Ingnatius Fruitfly, a fearless vampire of many years standing had undergone a collapse of confidence after a botched visit to the dentist closed off the feeding tube in his upper right fang, rendering simple nourishment a thing of a past, and exposing him to that jostling ridicule which all Vampires and their Vampireens knows sheds an unpleasing quantity of daylight into their life.
Thus it was, that in his now lonely and solitary fashion, he had taken to selecting his victims and eating, or shall we say drinking alone. Inside the bedroom of an apparently delectable lady, still significantly under eighty years old, he approached the bed, and disregarding normal courtesies on account of his raging hunger, lifted up her head and sunk his teeth into her sweetly exposed and delectable neck.
There was a strange popping sound and his mouth was filled with an unpleasant and even slightly plasticy smell as his hapless victim deflated in his arms. While he was still trying to make sense of events, he felt a sharp blow on the back of his head. Obviously the blow could not harm a being of his advanced immortality, but it injured his pride and he turned on his assailant to exact a terrifying revenge. There she was, this beguiling lady, dressed in some overcoat and with a smart pair of walking boots covering her feet.
Without a second’s delay she held a picture of Justine Bieber before him till he was forced screaming to his knees. “Thought one of you lot might be popping in” she said, “On account of the full moon. There are a couple of tins of blood in the larder which you can drink if you want, either cold or heat it in the microwave”
Broken, ashamed and still disorientated by that grinning visage which she had foisted on his sight, he returned to her room with his bowl of broth so he could apologise more fulsomely while he had his meal.
“Now” she said, “You can sleep in the cellar if you like. Don’t try and escape because the Biebometer is monitoring your movements and will play a hideous soundtrack if you dare to leave the room. You will find a manual on lawnmower repairs beside your bed, and the broken lawnmower beside it. Mend it and you will be free to leave, fail and I shall sing to you myself. “Without a word poor Ignatius vanished to his new lair.