O, Dracula, unlikely hero! O flying leukaemia, in your cloak like a living umbrella, a membrane of black leather which you unwind from within yourse and lift like a stripteaser’s fan as you bend with emanciated lust over the neck, flawless and bland, of whatever woman is longing for obliteration, here and now in her best negligee.

Why was it given to you by whoever stole your soul to transform yourself into bat and wolf and only those?

Why not a vampire chipmunk, a duck, a gerbil? Why not a vampire turtle?

Now that would be a plot

Excerpt from The Good Bones by Margaret Atwood

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