An eerie October wind whispered through the maples that lined Stillwater Road, rattling what remained of their candy corn leaves. Night birds made woo-woo noises in the farm fields across the way, and a bunny screamed as it learned it was adopted. A fog was blowing into Willernie; an ephemeral velvet that muffled the hum of the occasional car and distorted the blue and brimstone neon of the gas station at the town’s edge.
Hetrosexual Baseball Cap Joe shoved the hard nozzle of the gas pump into the eager orifice of his 2007 Buick Skylark. The young man leaned back as the pump gushed fluid. The gas station was as familiar as his well-worn hoodie. Joe had visited it many times to buy gas, hang with his homeboys and pick up hoochies. Yet, distorted and muffled in the fog it was as alien to the young hetrosexual as a cashmere sweater.
"Cold as the devil t’night." An eerie voice observed from behind him.
Joe, not expecting a voice to come from behind as he pondered sweaters, spun around. A wiry old man stood at the pump behind him. He was truly unremarkable, with the exception of his spidery grey brows, his magnificent braided beard, and also his white socks. Which were super white.
"Yeah cold." Joe agreed, slightly embarrassed.
“I wouldn’t want to be living in them apartments up on Vanderhoff,” The old man laughed.
“Not with The Fog rolling in.”
"Yeah." Joe muttered. Wait, how did the old man know what appartments Joe lived in? “Out of curiosity, why not.”
The old man cackled. His wizened hand darted up to wipe some of the chaw juice staining his beard like bloody feces. Joe suddenly noticed that the old man was wearing a princess tiara and chewing tobacco. It was gross and Joe was glad he only smoked cigarettes, drank excessively, and snorted bleach. “You never heard ‘bout Him then?”
“‘Half the people I know are ‘hims.’” Joe snapped.
The old man nodded. "Thirteen years and thirteen years ago this night, Reg'nuld Braflofski wuz livin' up in that apartment. He was as blasphemously popular and successful as he was obese. Worked with his boyfriend Brian at the travel agency back, and ran a guild on th’ World of th’ Warcraft. Some say that it was in an epic PVP raid atop Mount Teatime that some rando called ol’ Reg ‘super gay.’”
“Gee,” said Joe. “An asshole on the net. Wow.”
The old man nodded sagely. “Some say that Reginald was so incensed by this casual homophobia that he made a pact with the dark powers, vowing to return to that apartment in thirteen years and thirteen days to get revenge. Some say he turned into a bat, and then fog! And then flew out the cold air return into the night!”
“Only some say that?” Asked Joe.
“Aye,” the old man nodded.
“What do others say?” Joe asked.
“That he shrugged it off,” the old man muttered. “And got a job at Jiffy Lube a few years later. In Minneapolis.”.
Joe shrugged. “Well, that makes more sense. I mean, thirteen years and thirteen days seems pretty arbitrary, and why would he go back to his old apartment? Did he think the internet rando was living there with him?”
“Don’t ye laugh at The Fog, boy! Don’t ye ever wonder why ye got that bachelor pad fer so cheap?” The Old Man asked. Joe suddenly recalled that he had, on multiple occasions, wondered just that. He also wondered why the lady at the office feigned epilepsy whenever he brought up the blood that leaking from the cable modem.
He looked back to confirm his bewonderment, and found with a start that the old man had disappeared into the foggy night. Perhaps he had been a figment of Joe’s imagination. Perhaps he had just driven off while Joe was standing around like an idiot.
"What took you so long, Joe-Joe?" Bambi Petumpki, Joe's cosmetologist girlfriend, asked as he started the vehicle.
"Nothin'." Joe said, driving off into the night. "Let's go back to my place and make out, puppy doll."
"Joe-Joe, I'm scared." She said. An ex-cheerleader, Bambi was blond, tan, and painted her toenails fungal green every Tuesdays. "Maybe it's just my feline intuition, but I feel like this fog is reaching out, Joey! Reaching out for you!”
“Ha,” Joe laughed. “That is silly nonsense, puppy muffins. Nonsense like the nonsense spouted by that old man I talked to that didn’t exist.”
"Joe-Joe," Bambi pleaded. She had a 2.6 GPA and liked Skittles. "Please, let's go back to my parent's house. You can talk to my dad about guns and things."
"C'mon babe!" Joe urged, "We can go back to my place, chug some brewskis, and, y'know, watch reruns of Will and Grace!"
Joe’s eyes went wide. Will and Grace? Not Duck Dynasty? Not The Sports? He had seen commercials for Will and Grace during halftime, maybe he’d been a little curious about the quirky humor, but he’d never outright said it. He was unsurprised at the sharp intake of breath from the seat beside him.
"You are not the Joe-Joe I know." Bambi sobbed, folding her arms over her ample bosom. This would ordinarily make him randy, but today it just made him think about how soft her cashmere sweater probably was.
"Drop me off here,” Bambi insisted. “I will walk home."
With a sigh, Joe pulled onto the shoulder. Bambi slammed the door, and stormed up Paddington Road towards her house. Joe shook his head and made the left towards his apartment building. The fog pooled about his ankles as he padded across the parking lot, and he tossed his keys and blazer on a chair as he slammed his apartment door. He was about to make himself a half caf skinny mocha red eye over ice, when he realized with a start that he had no idea what any of those things were.
Suddenly and without warning, Big Fat Rubbery Vampire Bat Reginald was flopping about in the sky. His radar penetrated the thick fog below, whispering of a young, straight man with a chest as hairless as a mole rat, a yellow baseball cap and a really greasy beard! With obese grace, Reginald swooped down to the young man’s patio and returned to fat vampire form. WOOSH!
His purple sequined cape was ravishing, his cankles were magnificent, and his rhinestone hot pants were the very essence of divine. OH YEAH!
Slowly he opened the door and crouched behind the clattery venetian blinds. CROUCH!
As Joe dipped his oblivious hand into a bag of straight Fritos, Reginald clandestinely slipped across the room and hid beside a sticky pile of girly magazines and pizza boxes. CARDAMOM!
As Joe changed the channel to The Sports, Reginald stealthily pranced in front of the TV screen, diving behind an Ikea floor lamp on the opposite side. TINKYWINKY!
"Vwa!" Big Fat Gay Vampire Reginald cried, pouncing ambiguously from his hiding place.
Joe lept from his butt groove in lanky heterosexual horror. "AIE! Is my heretofore unquestioned sexual orientation about to be compromised in some dastardly yet arousing erotica?"
"Yes!" Reginald hissed.
"No!" Cried Cap, "Sweet, Merciful Hetrosexual Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage no! No please no!"
"Shout all you like," Reginald said with a sneer. "In the fog no one will hear you! I know it was you Joe, or should I say capn_baseballcap_4da_ladies69!”
Joe gasped. “Phat_dracula_74?”
The vampire drew his cape over his triple chin beard “The same!”
“That was an epic raid, bro!”
Joe’s face lit up, while the vampire’s was as stolid as a plus-sized tombstone. “I was never the same after that internet comment. And soon... soon you shall never be the aame either!!"
“I was only ten!” Joe cried as the liche loomed forward, casting the young man in his beach ball shadow. “C’mon man! I was young and stupid!”
”You will not be the same,” the vampire continued, ”as I shall add you to my army of the fabulous undead, and together we shall go to the Gay 90’s! And sip suds! And dance to Prince! Thus you will be different, just as I was after that comment I didn’t like!”
“No!” Joe cried. “I want to go to TGI Fridays! And watch The Sports! And pick up hoochies!”
Reginald closed in slowly, scooping his victim up in an intimate embrace. His sausage fingers peeled off the eponymous baseball cap as the youth went limp, his rhinestone fangs brushed the youth’s throat. Joe felt the heady rush of blood as he surrendered control to the rotund immortal. Control, his soul, and his deepest inhibitions.
And then they had sex.
Hetrosexual Baseball Cap Joe shoved the hard nozzle of the gas pump into the eager orifice of his 2007 Buick Skylark. The young man leaned back as the pump gushed fluid. The gas station was as familiar as his well-worn hoodie. Joe had visited it many times to buy gas, hang with his homeboys and pick up hoochies. Yet, distorted and muffled in the fog it was as alien to the young hetrosexual as a cashmere sweater.
"Cold as the devil t’night." An eerie voice observed from behind him.
Joe, not expecting a voice to come from behind as he pondered sweaters, spun around. A wiry old man stood at the pump behind him. He was truly unremarkable, with the exception of his spidery grey brows, his magnificent braided beard, and also his white socks. Which were super white.
"Yeah cold." Joe agreed, slightly embarrassed.
“I wouldn’t want to be living in them apartments up on Vanderhoff,” The old man laughed.
“Not with The Fog rolling in.”
"Yeah." Joe muttered. Wait, how did the old man know what appartments Joe lived in? “Out of curiosity, why not.”
The old man cackled. His wizened hand darted up to wipe some of the chaw juice staining his beard like bloody feces. Joe suddenly noticed that the old man was wearing a princess tiara and chewing tobacco. It was gross and Joe was glad he only smoked cigarettes, drank excessively, and snorted bleach. “You never heard ‘bout Him then?”
“‘Half the people I know are ‘hims.’” Joe snapped.
The old man nodded. "Thirteen years and thirteen years ago this night, Reg'nuld Braflofski wuz livin' up in that apartment. He was as blasphemously popular and successful as he was obese. Worked with his boyfriend Brian at the travel agency back, and ran a guild on th’ World of th’ Warcraft. Some say that it was in an epic PVP raid atop Mount Teatime that some rando called ol’ Reg ‘super gay.’”
“Gee,” said Joe. “An asshole on the net. Wow.”
The old man nodded sagely. “Some say that Reginald was so incensed by this casual homophobia that he made a pact with the dark powers, vowing to return to that apartment in thirteen years and thirteen days to get revenge. Some say he turned into a bat, and then fog! And then flew out the cold air return into the night!”
“Only some say that?” Asked Joe.
“Aye,” the old man nodded.
“What do others say?” Joe asked.
“That he shrugged it off,” the old man muttered. “And got a job at Jiffy Lube a few years later. In Minneapolis.”.
Joe shrugged. “Well, that makes more sense. I mean, thirteen years and thirteen days seems pretty arbitrary, and why would he go back to his old apartment? Did he think the internet rando was living there with him?”
“Don’t ye laugh at The Fog, boy! Don’t ye ever wonder why ye got that bachelor pad fer so cheap?” The Old Man asked. Joe suddenly recalled that he had, on multiple occasions, wondered just that. He also wondered why the lady at the office feigned epilepsy whenever he brought up the blood that leaking from the cable modem.
He looked back to confirm his bewonderment, and found with a start that the old man had disappeared into the foggy night. Perhaps he had been a figment of Joe’s imagination. Perhaps he had just driven off while Joe was standing around like an idiot.
"What took you so long, Joe-Joe?" Bambi Petumpki, Joe's cosmetologist girlfriend, asked as he started the vehicle.
"Nothin'." Joe said, driving off into the night. "Let's go back to my place and make out, puppy doll."
"Joe-Joe, I'm scared." She said. An ex-cheerleader, Bambi was blond, tan, and painted her toenails fungal green every Tuesdays. "Maybe it's just my feline intuition, but I feel like this fog is reaching out, Joey! Reaching out for you!”
“Ha,” Joe laughed. “That is silly nonsense, puppy muffins. Nonsense like the nonsense spouted by that old man I talked to that didn’t exist.”
"Joe-Joe," Bambi pleaded. She had a 2.6 GPA and liked Skittles. "Please, let's go back to my parent's house. You can talk to my dad about guns and things."
"C'mon babe!" Joe urged, "We can go back to my place, chug some brewskis, and, y'know, watch reruns of Will and Grace!"
Joe’s eyes went wide. Will and Grace? Not Duck Dynasty? Not The Sports? He had seen commercials for Will and Grace during halftime, maybe he’d been a little curious about the quirky humor, but he’d never outright said it. He was unsurprised at the sharp intake of breath from the seat beside him.
"You are not the Joe-Joe I know." Bambi sobbed, folding her arms over her ample bosom. This would ordinarily make him randy, but today it just made him think about how soft her cashmere sweater probably was.
"Drop me off here,” Bambi insisted. “I will walk home."
With a sigh, Joe pulled onto the shoulder. Bambi slammed the door, and stormed up Paddington Road towards her house. Joe shook his head and made the left towards his apartment building. The fog pooled about his ankles as he padded across the parking lot, and he tossed his keys and blazer on a chair as he slammed his apartment door. He was about to make himself a half caf skinny mocha red eye over ice, when he realized with a start that he had no idea what any of those things were.
Suddenly and without warning, Big Fat Rubbery Vampire Bat Reginald was flopping about in the sky. His radar penetrated the thick fog below, whispering of a young, straight man with a chest as hairless as a mole rat, a yellow baseball cap and a really greasy beard! With obese grace, Reginald swooped down to the young man’s patio and returned to fat vampire form. WOOSH!
His purple sequined cape was ravishing, his cankles were magnificent, and his rhinestone hot pants were the very essence of divine. OH YEAH!
Slowly he opened the door and crouched behind the clattery venetian blinds. CROUCH!
As Joe dipped his oblivious hand into a bag of straight Fritos, Reginald clandestinely slipped across the room and hid beside a sticky pile of girly magazines and pizza boxes. CARDAMOM!
As Joe changed the channel to The Sports, Reginald stealthily pranced in front of the TV screen, diving behind an Ikea floor lamp on the opposite side. TINKYWINKY!
"Vwa!" Big Fat Gay Vampire Reginald cried, pouncing ambiguously from his hiding place.
Joe lept from his butt groove in lanky heterosexual horror. "AIE! Is my heretofore unquestioned sexual orientation about to be compromised in some dastardly yet arousing erotica?"
"Yes!" Reginald hissed.
"No!" Cried Cap, "Sweet, Merciful Hetrosexual Randy ‘Macho Man’ Savage no! No please no!"
"Shout all you like," Reginald said with a sneer. "In the fog no one will hear you! I know it was you Joe, or should I say capn_baseballcap_4da_ladies69!”
Joe gasped. “Phat_dracula_74?”
The vampire drew his cape over his triple chin beard “The same!”
“That was an epic raid, bro!”
Joe’s face lit up, while the vampire’s was as stolid as a plus-sized tombstone. “I was never the same after that internet comment. And soon... soon you shall never be the aame either!!"
“I was only ten!” Joe cried as the liche loomed forward, casting the young man in his beach ball shadow. “C’mon man! I was young and stupid!”
”You will not be the same,” the vampire continued, ”as I shall add you to my army of the fabulous undead, and together we shall go to the Gay 90’s! And sip suds! And dance to Prince! Thus you will be different, just as I was after that comment I didn’t like!”
“No!” Joe cried. “I want to go to TGI Fridays! And watch The Sports! And pick up hoochies!”
Reginald closed in slowly, scooping his victim up in an intimate embrace. His sausage fingers peeled off the eponymous baseball cap as the youth went limp, his rhinestone fangs brushed the youth’s throat. Joe felt the heady rush of blood as he surrendered control to the rotund immortal. Control, his soul, and his deepest inhibitions.
And then they had sex.
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