A Different Count
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Just a pair of counts...
_____________________________________________________________________
It's good to be different. So good it's helped me to exist these many years with almost no chance of detection.
You know my cousin, my first cousin, better than you know me and rightly so. He's world famous, has been for many, many years and all because he's the black sheep of the family.
We're related by blood (he-he) but you'd be so wrong to compare us as anything alike except for one tiny detail, we both drink the stuff.
My name is Vascula, Count Vascula, but people round here know me as Mr Sell, Red Sell, my hair is the Reddy Blond of the Viking, don't ask me why.
I'm a successful businessman, single, heterosexual in a big way and never short of a pint or two of my favourite tipple. Did I mention I was good looking? You know my cousin doesn't show up in a mirror but I do, several in fact, I've been known to spend a little time gazing upon my reflection.
Allow me to run through a few more of the differences between cousin Dracula and my good self, this'll tickle you.
Silver? I prefer it to gold, all of my jewellery is of silver, my cousin cannot wear such accessories since it would seriously affect his health. Crucifixes, I have one or two on chains, no problem to me but I could tease Dracula mercilessly with one of those. Wooden stake through the heart? Can't comment for me there since no one but no one would wish to drive one through my heart, how many Vampires do you know can say that?
Garlic? I only eat it if the lady is eating it, I don't mind the smell but some people can't abide it. I think you know who I mean.
Get this! This one will blow you away. The light? Bring it on, I thrive on it, something to do with Albinos, genes and She Wolves. Isn't that just the craziest thing you've ever heard?
My cousin, the other Count, has to be in bed before dawn but not me, I come and go as I please, night or day.
There is one thing you can do for me and I feel confident enough to confide in you, it's hardly likely to trouble me ever again. Yak shit: Yak shit can burn the very flesh from my bones. I discovered this many years ago when I visited with a young shepherdess and the stuff burned holes into my knees. One minute I had my head up her skirts and the next she was bathing me with Yak's milk. I still bear the scars but you really have to look for them.
So there you have it, my Achilles' heel and the antidote, discovered by accident and within seconds of each other. I tell you I am sooooo different from my cousin, Count Dracula, wouldn't you agree?
In the one hundred and forty seven years since then I have only come close to Yak shit once, the very smell of it pains me and warns me. I was at the theatre with the girl who was to be the next young thing in the modelling world, and a Yak was led onto the stage. No one mentioned a fucking Yak either in the programme or in the various critiques I read. Nowhere among the cast list was mention made of a fucking Yak. I was out of there. No excuses nor by your leaves I was up and out of there, missing out on a taste of the next young thing. I tell myself it was no great loss, she had the laugh of a demented Hyena.
Over the years, and it's been something of a gradual thing, my tastes have altered slightly. Blood is blood is blood you might say but I'm something of an expert on the subject, my very being depends upon that. On first graduating as a Vampire through spending too much time with our Dracula, I experimented much as he did. I developed a taste for pussy and it's been said I have a 'special' tongue. This put me firmly where I most wanted to be, gorging myself on pussy juices as an aperitif until the lady was in the throes of orgasm, then turning my attentions to the creamy flesh of her inner thigh, delicious. So perfect when the blood is coursing through her body with such a velocity, warm and very, very satisfying.
I've tried the neck from all angles and there just isn't the same rush but then, show me a girl who doesn't like to be eaten and I'll show you a liar. Either that or I'll prove my point by demonstration.
My reputation spread. Not so quickly as that of Dracula but enough for me to take refuge in a convent for my own safety, I didn't yet know of the Yak shit allergy so I think I was correct in taking shelter.
They don't have to be virgins. Let's be fair, virgins are a bit thin on the ground these days. There I was in a nunnery and I swear not one intact hymen among them. Not unless the Abbess and her elderly sister had one between them, I didn't go there.
It's my eyes you see. I can hypnotize them to where they're submissive, gagging for it really and all the while aware of what's going on. There would be no point to it all otherwise. Imagine living forever and having no fun, no objective, how utterly boring would that be?
So, its the young ladies for me. Early twenties-ish to mid forties-ish, so long as the flesh is firm and tantalising.
For a long time I travelled the beaches of the Mediterranean and I'm sure that's where my tastes altered slightly. Blood from suntanned flesh has a distinctly different flavour to that which is covered up for most of the time. Tanned skin has that increase in temperature whereby I can sense the blood more readily, as appetising a repast as I could ever recommend. And the dark skinned girls? Whenever I've lit a fire under a dark skinned girl I have always dined on gourmet flesh, no question, a delicacy indeed.
Sadly, I don't come into contact with many dark skinned ladies in my present line of work. Light skinned females looking for a little colouring yes since I own a chain of tanning lounges and can cherry pick my girlfriends. They all want to look healthy and tanned for the holidays, the wedding or the gym and I'm here to be of any assistance I can be, that and more. I'll do two or three years in a town and move on to pastures new. Time means nothing to me but I do realize people would take notice if I didn't age, besides, I've usually exhausted all sources by then anyway.
You don't know me ladies, not until I introduce myself and by then you simply have to know me. If I'm not in your town at the moment I could well be soon, or perhaps a town near you.
I am the Count, Count Vascula, it will be so fine to meet with you and make your acquaintance.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Just a pair of counts...
_____________________________________________________________________
It's good to be different. So good it's helped me to exist these many years with almost no chance of detection.
You know my cousin, my first cousin, better than you know me and rightly so. He's world famous, has been for many, many years and all because he's the black sheep of the family.
We're related by blood (he-he) but you'd be so wrong to compare us as anything alike except for one tiny detail, we both drink the stuff.
My name is Vascula, Count Vascula, but people round here know me as Mr Sell, Red Sell, my hair is the Reddy Blond of the Viking, don't ask me why.
I'm a successful businessman, single, heterosexual in a big way and never short of a pint or two of my favourite tipple. Did I mention I was good looking? You know my cousin doesn't show up in a mirror but I do, several in fact, I've been known to spend a little time gazing upon my reflection.
Allow me to run through a few more of the differences between cousin Dracula and my good self, this'll tickle you.
Silver? I prefer it to gold, all of my jewellery is of silver, my cousin cannot wear such accessories since it would seriously affect his health. Crucifixes, I have one or two on chains, no problem to me but I could tease Dracula mercilessly with one of those. Wooden stake through the heart? Can't comment for me there since no one but no one would wish to drive one through my heart, how many Vampires do you know can say that?
Garlic? I only eat it if the lady is eating it, I don't mind the smell but some people can't abide it. I think you know who I mean.
Get this! This one will blow you away. The light? Bring it on, I thrive on it, something to do with Albinos, genes and She Wolves. Isn't that just the craziest thing you've ever heard?
My cousin, the other Count, has to be in bed before dawn but not me, I come and go as I please, night or day.
There is one thing you can do for me and I feel confident enough to confide in you, it's hardly likely to trouble me ever again. Yak shit: Yak shit can burn the very flesh from my bones. I discovered this many years ago when I visited with a young shepherdess and the stuff burned holes into my knees. One minute I had my head up her skirts and the next she was bathing me with Yak's milk. I still bear the scars but you really have to look for them.
So there you have it, my Achilles' heel and the antidote, discovered by accident and within seconds of each other. I tell you I am sooooo different from my cousin, Count Dracula, wouldn't you agree?
In the one hundred and forty seven years since then I have only come close to Yak shit once, the very smell of it pains me and warns me. I was at the theatre with the girl who was to be the next young thing in the modelling world, and a Yak was led onto the stage. No one mentioned a fucking Yak either in the programme or in the various critiques I read. Nowhere among the cast list was mention made of a fucking Yak. I was out of there. No excuses nor by your leaves I was up and out of there, missing out on a taste of the next young thing. I tell myself it was no great loss, she had the laugh of a demented Hyena.
Over the years, and it's been something of a gradual thing, my tastes have altered slightly. Blood is blood is blood you might say but I'm something of an expert on the subject, my very being depends upon that. On first graduating as a Vampire through spending too much time with our Dracula, I experimented much as he did. I developed a taste for pussy and it's been said I have a 'special' tongue. This put me firmly where I most wanted to be, gorging myself on pussy juices as an aperitif until the lady was in the throes of orgasm, then turning my attentions to the creamy flesh of her inner thigh, delicious. So perfect when the blood is coursing through her body with such a velocity, warm and very, very satisfying.
I've tried the neck from all angles and there just isn't the same rush but then, show me a girl who doesn't like to be eaten and I'll show you a liar. Either that or I'll prove my point by demonstration.
My reputation spread. Not so quickly as that of Dracula but enough for me to take refuge in a convent for my own safety, I didn't yet know of the Yak shit allergy so I think I was correct in taking shelter.
They don't have to be virgins. Let's be fair, virgins are a bit thin on the ground these days. There I was in a nunnery and I swear not one intact hymen among them. Not unless the Abbess and her elderly sister had one between them, I didn't go there.
It's my eyes you see. I can hypnotize them to where they're submissive, gagging for it really and all the while aware of what's going on. There would be no point to it all otherwise. Imagine living forever and having no fun, no objective, how utterly boring would that be?
So, its the young ladies for me. Early twenties-ish to mid forties-ish, so long as the flesh is firm and tantalising.
For a long time I travelled the beaches of the Mediterranean and I'm sure that's where my tastes altered slightly. Blood from suntanned flesh has a distinctly different flavour to that which is covered up for most of the time. Tanned skin has that increase in temperature whereby I can sense the blood more readily, as appetising a repast as I could ever recommend. And the dark skinned girls? Whenever I've lit a fire under a dark skinned girl I have always dined on gourmet flesh, no question, a delicacy indeed.
Sadly, I don't come into contact with many dark skinned ladies in my present line of work. Light skinned females looking for a little colouring yes since I own a chain of tanning lounges and can cherry pick my girlfriends. They all want to look healthy and tanned for the holidays, the wedding or the gym and I'm here to be of any assistance I can be, that and more. I'll do two or three years in a town and move on to pastures new. Time means nothing to me but I do realize people would take notice if I didn't age, besides, I've usually exhausted all sources by then anyway.
You don't know me ladies, not until I introduce myself and by then you simply have to know me. If I'm not in your town at the moment I could well be soon, or perhaps a town near you.
I am the Count, Count Vascula, it will be so fine to meet with you and make your acquaintance.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
 Larry Kynn |
 Dhu Lally & The Bampots |