Surrounded by Imbeciles Other Than the Imbeciles in My Everyday Life; or, A Writing Convention Headed by Vampire Novelists

The beast is awakened from her slumber by an inner turmoil, a need to write. Sliming her way out of bed, quietly, as to not disturb her husband, she evades the cold with a house coat and slips her feet into some cosy house shoes. She finds relief at her keyboard, where she types out all her porn fantasies brimming with luring vampires lurking in the dark, mysterious and dangerous and beautiful all in one. She likes these nights, when she's all by herself, for there is no one to interrupt her. As she types she becomes more and more emphatic with each keystroke, as a fire burns somewhere inside of her, a fire she quenches with Ding-Dongs. She types and she eats, and eats some more. Her work is the basis of True Blood, and she's becoming quite well known for her novels; trashy little things they sell at supermarkets all around the country, trashy little things scooped up and adored by people with similar vampire fetishes. She's a round woman, with small eyes set in a doughy face. She wears glasses and has that southern smile. Her name is Charlaine Harris. She looks like this:

Across the country, the lizard is typing away too. She's working away at her next book in the Twilight series. She too has a love for vampires, but hers is less erotic, and more romantic. She's glimpsing through Pride and Prejudice, because old romantic novels are where she gets all of her ideas. She loves reading Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, and Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, and of course Pride and Prejudice, rounding out her horrible taste in literature. She's a New York woman, a city woman, and wears make up and is slim and has lots of money, but she's sad and she's lonely. Her name is Stephenie Meyer. She looks like this:

At a cemetery in Dublin, a corpse is turning over in its grave. When the corpse was not a corpse, but rather a human being, it was a man with a long face and piercing eyes. He had a beard and slick greased over hair. He was a writer, who wrote Dracula, and who probably dreads that he ever wrote the damn thing in the first place. His name was Bram Stoker. Before all the worms and things got to him, he looked like this:

In a disclosed location up on a little hill foolishly described as a mountain, there is someone else writing. But he isn't writing about vampires, he's writing about the vampire novelists themselves, and how treacherous the whole fad has become. He's wearing a red flannel bath robe and is drinking a cold beer. His writing goes like this:

I don't know why I decided to go to the Vampire's Writing Convention, but I suppose it was mostly for laughs. There weren't many writers there though, mostly just fans there to see the two headliners: Charlaine Harris and Stephenie Meyer. Stephenie Meyer of course is the writer of that undying retardation Twilight, and its subsequent books. Charlaine Harris wasn't well known, until True Blood kicked off on HBO, and now she's a household name among vampire fanatics. Walking around I felt as if I stuck out, and thats probably because I most certainly did. I'm sure the pyschic vampires read my thoughts, and were on to me. They knew I'm not a true believer. Where's his vampire fangs? They probably wondered. Or, No frilly cape? No Twilight shirt? No eyeshadow? He's no vampire. . . He doesn't belong. . . I should watch him. It is then that I noticed that I was surrounded, I had unknowingly (how foolish of me) walked into a den of retardation. There were the teenagers, the Twilight fans, who had fallen in love and been taught romance from a dead man. They were all skinny little things, in Twilight gear, and they all had that same giddy nervous laugh every time they saw their leading man, and he was everywhere. There were the middle aged women, the True Blood fans, who had given up on love and romance (from years of never receiving it) and wanted only lust, to go to bed with some fiendish vampire. They were fat like their favorite writer, many of them clutched her book in hopes of getting a precious autograph. There were vampire fans of all ages, ethnicities, fans of all different types of retardation. Everyone was gathering in the great auditorium, where the guest speakers were already arranging themselves.

Charlaine Harris went first, while Stephenie sat on idly by, content that she was far prettier. Charlaine went on about how homely she is (which she really is), about her preference for werewolves and vampires and things of the occult. She looked just like a big ripe tomato up there, her red sweater bulging at the seams. She went on:

"I'm constantly asked, "Where do you GET your inspiration?" as if I had a magic spell to conjure it up, or as if I could go to the store and buy some. Inspiration comes to me because I am a writer. Its an integral part of being a writer. The creative flow of ideas which constitutes inspiration can be sparked by anything, can appear out of nothing, can be tweaked by a news article, a quip on a sitcom, an overheard snatch of conversation. The inspiration comes in using these things as ingredients for creating something new, something your own. Most inspiration arises from the basic question, "What if?""

I scoffed, she forgot retardation.

She continued on, but I didn't hear much of it. I was distracted instead, by what a thought was a tenacious gnat behind me. It turned out to be a woman wearing plastic fangs. She seemed harmless enough though.

"Can I fang you?" She said.

Puzzled I didn't quite know what to say, so I simply turned and pretended I hadn't heard her. I knew though that I needed to get out of there, and soon. The girl next to be pawed a Twilight book, its cover a reproduction of the movie poster. She showed it to me with bright wide eyes, carefully, as if she was showing me a prized jewel or fine china that may at any moment break. She feared my gaze might break it, so she thrust it back into her bosom, where it was safe.

Charlaine stopped speaking. She smiled at the applause from her adoring fans and slimed away from the podium and sat down with a squish. She pulled a snack out from a fold in her back fat and started eating it. The southern drawl had ceased, and now it was time for the city woman. She was stern and cold as ice. Charlaine had been a ray of sunshine, warm and buttery, but this woman was like the chill of night. She waited till she was sure that all eyes were on her before she even moved. She got up and the room came alive with screams from young teens who had bottled up all their emotions until almost exploding, just for her arrival. Their screams drowned out the room, splashed up against the walls and flooded around my feet. I was knee deep in teen angst. I feared it may stain my jeans, and forever be a reminder of the day I stood amongst 1500 or so vampire fanatics with plastic fangs and retarded fancies. She stood at the podium stern and still, patiently waiting for the screaming to die down. When it did she spoke.

"Thank you." The room dropped 10 degrees. "I've come to adore vampires, as you all have, and I'm pleased to say there will be a new book!" Cheers. "Yes yes, full of werewolves and witches - all sorts of vampires of course, and time travel. . . and portals - maybe even a magician or two." All the girls steamed up and got to yelling like teapots again. She went on, I'm sure, about all the senseless lore and all the silly different types of vampires - but I don't know for sure, for it is then that the Quaaludes finally kicked in. I had taken them earlier. I got them from a hippie type named Blueberry. He went on and on about Northern California, he called it the Garden of Eden - with large redwoods and fine smelly herb. He spoke of selling hash outside of pharmacies - dolling it out in gobs just like jam. Thats how much he had.

I drifted for awhile, in cotton candy dreams, in a peaceful state I didn't think I could be woken from. I was wrong. When my eyes opened I had a blonde haired "vampire" staring me in the face. The boy must have only been 10 or 11.

"Don't eat me." He smiled, content believing that I actually thought he was a vampire. He raised his arms and hissed at me, exposing a pair of fake fangs. Too tired to put up with him, I made a cross with my hands and like any good vampire, he made himself scarce.

I shook my head. I had to leave. These vampires occultists were even recruiting children, innocent young children. I left, but not defeated. I had a plan.

But that is where the writing stops, the man didn't seem to finish. He's typing away now, but he's content, because he knows what is about to happen. Somewhere in their homes, Charlaine and Stephenie are typing away too, Charlaine in the middle of a juicy story about a vampire and his love for phalic objects, Stephenie knee-deep in copying Pride and Prejudice word for word, only changing the characters and their names. They were all content, but none more than the man on the hill. He stopped writing he smiled.

Somewhere far off two homes were bursting into flames.

He knew he had done his deed; ridden the world of two more tragic retards.

It is from the look in that little boys face that iR names vampires and all that is associated with it: tragically retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Charlaine Harris writes novels with horrible book art: things like airbrushed women dressed in leather, clutching rottweilers with burning coal eyes - the dogs of hell.

Twilight was the biggest selling book in 2008.

Twilight the movie, made 328 million dollars worldwide.

Stephenie Meyer can't go a year without re-reading Jane Austen's books.

Meyer was named author of the year in 2008.

Vampire rules constantly change: Dracula couldn't stay out in sunlight, and also didn't care much for garlic or crosses. . . Vampires in Twilight are impervious to all those things. Vampires in True Blood can travel large distances in a short amount of time, and have a blood lust equaled only by a sexual lust, which is just as strong. . . Sometimes they are villainous, sometimes they are heroes, sometimes they are vampires who were created genetically, sometimes they just are what they are for the sake of being.

Vampires can be straight up blood drinkers, they can be beings which feed on your life force, on your soul. They can have psychic powers, they can accomplish great feats of strength, basically they can do whatever the writer wants them to, a nice thing to have when you have written yourself in a corner.

Just take one look at any vampire fan and tell me it aint retarded. I'll call you a bloody liar. Ha... get it? Bloody.

iR.