The camera flickers on.



















The ass-end of a strip mall.

















A van's parked crooked as fuck, with a sign reading:

























Micheal Graves is lounging in the open side door like he's king of this shitheap empire.

He's got coolers crammed full of blood bags sitting in front of him.

Oh, and he's eating one of the gift cards.


"Mmmph. Fuck yeah, that's the stuff. Everyone's always told me how I'm fuckin' worthless—well I look to be worth at least ten-bucks now!"


"Who's up, you blood-thirsty bastards?"

Gravy hops to his feet and begins marketing his product like a seasoned carney.

"Fresh plasma, yanked straight from the vein—no questions, no refunds, no guarantee that you don't catch somethin' they ain't even discovered!

Twenty bucks scores ya a bag of the good stuff—AND–the chance to see a real life vampire get his fangs shoved up his dick hole for free!"

As a ragtag group of Hot Topic rejects shuffle past.

First one's a scrawny goth chick with purple streaks, septum theory type shit. She sniffs the air, mutters "he smells like ass," and bails on Gravy faster than his last blind date.

Graves flips her the bird.

"Your loss, DUMMY! Next!"

Next guy's a chubby dude in a black hoodie with long chains hanging down his pants.

"Is this even real blood?"

Graves eyes narrow.

"Real as your mom's regrets, fatboy. Step up or step off, I ain't got no time for window shoppers!"

Chubby bails too, muttering something about "health codes." A couple more posers cycle through whining about Graves "looking shady as fuck".

Graves waves 'em off with disgust.

"Go suck on your mom's titty milk, ya crybabies!"

Finally, this twiggy fucker in a zipped-up hoodie slaps down a crumpled ten, snags a bag without a word, jams a neon crazy straw right into it, and slurps like it's the elixir of the gods.

WEIRD FUCKER: "Holy shit, man. This is fire... Like... it burns going down..."

Weird fucker ends up in a coughing fit.

"That's my secret additive, Frank's finest Red-Hot. I mix it in 70/30."

Vlad sucks down some more.

"Huh, you really like it? Say, what's your name, kid?"

WF: "Real name is Steve, but my vampire name is Vlad!"

Gravy's (peoples) Eyebrow: Activates!

"Vlad, Steve—or whatever the fuck ya call yourself when ya ain't playin' dress-up—pull up a crate and sit your bony ass down. Most of these LARPin' losers dip before the heat kicks in, but you? You can take the burn. You embrace the pain. That's the kinda customer I can respect... hell... maybe enough to even share a chew with!?"

Graves rips open another gift card—


—And offers one to Vlad.

VLAD: "Yo, microplastics, dude. That's bad news for your guts, probably gonna fuck ya up from the inside."

"My insides are already fucked, Stevie-boy. Besides, what you're sipping on is 100% grade A Gravy-Juice—and that's probably worst for your health than diving head first into molten plastic.

VLAD: "Why in the world would anyone do that?"

Long pause.

"I thought it was a kiddie pool...

Uh... Speakin' of diving into the unknown..."

Graves leans in close.

"That brings me to you, Dollar-Store Dracula.

Six matches.

That’s your whole run?

You've had six fuckin' meals and now you’re out here struttin’ around like you're the apex predator, when all you really did was survive the night.

Six!?

My left nut’s been through more wars than that, and it still drops harder than your whole run.

I’ve bled more in one night than you’ve tasted your whole career—fuck—maybe(un)life?

I’ve wrestled so many matches my brain stopped filing the trauma after concussion number twelve.

And that’s not braggin’.

It’s battle-tested fuckin' mileage!

And you?

You’re walkin’ around with that belt like you did somethin’ impressive.

You didn’t earn that thing.

You didn’t even win the match that got it handed to you.

You almost mattered.

Right now that belt doesn't mean shit except that you were good enough.

You're not champion because you’re inevitable.

No sir...

You're champion because I wasn’t there.

Because the hole I left started stinkin’ and somebody backstage panicked and needed a lid.

So they grabbed you.

Available.

Safe.

Photogenic.

Congratulations.

You filled a vacancy.

And I can tell you’re workin’ overtime to make that feel bigger than it is.

Red lights.

Pretty fangs.

Sexy pink shades.

Big talk about defenses to come.

Zero brand matches in three months.

You need the lights right.

The music right.

A whole ass production crew to scare people who already paid to be impressed.

I don’t.

I just need you in front of me.

That’s the difference.

I don’t need a reason to hurt people.

You need a reason to matter.

I could give a fuck less what people think. In fact, the worse the better.

But you? You're trying real hard to make this whole vibe.

You need the lighting guy to make your shadow look long.

I don’t even need a fuckin' shadow.

I’m already there.

Everything about you is built to be admired.

That’s why you can’t handle when it stops workin’.

I heard you like faces. Specifically your own."

He scoffs.

"Of course you do.

Faces are where people keep their pride.

Their identity.

Behind them lies their little ideas about control.

I don’t keep nothin’ important there.

That’s why you can’t scare me.

That’s why you can only annoy me.

Last time I was already hurt.

Already laughed at.

Already weighed down.

You waited.

And when you finally stepped up?

You ran outta cues the second I got close.

That’s what happens when you don’t stand by the things you almost said."

*TISK*TISK*

"So yeah…

Blood’s for sale.

But that belt?

That ain’t.

That’s comin’ home.

Vlad is dead—darkness.