Bite Me, I'm Dracula!!

The thick velvet curtains, smelling faintly of dust and despair, parted with a theatrical flourish that even after centuries, still felt a little dramatic to Dracula.

He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sheer audacity of the afternoon sun.

It wasn't the searing, flesh-withering blaze of old, thanks to his latest UV blocking contact lenses and SPF 5000 (blood-infused, naturally), but it was bright enough to make him squint. He stepped out onto the cobbled street of Sighisoara, a faint sigh escaping his lips.

"Sunlight," he muttered, "the original reality show, only far less entertaining than 'Keeping Up with the Kardashians.'"

His immaculately tailored black coat, woven from the finest nightmare silk and a touch of organic cotton (for breathability, you understand), billowed around him.

A passing tourist, clad in an "I ❤️ Transylvania" t-shirt, snapped a photo.

Dracula resisted the urge to shimmer into a bat and relieve himself on the man's head. Such indignities were beneath him. Mostly.

"It wasn't always like this, Imre," he grumbled to his long-suffering, perpetually put-upon manservant, who was attempting to wrestle a selfie stick out of a particularly tenacious hedge. Imre, a man whose patience was clearly forged in the fires of eternal servitude, merely grunted.

"Remember the days, Imre?" Dracula continued, sweeping a hand through the air, nearly clocking a pigeon. "The terror! The abject, soul-crushing dread! A whisper of my name would send entire villages into fits of panic. Now? Now I'm a breakfast cereal mascot."

He pulled out his phone – a custom-made obsidian model with a bat-wing case – and scrolled through his Instagram feed. There, sandwiched between a picture of a cat playing a tiny piano and a recipe for kale smoothies, was an ad for "Count Chocula's Crispy Crypt Crunch." The horror. The unadulterated, saccharine horror.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed, shoving the phone under Imre's nose. "Chocolate-flavored cereal! And the audacity! They've given me a jaunty little cape! I haven't worn a jaunty little cape since 1476, and that was for a particularly ill-advised masquerade ball where I accidentally bit a duke."

Imre finally managed to disentangle the selfie stick. "Perhaps, my lord, if you were to embrace the modern age? Rebrand? 'Dracula: The Original Influencer'?"

Dracula recoiled as if struck by a silver cross dipped in holy water.

"Rebrand? Imre, I am Dracula! I am the night! I am the creeping dread that slithers into your nightmares! I am not, I repeat, not a lifestyle guru for artisanal blood sausages!"

He stalked past a souvenir shop, his gaze falling upon a rack of plastic fangs. They were bright white, perfectly symmetrical, and clearly made in a factory in Shenzhen.

He remembered his own fangs, honed over centuries on the jugulars of the unsuspecting, sharp as obsidian blades, capable of puncturing even the thickest chainmail.

These plastic abominations looked more suited for a toddler's Halloween costume than a creature of eternal darkness.

"They've defanged me, Imre," he lamented, his voice dripping with melodrama. "Figuratively, of course. My actual fangs are still quite capable. Last Tuesday, I accidentally bit a hole in my teacup while contemplating the existential angst of eternal life."

His attention was then caught by a particularly egregious t-shirt. It depicted a cartoonish bat wearing oversized sunglasses, with the caption: "Bite Me! I'm a Vampire."

"That's it," Dracula declared, his voice rising to a crescendo that made a nearby street performer drop his accordion. "I'm done. Stick a fork in me, Imre. I'm well and truly done."

Imre blinked. "Done with what, my lord? Immortality? Being the bane of humanity?"

"No, you dolt! Done with this charade! This mockery! They've turned fear into a marketable commodity! They've taken the very essence of my being and reduced it to a novelty item!" He gestured wildly at the offending t-shirt. "A novelty item that probably costs more than a decent plot of consecrated ground!"

He pointed a finger, long and elegant, at a group of teenagers posing for a selfie in front of a fake coffin.

"Look at them! Not a single shiver! Not even a nervous twitch! They think I'm a joke! A punchline! The last time I tried to instill fear, a young woman asked if I was doing 'method acting' for a TikTok."

Dracula slumped onto a nearby bench, the ancient wood groaning under his weight. He pulled a silver hip flask from his inner pocket and took a long swig.

It wasn't blood, of course. That would be uncivilized in broad daylight.

It was a rather potent blend of hibiscus tea and single-malt Scotch. For medicinal purposes, naturally.

"I remember the early days," he mused, a faraway look in his crimson eyes. "The screams, the desperate prayers, the hastily erected crucifixes made from splintered fence posts. Those were the days! Now, they ask for my autograph. My autograph, Imre! As if I'm some sort of B-list celebrity who endorses tooth whitening kits!"

Imre, ever the pragmatist, offered, "Perhaps you could pivot, my lord. Go into artisanal cheese making? You do have a rather impressive cellar for aging."

Dracula shuddered. "Imre, you know how I feel about dairy products. The curdling… it reminds me of certain historical events I'd rather not dwell upon."

He stood up abruptly, his cape swirling around him. "No! I shall not be relegated to the dusty annals of pop culture! I am Dracula! And I shall reclaim my fear!"

He strode purposefully towards the souvenir shop, a dangerous gleam in his eye. Imre, sensing impending chaos, sighed and hurried after him.

Inside, the shop was a cacophony of kitsch. Mini-coffins, bat-shaped keychains, glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth, and an alarming number of plush toy bats with googly eyes. The shop owner, a portly man with a perpetually tired expression, was struggling to restock a shelf of "Dracula's Deliciously Dark Chocolate Bites."

Dracula approached the counter, his presence casting a sudden, inexplicable chill over the cheerful atmosphere. The shop owner looked up, his eyes widening slightly.

"Good afternoon, sir," the owner said, attempting a polite smile. "Can I help you find anything… fang-tastic?" He chuckled weakly at his own pun.

Dracula leaned over the counter, his voice dropping to a low, menacing rumble that usually made strong men wet themselves.

"Yes," he hissed, "you can help me. You can help me understand why my image, my very essence, has been reduced to this… this sugary travesty!" He gestured dramatically at the chocolate bites. "Do you think for one moment that I, Vlad Tepes, Prince of Wallachia, Impaler of Thousands, drink chocolate milk? Do you think I'm concerned with my calcium intake?"

The shop owner, now genuinely unnerved, stammered, "Well, it's… it's for the tourists, sir. They like a bit of fun. A bit of… light-hearted horror."

"Light-hearted horror?" Dracula roared, his voice echoing through the small shop, causing a shelf of miniature gargoyles to tremble. "There is nothing light-hearted about eternal damnation! Nothing! And as for horror, let me tell you about a Tuesday in 1462 when I decided to redecorate my castle with the skulls of my enemies. That, my friend, was horror!"

A group of Japanese tourists, initially fascinated by what they assumed was a very convincing street performer, began to back away slowly, their selfie sticks forgotten.

Dracula, now thoroughly incensed, swept his arm across the counter, sending a cascade of plastic fangs, fake blood capsules, and "Bite Me" t-shirts clattering to the floor.

"This," he declared, holding aloft a particularly flimsy set of plastic fangs, "this is an insult! An abomination! A mockery of centuries of terror!" He crushed them in his hand with surprising force, bits of white plastic scattering like confetti.

The shop owner, pale as a ghost, muttered, "Sir, please, you're scaring the customers."

"Good!" Dracula thundered. "That's the idea! That is precisely the idea!" He turned his gaze, now blazing with righteous fury, upon the terrified tourists. "You want a show? I'll give you a show! You want fear? You shall have fear!"

He unfurled his cape, spreading it wide to reveal its inner lining, which shimmered with an unsettling, otherworldly glow. He then let out a shriek, ancient and primal, a sound that had once curdled blood and shattered sanity. It wasn't the refined, theatrical shriek of a stage Dracula; it was the raw, guttural cry of a creature of the night, full of malice and a deep-seated annoyance.

The effect was instantaneous. The tourists, who had been so nonchalant moments before, screamed. Not polite, surprised screams, but full-throated, panic-stricken shrieks. They tripped over each other, desperately trying to escape the shop. The street performer outside, hearing the commotion, packed up his accordion and fled.

Dracula watched them go, a grim satisfaction spreading across his face.

"Ah," he murmured, "that's more like it. A genuine, unadulterated shriek of terror. Almost brings a tear to my ancient eye."

Imre, who had taken refuge behind a display of Transylvanian jams, emerged cautiously.

"My lord," he said, surveying the wreckage of the shop, "I believe you've made your point."

"Indeed, Imre," Dracula said, dusting off his hands. "Perhaps a bit over the top, but one must occasionally remind humanity of its proper place. And my proper place is not on a breakfast cereal box."

The shop owner, still trembling, managed to gasp, "Get out! Get out of my shop! I'm calling the police!"

Dracula merely scoffed.

"Police? My dear man, I have survived crusades, witch hunts, and a particularly nasty encounter with a very determined garlic farmer. Do you truly believe a mere constable can deter me?" He paused. "Though, I must admit, I do find their hats rather fetching. Very symmetrical."

He surveyed the shattered plastic fangs and scattered merchandise.

"Consider this a… re-education, if you will. A gentle reminder that some things are best left untamed. Some legends are not meant to be diluted for mass consumption."

As he turned to leave, his gaze fell upon a small, dusty corner of the shop where a single, unassuming wooden stake lay. It looked old, worn, and distinctly uncommercialized. He picked it up, examining the rough-hewn wood.

"Now that," he mused, a faint smile touching his lips, "that has potential. Simple. Classic. Effective." He twirled it in his hand. "Perhaps I shall start my own line of… bespoke terror implements. Hand-carved. Ethically sourced wood. All-natural, fear-inducing properties."

Imre groaned. "My lord, please. No more business ventures."

"Nonsense, Imre!" Dracula declared, striding out of the devastated shop, the sunlight glinting off his perfectly coiffed hair. He felt a lightness he hadn't experienced in centuries. A purpose. "This time, we market to the purists. The connoisseurs of genuine dread! No cartoon bats. No chocolate. Just good, old-fashioned, blood-curdling fear!"

He stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, a renewed spring in his step. The tourists were still scattering like startled pigeons, and a siren wailed faintly in the distance. Dracula inhaled deeply, a faint smile on his lips. It was good to be feared again.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he’d send the shop owner a discount coupon for his new line of stakes.

After all, a little healthy competition never hurt anyone. Except, of course, those who found themselves on the wrong end of a well-crafted piece of wood.