“Why me?” Dracula asked himself under the moon. He rode a coffin levitated by 200 bats. Santa only worked in December, so why did he have to catch Covid? The North Pole had an outbreak, so the reindeer had to be quarantined. Luckily, all the elves were jabbed and did their best to get all Santa’s routes sorted, but Dracula had been summoned to do Romania. “I suppose I have to,” Dracula mumbled. “Christmas was meant to be a time of goodwill and kindness.”
Dracula always had headaches at Christmas with the artificial lights, tuneless choirs and senseless shoppers. Being out was better than sulking in his casket.
“What have they done to our beautiful countryside?” Dracula asked. No one had chimneys anymore. It was all flat blocks, doors, and key codes. For one night, and one night only, Dracula was Santa Claus. Dracula had to resist the temptation to suck the blood of those sleeping. And if he had to eat another stale mince pie or take another sip of sour wine, he was sure to be sick. Dracula hadn't been sick since he drank stolen blood culture bottles from a microbiology laboratory.
Once he made a few kids scream, he started to enjoy himself. He even had teenage goths seduce him, and he had to politely decline them. They seemed quite shocked when Dracula admitted to despising cobweb tights and mutilated body piercings, but to each of their own. Times had changed. Dracula was a happy grandpa.
His final call was in an orphanage on the outskirts of Bucharest. Dropping off the last presents caused a snuggling sensation in his chest that he hadn’t felt in centuries. Not a device was on, not even an Alexa. It brought him great pleasure to rise to the stars and imitate Santa.
“Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good night. Don’t forget it’s only 10 months till Halloween! Ho, ho, ho!”