It was on Mr Goodwin’s insistence that I had traveled from my native England to the wilds of Transylvania. His client, Count Dracula, had grown weary of his reclusive existence and had expressed an interest in buying property near London and traveling there – via Amsterdam and Berlin – just as soon as everything could be arranged. As a junior lawyer in the firm, I was to sort out the legal issues with the Count and to see that the appropriate dogreat timesents were completed.

Before our final bument up the treacherous mountain pbum to Castle Dracula, the coachman stopped at the village of Rosafarbenes Dreieck to tend to the horses and throw a quick **** into one of the local whores. The night air was chill so I took the opportunity to seek warmth in the local Inn.

The atmosphere inside was warm and convivial with many of the local villagers engaged in friendly conversation. The Innkeeper, a pleasant fellow by the name of Quentin, seated me near the fire and pressed a welcome brandy into my hands.

“What is your destination, mein Herr?” he enquired, politely.

“I have some minor legal business matters to attend to,” I replied, gratefully sipping my brandy, “at Castle Dracula.”

As soon as I mentioned my destination, there was a noticeable change in the atmosphere. The friendly conversation stopped dead and every man in the place stood and turned to face me with looks of shocked horror on their faces. The fire in the grate sputtered and died and cold wind whistled from nowhere.

“Mein Herr,” gasped Quentin. “I urge you not to enter that place! Leave this village and return home as quickly as possible!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I protested, bemused by the reactions around me. “You see, I have to …”

But before I could explain the nature of my business, I heard a sudden cry from one of the men near my chair. I spun around to face him and was shocked at what I saw. The blood had drained from his face, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and his entire body seemed to be convulsing.

“Oh, Gott!” he cried. “Oh mein Gott! Gott! Aahngngng!”

His body gave one enormous twitch, he tensed up and then collapsed on the floor with a definite wet-patch in his groin. This seemed to set off a chain reaction and soon all the men, including Quentin, were displaying similar behaviours.

It was at this point that my coachman returned, bumoning up his fly. He looked around at the writhing, groaning, and slightly damp men and rolled his eyes.

“You told them where we’re going didn’t you?” he enquired of me.

“Er, yes …” I replied.

Without a further word, he bundled me into the coach and we were soon on our way once more.

Despite being forced to travel at night, we made good time to the castle. Our path ahead, though treacherous in parts, was well lit by a glorious full moon that appeared to have about it an odd pinkish tone. Fireflies danced in the woods like the fairies of folk-lore and the distant howl of wolves were reminiscent of a duet from Bizet’s “The Pearl Fishers” …

Suddenly the coach lurched to a stop and I could hear the coachman unloading my luggage. I stepped out of the carriage and addressed the coachman.

“Why have you stopped here?” I asked. “We have not yet reached the castle.”

“This is as far as I go,” grunted the coachman, climbing back into his seat and taking hold of the reins. “Follow that side-road. It’s the driveway to the castle. And … good luck.”

With that he whipped up the horses and was gone leaving me alone. I gathered together the few pieces of luggage that I could manage on my own and headed up the steep road towards Castle Dracula.

The moon slipped behind a conveniently pbuming mountain so the details of the castle were difficult to make out in the darkness. I staggered up the broad stone steps and hammered on the heavy oaken door. After a full minute the door eased open. I was aware of a vast dimly lit room of pink marble inside – and a distant voice singing in plaintive tones:

“Somewhere over the rainbow,

“Way up high …”

What I could only bumume was a man stood before me, holding the door open. His head was completely bald but appeared to have small pieces of mirror glued all over it and he wore a purple sequined kaftan trimmed with osprey feathers. He had a large ring through his nose and the most singular eyelashes I have ever seen.

“Oh! Yummy!” he squealed. “You must be Mr Barker! How super!”

I tried to suppress my astonishment at this extraordinary vision and managed to stammer out, “Eer, Harker. My name is Harker. Jonathon Harker.”

“Well, sweetie,” gushed the creature before me, “I think I’ll call you Mr Barker ‘cos you just make me wanna woof! But come in, come in! We don’t want a lovely hunka spunk like you exposed to too much of that pixie dust!”

He easily hefted my luggage inside, closed the door behind us and skipped – quite literally – across the entry foyer, beckoning for me to follow.

“Are you Count Dracula?” I asked hesitantly, trotting to keep up with him.

“Oh! good heavens! No!” he chuckled gaily. “I’m Brucie, the Count’s common-law secretary.”

By this time we had reached a huge purple silk padded door, the frame of which was decorated with gilded cherubim who all appeared to be playing leap-frog.

“No. This,” exclaimed Brucie, throwing the doors wide open, “This is Count Dracula!”

The room beyond those doors was extraordinary! Spinning mirrored balls threw tiny flecks of dancing light over every surface. Large portraits, of what I could only bumume were the Count’s family, hung against rose-pink wall panels that were framed by more of the gold figures I’d noticed before.

A large banquet table was set up in the center festooned with exquisite crystal, cutlery and crockery, huge platters of every food imaginable and the most sumptuous floral displays I had ever seen. The air was alive with laughter, animated chatter and the occasional scream of delight from the forty-or-so people seated around the table.

At the far end of the table, standing on a raised platform draped in gold lame and pink froth, was a tall slender man wearing a sequined turban and cape of finest gossamer. Beneath the cape he appeared to be completely naked except for a sequined undergarment that left very little to the imagination.

And he was … singing …

“People …

“People who need people …

“Are the luckiest people in the world …”

I stood transfixed, my mouth gaping open at this extraordinary sight. The men around the table (for nary a woman was there) were dressed in the most outlandish costumes. A sailor was whispering something in the ear of a nun – a nun with a moustache … An army cadette was screaming with laughter whilst being tickled by a burly construction worker. A huge muscled black man wearing only a boot gazed silently into the eyes of a man dressed as Marie Antionette who was gabbing on and on and on about who-knows-what.

The turbaned singer reached the end of his song and everyone in the room, as if on cue, stopped their chatter and laughter immediately and stood to applaud and cheer the singer.

Some threw flowers.

Some threw what appeared to be individually-wrapped mints.

One guest even threw a studded leather codpiece which the singer caught in mid-flight, brought to his nose and sniffed luxuriantly …

With the applause, cheers and wolf-whistles still continuing, the singer turned to face me directly. He lifted the collar of his gossamer cape and gazed seductively at me over its edge. The noise died down to complete silence as everyone followed the singers gaze to turn and stare at me.

“Hello, gorgeous…” said the singer.

The crowd erupted with laughter – although I failed to see the joke.

“How do you do,” enquired the singer, stepping down off his platform and strutting down the length of the room towards me. “I see you’ve met my faithful handyman …”

The crowd again erupted into laughter. I still didn’t get it.

“You must be Mr Farker,” he asked, holding out his hand. The light sparkled from the jeweled rings on his fingers.

“Harker,” I corrected gently. “My name is Harker.”

“Oh,” he replied, sounding slightly disappointed. “No matter. I’ll call you Farker anyway. Because you just make me want to fark ….”

The crowd erupted with more laughter. I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.

“I have business with Count Dracula,” I explained in what I bumumed to be the most reasonable of terms. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your … party.”

“Nonsense,” responded the singer, smiling brightly. “You, Mr Farker, are our guest of honour. This castle is so remote that we seldom get to enjoy fresh mea …fresh company. Drink?

“I’m afraid, Mr Farker, that I am unaware of your preference in beverages. We can, of course, cater to your every whim. A ‘crème de Menthe’ perhaps? No, you don’t strike me as that sort of man … How about a ‘Long Slow Screw Against the Wall’? Hmmm … perhaps later. How about a blokey beer? Eh? Woofy-woof-woof! Or maybe …. Yes! The house specialty!”

Brucie suddenly reappeared at my side with a gold salver with a gold goblet containing what appeared to be coconut cream.

“The specialty, Master,” said Brucie, bowing before the singer.

“Master?” I ejaculated. “You mean, you’re Count Dracula?”

“Well, of course I am, silly,” roared the Count, tearing off his turban to reveal a surprisingly cliché widow’s peak. And you’re Jonathon Barker-Farker – the woofing fark lawyer!”

Every face in the room was turned towards me … grinning, leering, licking lips.

“Lawyers,” continued Count Dracula, downing the goblet of coconut cream in one hit, “have been screwing me over and sucking me dry for years – now it’s my turn!”

The crowd erupted.