Great. Yet Another Supernatural Smackdown.
There I was on Tuesday, kind readers, awash in delirious celebration over the fact that this blog, barely four years old, had just notched its fifth subscriber, when it all came crashing down around me. No sooner had I rented a Big Wheel to cruise around the campus of Dick’s Notch Community College proclaiming the blog’s success through my friend Eppy’s bullhorn when the IP address of that fated fifth subscriber became visible to my horrified eyes---and when this data was coupled with the emerging patron’s screen name, the awful truth was revealed: my newest fan was Blacula.
Blacula. The very name conjured up waking nightmares of brain-squishing terror. Like everyone else I foolishly believed that the dark vampire once known as Prince Mamuwalde, who came from Africa to America hidden in an antique coffin accidentally purchased by two gay interior decorators in swinging 70s San Francisco, had died on that downtown rooftop after intentionally exposing himself to the dawn’s early light, his mighty evil heart broken by the death of his beloved Tina. Such a fool I was---we all were---to believe that his maggot-devoured bones would lie still for all eternity!
I recovered my senses quickly (rapid sense recovery after a sudden psychological blow is one of my untrumpeted strengths) and yesterday I went over my options. They seem to be these:
1) Do nothing. I can continue to blog as usual, keeping an eye open for any comments Blacula might leave on it which might provide a clue as to his intentions and/or whereabouts. I could slowly look for an opening which might allow me to sneak a message to the authorities, and perhaps my information could assist them in finding and destroying He Who Walks By Night. But would a foe as savvy as Blacula reveal his dastardly schemes in my blog comments box so easily? I know Charlie Sheen did, but to expect lightning to strike twice---madness.
2) Confront the monster myself. A risky, desperate, and foolhardy plan, to be sure---but how can I not feel that even now, someone’s life is in danger while I continue to selfishly share my thoughts and feelings in electronic diary form? If I don’t attempt to draw Blacula out in some way---perhaps by blogging about efficient methods of garlic dispersal or offering relationship advice to the small percentage of my audience who possess three or more castle-bound brides of darkness---he will undoubtedly keep killing, and my conscience cannot allow this. Or can it?
3) Ratchet up the American Idol jokes. I was planning on doing this anyway, and it might provide my tortured, frightened mind with a valuable bulwark against inevitable thoughts of vampiristic doom.
Above all, I must keep calm, and I must also avoid any friend request that Blacula might send me on Facebook. Looks like he needs all the help he can get in that area. He’s got a lousy 18 friends and it looks like he’s been spending most of his time messing around with Farmville. Could it be that the relentless time demands of social media, and not the cold-blooded wooden stake, will spell his ultimate demise? Looks like he’s still got the ‘stache working, though. Let’s face it, that thing’s been carrying his career for the last 150 years.