, if I may, does the farmer care for the opinions of his cattle?" Han is every and always the pragmatist.

Master Theon, a predator older than most countries, let alone the city he finds himself in in this century, smiles without humor. A smile that exposes the sharp, white teeth that lightly gleaming as he salivates at the thought of tonight's hunt.

"Indeed," he says.

"Indeed."

If it does not surprise you, lowly readers, that my kind roam these lands, then you certainly would not find it unusual that we tend to stick around for quite some time. I am no exception to this fact and to be completely frank, we have been around for just as long as the rest of you, maybe a fraction younger than your own kind, but we do certainly have some perks of which you could only dream of.

However, it can be quite a boring life. It was much easier a few centuries ago, that I can assure you. No one really paid us much attention, well some of you did, but luckily for us those who noticed were shunned enough to keep away the prying eyes to our doings and what have you. One could easily find prey in the earlier centuries, vagrants and ne'er-do-wells were quite easy to come by when your species was young.

A quick side note, I never really enjoyed separating us by species. I am not ignorant to the fact that we are different enough to make such a distinction, just that without you, we wouldn't be enjoying this life we have grown accustomed to. Anyway, enough of that.

No one so much as even realized, let alone cared that such downtrodden individuals would end up dead or butchered, stuffed in some back alley or left to bleed and fester in the heart of towns and cities. But you have become more vigilant to such happenings. As we power through this chunk of the 21st century that we find ourselves in, we have noticed that you have grown...granted, not by a huge margin, but grown nevertheless. We have a vested interest in such growth, you are much more plentiful these days, a good comparison may be those awfully branded, pick and choose sweet shops you have strewn about the place. And as we all know, vampires and humans alike, such abundance can certainly lead to gluttony, and it affects our society as much as your own, albeit much differently.

Now, you may be asking, "why is this godforsaken creature telling me all this?" Well, firstly, 'godforsaken' is a bit harsh don't you think? Look at some of you. And secondly, well, my usual methods have begun birthing some intriguing and unprecedented results. Now, we all know the problems you have had through your existence, the earliest being murder, then came drugs and the like, you even recently had that near catastrophic illness pluageing you for a while. You do have my sympathies, we may not get sick like you but my lord did it become challenging for us to feed, that's I can tell you. At least, however, you have those order to door people rushing about. I urge you to attempt to order blood by the gallon through those things. But, I digress, where we were.

Oh yes, I am not so inclined to hunt any prey I see, I am a bit more selective. Alot of us, too many quite frankly, still hold onto the false benefit of virgin blood and all that nonsense. There is not significant a difference between restaurant and store bought wine, honestly. Me? I have gone through the decades killing those who you deem to be deserving, not because of any form of love or obligation but simply because you don't care. If those who kill and profit of the misery of other dies, you celebrate it. If you do not believe me, what happened to The Ripper of London? Anybody? No? Well, let's just say there is a reason they didn't catch him. Also fun fact, his name certainly want not 'Jack' in fact...no, hold on, what is it you say these days? "No spoilers"?

Well, in the last few decades, you seem to care a bit more. So much so, you have taken notice to these criminals missing or showing up dead. For years our modern exploits have been successfully turned in to simple forms of media to cover the sent, that 'Blade' fellow was based on quite the annoying hunter from a few decades ago, thank the Lord that didn't get out in any significant way. Now, my methods are going unnoticed no more. The nosiest of you have seen patterns, the holes I leave are becoming a sort of 'calling card' and as a result I have become a new form of legend or myth these days. Not dissimilar to those you find in comic book publications and the utter void of creativity that Hollywood has become recently. And if I am perfectly honest. I quite enjoy it. For the first time in my life I can temporarily stop hiding. Now, don't be stupid, I am certainly not going to drop the charade of my kind being nothing more but stories you tell children, but it is quite freeing.

You see, after 'Jackie-boy" I grew fond of London. I see that it has become cleaner and smarter compared to the days of dear old Vicky, but London still reeks of those you hold in low regard. Your authorities don't seem to be doing much to prevent them from springing up so I will happily get some lunch on the way home from a night on the town. So, keep up the bad work 'Bobbies', I do appreciate it so.

You know, your older generation can't really get there head around the new do-dads and attention draining technology you come up with, but it certainly is an amusing concept. You should see the fans I have. Unfortunately some of them I see pushing the envelope of fandom as it were so they tend to make it on my proverbial shopping list.

Now, I must go, frankly I have spent a little too much time writing this, some cartel bastards are making their way into town in a few hours and I am peckish. Stay vile, humans, it makes my life easy, and your lives that little bit longer. And if you are vile, well...I wish you luck, because the word has gotten out about how well this is going, a movement is starting. I just hope they don't ruin it, I have a good thing going here and anything that has the attention of my European brothers, it is sure to get messy.

Take a look at this. See if we can convince Harry to expand the menu-- J.

Dark Secret Behind Leesburg's Happy Streets

By Kelly Hu

Everyone has a home in Leesburg. It's town you'v likely never heard of. Just at the base of the Rocky Mountains. It also has the lowest rates of homelessness in the country.

It was not always this way. Walk around Leesburg and you'll see the remnants of Leesburg's recent past; abandoned tent cities, piles of cardboard, used needles, run through the city like veins. Yet Leesburg proudly proclaims itself as having "The Happiest Streets in America."

Look at this tweet from Leesburg Police Spokesperson Jennifer Warner-Scott proclaiming "another day making sure our #HappyStreets stay happy! :police: :policebadge: :tongueout:". The photo shows an abandoned tent city, once home to thousand of unhoused people who have all seemingly disappeared.

It would be a mystery, were it not for the 15th century Wallachian castle that is now occupying an entire city block, and the proud owner inside: Handric "Harry" Charesciu, community activist and vampire.

While the Leesburg PD would not answer any of Clackson's inquiries, Harry Charesciu was more than happy to speak with us.

He wears no cape, but a Patagonia weather breaker. If you met him on the street, you would take him for any work-from-home tech bro, with the exception of his scarlet eyes and prominent fangs. He says he moved to the United States for the healthcare, which he claims as "second to none in the world".

Unlike stereotypical depictions of vampires as decrepit and blood-thirsty aristocrats, Harry Charesciu presents himself as a "freelance public servant looking to use his unique talents to improve his community."

"It's a wonderful arrangement," Harry said in an interview with us. "The people of Leesburg have been just incredible. It is a far more welcoming environment for people with my condition. Here I am seen as a credit to community, not some monster to be feared. Believe me when I say that there is plenty of support for what I do."

That support does not extend to the family and friends who have mysteriously disappeared on Leesburg's streets.

Frank Yellin has recently brought a lawsuit against the Leesburg PD on behalf of his brother Dean, who was diagnosed with schizophrenia at age 14 and has lived on the streets for thirty years.

"We tried everything," Frank said. "We tried finding doctors, we tried getting him medicine...but it wasn't ever enough and he never could live in the house. So we just checked on him while we could until one day...one day he was gone."

Frank believes that Leesburg's mysterious "community activist" is to blame.

"Dean said to me, the last time I saw him, 'Frank, there's something drinking me at night. Sucking my soul up like a milkshake.' I went to go pick him up one day at his favorite spot and...he'd just been left out there, shriveled up like...and I'd only seen him the day before."

The Leesburg Police Department did not immediately return our request for comment. They later put out a statement that said, "We are committed and remain committed to using all the tools and resources available to support Leesburg's Happy Streets program, and are unable to comment on ongoing suits or legal action."

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"Why the hell didn't you tell me this is what would happen?"

"Calm down. I'd tell you to breathe, but neither of us need to."

"You don't know what it is like? I was just so hungry, and-" The 'Friendly Neighborhood Dracula' exclaimed.

"There is a reason why I didn't want you to go out and hunt. There are plenty of people who would prefer to be a walking blood bag as long as you don't drink them dry. It is a very, very weird subculture but somebody got impatient." I snapped while staring at the frantic little vampire. "You had plenty to drink when you were with the others, why did you come to Detroit? And also, how?"

The vampire paused and looked back at me. I would've said he went paler, but...

"What. Did. You. Do?" I snarl as I stride towards him.

"Cruise ship. Slipped on-board and I did get thirsty, but the woman I drank was going to poison her husband on the ship and sue the company. She lasted me the trip." The vampire explained meekly.

Grabbing him by his shirt, I hoisted him up in the air with one arm showing off how little effort it takes for me to accomplish that feat.

"Name of your victim. If I find proof that you were wrong." I can feel him shudder in fear. i am very grateful vampires do not need to urinate as I am positive there would've been a puddle of liquid fear.

"Karla Gregson. Email and internet search history have the proof, she even used her husband's credit card and forged the suicide note." My handler answered immediately.

As I tried to figure out how they got the information that fast, they continued. "The Day shift handler got a parcel from one of your network contacts. The contact checked the contents of the envelope, figured that you would need this and sent it to one of your day shift handlers. They made copies for the other handlers as we didn't know when Morbius would get caught."

I lowered the vampire down gently and let go.

"It felt good, protecting an innocent person. As Vampires we don't normally get that opportunity, especially when you have us in a secure facility, and we are grateful you stepped in when you did, but it has been centuries. As an Immortal, you would understand the need to travel and speak with a non-immortal from time to time."

"My network was there to facilitate that. What is this about?" I ask, my curiosity replacing my fury.

"I got into some of those manga and comic books and were told you were starting to make moves to let the world know you exist, and I thought maybe we could too."

"Like that vampire TV show, with the synthetic blood?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"And when those religious zealots and inquisitors discover that you don't have as many weaknesses because you are all over a century old, what would they do then? When they find out that crosses don't work, same with holy ground, and thresholds were imposed by Mother, what do you think they would do...? I was planning on bringing you with me, once I had established credibility with society at large, and didn't have to fend of governments because of what my blood is capable of. Ogres, therianthropes, and all the other supernatural creatures that could fit in safely into a city I guided and protected, that was part of my plan. And you..."

The not so confident Morbius shifted his foot back during my tirade. I am one of the few beings that could easily go toe to toe with any of the surviving vampires with disturbing ease, and I was getting worked up that I missed it.

"You wanted to be a hero, well anti-hero. Protect the citizens while eliminating the threats against them, often with violent or lethal methods."

He nodded sheepishly.

"Dougal McNally. I am sorry for getting worked up. It is just there are so many things to keep track of, that I struggle with it and I don't need to sleep and use that time to catch up on everything else. There are so many..."

I sigh deeply. "You only wanted to help, and I assume my handlers are guiding you to targets?"

Dougal nodded sheepishly.

"Fine, we can find you a base of operations in Detroit and the handlers will feed you intel. As long as it is just-"

"One of the lycan therians are here too." Dougal whimpered. "Last year, three of his tribe were killed and skinned. He tracked the thing to Detroit."

"Thing? What thing?" I ask softly.

"Yautja."

[removed]