Short Histoires - 2. Mr. De Ville

I killed my father five hundred years ago. I swear to your god, I’m not a cold-blooded murderer. Well, it certainly is debatable. But trust me when I say that what happened was assisted suicide. It couldn’t be helped; my father was Dracula. He’d been looming over my mother’s death for centuries, and I, for one, had only so much of an ear to listen to his prattle without going nuts in that labyrinthine, dreary castle he’d built for posterity’s sake.

One day, I told my father, "Why don’t I just kill you if you miss mother so much?" It started off as a joke until he took it seriously when he asked me to stake his chest with the bark of an Yggdrasil tree. Mind you, there had to be very specific requirements to successfully kill my immortal father.

And it was not an easy feat to kill immortal beings. Vampires aren’t immortal, except... well, my father and I. Imagine an immortal being deciding one day that he doesn’t feel like being immortal anymore, which, if you ask me, was unfair to those humans who’d been craving immortality. Yet lo and behold, their dark overlord was one suicidal immortal vampire who’d been aching for a death wish so that he could be with his beloved in the afterlife. It’s really a romantic story. If you take out the part where the villagers burned my mother to a flaming spire when they’d accused her of witchcraft and—I don’t know, for being a woman? They were sexist pricks back then, which isn’t much contrary to the times now.

My father, the original vampire, and my human mother’s love story are not remotely close to the glistening vampires I’d once read—and don’t even try to accuse me of being all shiny, pale, and glittery. I once turned myself pale when I was working nights and sleeping during the day. The lack of sun does that to a vampire. I was one of Madonna’s Roadies. We’d slept once, and she’d been hauling that over my head for years. I regret it, even now. But then again, if I hadn’t slept with her, it wouldn’t have inspired one of her iconic songs that incited the devotion of her rabid gay fans across the globe to turn her into their queen.

On the day of my father’s melodramatic quest to end his 4,000-year-old existence, I had travelled to Norway to find this odd-looking bent tree rumoured to be the tree of Yggdrasil. Why Norway? I was sleeping with one of our Norwegian human slaves, and he wanted to visit his family, so why not bring him for company? And I needed all the human warmth or the cock I could have—whichever reason you’d prefer.

As for my father ordering me to find a mystical and imaginary tree from the fables and lore of the forgotten past, it was out of the question. It was a delusional and overtly dramatic request, for he’d never given out directions to where it was. You just don’t throw out an arduous, long quest and expect players to venture forth without a quest marker! So I had simply suggested to my carriage driver that we were in search of the Ygdrasil tree to assuage my father’s tits that I would be seeking yonder his fabled tree, and that I would return and not abandon him to his lunacy—which was said intentionally to my driver, who’d report to my father in secret.

The old man was a recluse, you see, and the Vampiric Council had asked me to take care of their dark overlord for the sake of the world.

At this point in his life, my father had been duly pedantic and clingy. I needed proof that I had ventured off in search of his mystical tree. It would have been nonsense to go on a quest if there was no one to vouch for it, even if said quest was a dud. So I went to this forest, found the oddest-shaped tree, and carved a stake out of it. Nothing extraordinary, really. It was oddly shaped because some drunk carriage driver had driven straight into it. To have rammed yourself inebriated onto a tree with several spiked branches—that’s an instant way to leave this world. Tough for him, hooray for me!

The most important thing to seal my father’s immortality was to stake his heart with the sword of the Døngëbar, or the Excalibur sword. Yes, it’s real. I don’t know how he’d gained it, but it really is an enchanted sword, for it glows. That’s it. It glows. Nothing fanciful like it has the power to erect a shopping mall near where I live or has the power to exorcise my demonic neighbour from being pissed when I accidentally (or intentionally) let my cat out to shit in their yard. The only remarkable thing about that sharp bauble was that the glowing part of the sword had been embedded with a divine relic of pure divineness, or whatever. Don’t ask me why it’s divine; it just is. And my father had gotten it before I was born. Personally, I have no intention of finding out anything mystical in this world anymore, so let’s leave it at that.

Before I had staked my father’s heart with the bark of a random, oddly bent tree followed by the Excalibur sword, you know, to exorcise the curse of his immortality, he told me in his weird accent, "My son, find someone who’ll love you like your mother did to me, as I had found someone whom I’d given all the love I could find in this world. It’s but an empty life to live without someone waiting for you when you get home. Now kill me. Your mother and I shall meet you on the other side. Just promise me to give a successor to my name, Vladishlav Țepeș. Find yourself a wife and breed her—"

Surely, I had to stake his heart at that point; it was going nowhere. It would have made sense to find someone whom I could say would be a romantic gesture to offer all the love I could find in this world if my father hadn’t murdered all the townspeople and decimated the population of the entire country of Transylvania, all for the sake of his undying love and revenge when they’d killed his 80-year-old wife. My mother had cancer, for crying out loud. She was already dying. It’s not an insightful prospect I’d like to think about, such as searching for true love or the sorts of things for which I’d be willing to burn the entire world for one person. It’s a bit much.

"Mister De Ville, can I have my paper back? I have a part-time job after this class. I’m kinda’ running late." The remaining student gawked at me; I was voicing out my thoughts again while I was grading papers. It’s been happening often lately. And I can’t seem to find out why. Maybe that's what happens if you go cold turkey on Zoloft. She walked down from the elevated seats and headed over to my desk to grab her term paper. "Er, mister De Ville, don’t get this the wrong way. I think you need to see a doctor for that. I had an uncle who was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and he let it get so bad that he started talking to walls the whole day."

"Had you an uncle?"

"Yeah, they found him dead after jumping off a building. His neighbours said they heard him arguing with himself."

"Well, that’s insightful. Thank you for that information, Madeline."

"And maybe don’t try telling your students that you’re a vampire or something, because they’re already calling you a blood-sucking leech for giving most of them a C-minus."

"I see," said my inveterate self, knowing well what my class thinks of their terror teacher in English Literature 101. "But you got an A+. So, I guess you’re an exception."

She ruffled her short curls, peered down with her blue orbs, and scratched the healing scab around her ebony knuckles. "I’m not the exception, sir. I worked hard for that paper, so I know I’m getting an A+."

"I know."

"Catch you later, mister De Ville."

As she closed the door, I realised today would be the last time I would see her. I’d be shuffling off to a new country with a new identity. A 25-year-old-looking professor legally aged 35 had its limits before certain members of the faculty accused me of getting plastic surgery despite my meagre salary. They won’t accuse me of being immortal, for sure, but they’d accuse me of doing something illegal, like being a crack dealer or resorting to harvesting kidneys and selling them in the black market. It’s what the last town I’d been teaching in had accused me of—that I was an organ trafficking drug dealer. Humans are petty creatures. They’re also very imaginative, but dumb as a fart.

I'd been living in this town for ten years, and I’d lived in the United States of America for god knows how long, moving to every state every ten years or so. I've lived in this country since the 1620s. I’m done with the USA for now. I've been a part of this country’s lifeblood, history, and culture for god knows how long. My next task is to settle on a remote island, start a vegan cult, and convert them into meat-eating savages for fun. I’d give that idea 10 to 20 years before it kicks in and they realise that they’re in the hands of a vampire that never ages. That’s the fastest way to get my heart staked several times until they all give up. I may be immortal, but getting staked consecutively is not a fun caveat either; it’s painful to regrow your heart or body parts in general. No one should try it.

As for Madeline, she definitely has a bright future ahead of her. She could be the United States of America's first female President forty years from now. I’ve taught past world leaders before; I know when a future leader of a country is listening to my lectures. I’ve also taught past dictators; Stalin and Hitler first come to mind, so I don’t think my instincts are the best to assess a person who’ll hold a seat of power. If maybe she breaks up with her wanker of a boyfriend, I could see her getting on track to have that future set in place once she enters college.

As much as I’d like to stay in this town and focus my efforts on being the driving force behind her success, I have little to no reason to stay here. My students are graduating, and this is my tenth year of living in this town of Cedar East. I could move to Cedar West, Cedar North, or perhaps Cedar South. Though this is the only Cedar in Florida, apparently adding West to its namesake makes it less ambiguous and provides it with a directional value for a town with a population of less than 500.

I checked my watch. 5:15PM. I have to pick up some cat food at the grocery; otherwise, my cat, Mister Bumpkin, would set off on one of his mood swings and sit on the papers I have yet to mark in order to spite me.

I grabbed my duffle bag and inserted my school paraphernalia—notice the drug-related pun? Ok, I’ll stop now—and threaded out. My eyes went around the entire classroom as my fingers pushed the door open. I was really going to miss this class. Such a shame. Most of them have promise—if all of them got therapy, perhaps.

The majority of these kids lacked the foundational upbringing of common sense, and I had taught them to love or loathe the English language. I’d also instructed them in history. Their teacher, Mrs. Ingram, was too preoccupied with her ongoing divorce and their court settlement as to who gets their three dogs and a parakeet. That’s why the principal asked me to be their substitute History Teacher for the entire year.

The girls seemed to love my presence, including the three gay kids who’d always given me their unsolicited opinions about the nature of my singlehood and my depressingly drab outfits. But the rest of the boys, not so much. Boys that age tend to hate the hot-looking teacher snagging their female classmate’s attention. Which is the exact reason why I stopped teaching university-grade students. They’re legally of age to sleep with you. When the kids were in high school, I’d simply advise their parents to strap their horned-up teens to stay the hell away from me, and that’s that.

To be fair, 15-year-old gay kids nowadays are so insightful. Either you’re annoyed at them and want to tear out their throats and suck their blood dry, which I never did, by the way, or you hope they turn out to be the gay rainbow flagging beacons of the future.

Except for that closeted football varsity kid who kept on hinting that I should go spend a weekend with his family hunting creatures with antlers—to probably show me his manliness and then invite me to his room and seduce me. Trust me, I know their type. And I’m not into children of any kind. But I understand the whole student-teacher fantasy.

I used to have a huge crush on my French fencing instructor and this Buddhist monk from China whom my father had kidnapped to teach me martial arts. I’d jerk off every night just imagining them touching their sticks—his rapier and his long pole. But my father snapped my French instructor’s neck when he tried to kiss me. And the Buddhist monk got impaled on a pike when he tried to poison my human mother. It would have been my first kiss. But as every melodramatic vampiric overlord is, he wanted my first kiss to be special. Little did I know that the first kiss was meant to literally suck someone’s blood dry. I thought I’d be sucking someone’s cock. It was a letdown.

If only I could tell that student of mine how my father used to berate me for my lack of human-hunting skills when I refused to kill criminals for their blood, this kid would probably come out of Narnia and dash out of the closet in a tankini. I hope he doesn’t turn out just like his family—lord-loving, secret-orgy-humping rednecks. His father also loves to "work travel" to other states, party with the boys, and have his back humped by his fellow lord-praisin's closeted rednecks. I’d followed him one time and taken some photos of his ménage à trois in case he pursued threats against his kid. I’d easily send his youngin’ the photos when he decides to come out. I really do hope this kid finds himself. He’s smart and intelligible, although overly aggressive in the art of seducing older men.

A single fluorescent light hummed on the far exterior wall of the carpark; its dim glaze flickered across the array of vehicles as the sun was setting. Weaving through the maze of minivans and blue-collar salaries, I saw my 2001 Honda Accord and couldn’t wait to get home. My hand was reaching out for my keys inside my duffel bag when someone stepped out of the shadows behind me. A body pressed against my back and whispered, "Give me your money."

I spun around, ready to pretend and cower against the mighty power of a street robber, possibly holding a gun in my head despite its bullet's inability to graze my skin. I guess my acting was ace and phenomenal because the thick, warm arms of a man had pulled me into an embrace.

"Mr. De Ville! I’m sorry. I, er, I was just joking," said Dario Ellison, looking embarrassed. I gazed up and remembered his face. He peered down, and the shock in his eyes was hysterical at first until it morphed into worry and later progressed into a full-blown existential crisis. "Are you really Mr. Marius De Ville? You, er, you still look the same after all these years."

I’d also have loved to have said that he hasn’t aged one bit. But the white streaks of hair on his temples made me curl my lips—twenty years of not seeing my former student made me see him in a new light. My 18-year-old student in the early 2000s has now completed his transformation as a DILF. If only he didn’t have that stupid wedding ring, then I’d mind control the shit out of him and spin him around for submission.

But being the responsible educator that I am, I've never been inappropriate towards my students. If I had survived for centuries without killing humans for their blood, then now would probably be the first time I might snap for such reasons in consideration of his blood smelling oh so delightful. As if it contained all the essential vitamins from A to zinc, his blood smelled like a ripe cock mixed with the citrusy scent of lust and the mellow lavenderish notes of sweat and cum. Is it possible to want to murder someone for their blood while lusting over them at the same time? Apparently yes. It’s possible.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and said, "Er, well, I just had Botox. I also dye my hair, er, black?"

"This is more than hair dye, Mr. De Ville. You literally haven’t changed at all since you've been my homeroom teacher. You could pass off as a student here."

"I also do skincare?" said moi, sounding unsure. I had to say something before he shouted, Kill him with fire, so I added some deciding factors to allay his concerns. "I got into an accident. Two years ago, I had surgery on my face. That’s why I don't look like I’m in my 30s, right—my insurance covered it. Truck fault. Stop asking. How did you find me?"

Indeed, how did he find me? He was my student back in New York. How did he end up in Florida, in the middle of nowhere?

"This guy Magnus from Cambridge University emailed me your whereabouts." Shit! Why are ex-vampire boyfriends such annoying dicks? I told him to keep my work location private. "I asked around the last faculty where you taught, and they forwarded me a number of this Magnus guy. Sir, I’ll be frank. I, er, I need a favour."

"You’re not going to sell me insurance, are you?"

He waved his hands and swore, "No, Mr. De Vile. I heard Garrett’s in jail for insurance fraud. I haven’t spoken to any of my batch mates in over a decade."

"Ok. Just checking. So, what’s this favour about?"

"I, er, this is such a huge honour for me, and I would truly consider this to be a huge favour if I could fly you over to New York for a TV segment. It’s about teachers who’ve made an amazing impact throughout the years of their teaching," said Dario, his eye twitching, a thing he’d do whenever he was nervous. I’m glad I still have that effect on him. "I’ve tracked your history, and it seems you’ve taught some very notable alumni who’ve only had wonderful things to say about you, including me. It’s an hour-long, three-episode special. You’ll have a single episode dedicated to you."

How touching. If my soul could be fingered and felt, I’d have blushed by now. I peered at those brown orbs and curtly said, "No," and walked over to my car as I pressed my keys to unlock the doors. "You’re harassing me at the car park. You could’ve just emailed so I could say no."

He pivoted in front of me, blocking my way. "I have. Several times. But you never replied."

"Er, I’m busy."

"Alright. How about this? I’ll have my entire crew fly here to Florida to document your life as a teacher."

"No," I insisted, and I walked past him.

"Please, Mr. De Ville, the filming will be just for a week."

He held my arm and stopped me in my tracks. I gazed up, seizing the opportunity to insert some graphic description of his features since this was the perfect opportunity to describe him, and said to this 6’3, short-haired Mr. Fantastic looking 36, 37, or 38-year-old (I think he’s 39. I’m not sure. I’m a vampire, not the census) hunky former student of mine whom I shouldn’t be fantasising about, "I’ll be leaving America by the end of this week. What you want is highly impossible."

"How about I book you another flight?" he said, looking very determined. "First-class seats. Whenever you want to fly, I’ll make sure it's for good. I’ll even talk to the school you’re transferring to so they can secure your slot while you’re away filming."

"Filming? You make me sound like I’m a celebrity. I’m a teacher, for goodness' sake."

"I’ll even pay for your accommodations for the first year, all expenses paid. Please Mr. De Ville, I really need you to do this. For me? Please?"

"As I’ve said, it’s a no."

"You’ll get $50,000 as an exclusive deal for your story."

"Showing to my face that you come from a family of billionaires won’t change my mind a single bit. Haven’t I taught you anything, Mr. Ellison?" I said. Although, as a broken-ass high school English teacher able to save up on rent for an entire year along with the fifty thousand dollars, it had already forced me to say yes in my head. I just needed to understand the reason behind his desperation.

"I didn’t mean to offend you, sir. It’s just that this is my girlfriend’s first major investigative work piece as a journalist, and I really want her to succeed."

Do I smell bullshit? This child is lying. How dare he ensnare me with his perfect hair, kissable face, and suckable neck? I wanted to deepthroat that carotid artery pulsating above his collarbone for his punishment and my pleasure. But in order to get the truth out of him, I had to do some eye-glaring hypnosis to extract the information I needed. A bit of smouldering eyes here and there, and he began ranting the truth.

"So why do you really want me to do this? Explain, Mr. Ellison."

Lulled into submission and spacing in the void, he then admitted honestly: "I need her first interview piece to become a success so that my father’s reason for promoting her won't be questioned by the public, given that we will announce our engagement next month. My dad hates nepotism, even if he had put my brother as the CEO of our hotels and my older sister as the VP of our fashion brands."

It was saddening to hear this, for our lovely Dario has never been in touch with the female ladybits. I’d caught him, or, well, I'd spied on him, getting blown behind the bleachers by his gay, friendly, super-nerdy classmate. And I was certain I’d heard his heart pump fast whenever he’d see me off-campus, and I swear by the beard on my chinny, chin-chin that he’d stalked me at some point.

"Are you saying that you’ve never stepped on other people to get to where you are when your father fast-tracked you to your position? What exactly do you do anyway?"

"No. I would never want that, Mr. De Ville," answered Dario, his eyes glazed in a temporary haze. "I worked hard to become an executive producer at my father’s network. No one knows I’m an Ellison at work."

"If they don’t know you’re an Ellison, then what name do you go by?"

"They know me as Dario McCarson."

I wheezed and snorted. "Really? You gave yourself Coach McCarson’s last name? I thought you kids hated him."

"We still hate him. He’s a pervert. But his last name sounds like shit, so I took it."

"Hmm. Fair enough. So, what’s with the wedding band? You said you’ve just been engaged? Pretty advanced to be wearing a wedding ring without having said I do."

He hesitated. If I pushed harder to unearth the things he didn’t want revealed, I might break his mind. I snapped my fingers as he resumed his lucidity. "So will you do it, Mr. De Ville?" He tilted his head from a coming migraine. "Wow. What just happened? It feels like a truck has run me over."

Sprawled on the ground with his head between his legs, I felt sorry and told him, "Ok. I’ll help you with whatever midlife crisis you’re going through."

"Oh my god! Thank you, Mr. De Ville," said my former student. He lurched up and hugged me. I can’t believe how much he’d grown up, along with that grown penis rubbing through the fabric of his jeans, frisking my belly like a TSA agent. And in the heat of the moment, I knew I may have bitten off more than I could chew. His flaccid penis sported a quick hard-on, and he quickly pulled away and said, "Er, I’ll send the details of your flight and stay in New York."

He inched back as I jutted forward and said, "Ok. See you soon," with narrowed eyes skirting past those brown orbs with intimate discretion.

Gulping hard, he muttered, "Oh, okay, Mr. De Ville. Thanks again for this."

Seeing him walk around the corner looking flustered with a questionable gaze poured on the ground, I crossed my arms and thought, Maybe I have another student in need of a sexual awakening. Not only do I dabble in fostering the minds of my students—those who’ve grown up and are ready for their sexual desires to be fostered and intimately nurtured by yours, but I also help them foster their inner sexual goddesses and deities.

After all, they don’t call me The Devil for nothing. For I, Mr. De Ville, had pledged my immortality to my students that as long as I have ample stamina burrowed deep in these thick, bushy loins, I will ensure that no student of mine will suffer the degradation of not knowing the delights of pure sexual ecstasy.

Who am I kidding? I’m a boring-ass teacher who hasn’t gotten laid in almost thirty years. I guess this is what vampire retirement sounds like: to be stuck at a job teaching ungrateful kids, drinking O-negatives with my hate-filled cat, while living alone in a rent-controlled apartment in the middle of nowhere. If only my father could see me now, the sole carrier of his legacy, driving a fourth-hand, not even a second-hand, Honda Accord. Oh well. I guess this interview might add some spice to my routine and my monotonous life.

My phone's alarm kept buzzing. "Shit. Cat food," I said, realising that the only grocery store in town was about to close. I’d have to drive an hour to get to the closest convenience store. And then my phone buzzed from a call with an unregistered number. I picked up and said, "Who’s this?"

"Mr. De Ville, this is Dario Ellison. Please save the number."

"Ok. This is plain stalking. I thought you'd graduated from that."

"Er, how did you do?"

"Nevermind. See you in New York."

"Ok."

"Hang up now, Mr. Ellison."

"Ok sir."

"Hang up, Dario."

"Er, I just wanted to make sure that you'd save—"

I hung up and grinned devilishly, as I always do.