vademecum sanguisuga - The Vampire's Offer

Bringing this story back online, back on e-stories, stemmed from my surprise that this really cheap copycat of Evil Dead actually gained momentum! Also: Readers should keep in mind that `our highest hopes were a zero-budget or low-budget short film adaptation ´, but for that even the actors & actresses meanwhile grew too old. Plus: Still bankrupt and broke, as I always was.   🤣

vademecum sanguisuga - The Vampire Handbook (renamed The Vampire's Offer)

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, Licensed:
https://www.diboo.de/cc-by-sa-4-0-lizenz/
 

Disclaimer: No warranties! Read at your own risk, or let it be. This is adult FICTION. Or, my attempt to let AI mind-fuck each of you, as the foul-tempered loser, who I may be these days? We'll see.    🥳
 

Punchline: “Beating the Odds demands more than cheap-shot junkie tricks & vanity!”

 

Prologue:

Clarissa Jennings, a formidable businesswoman, found herself ensnared in a relentless storm of violence. Two assailants descended upon her with the swiftness of a predatory hawk, their eyes ablaze with fury and a thirst for vengeance. A boy, no older than fourteen, wielded a lead pipe far too heavy for his slight frame, striking her right leg with brutal intent. Simultaneously, a girl targeted her left leg with a rusty iron bar, their actions synchronized in a cruel dance of aggression.
 

In a heartbeat, the air filled with a cacophony of frenzied blows, each aimed to ascend from her legs to her skull in a merciless rhythm. Clarissa Jennings succumbed, reduced to a bloody pulp—a tragic casualty in a world indifferent to the horror of hate crimes, leaving behind a case for a police force that had long since turned a blind eye.
 

Meanwhile, a sun-tanned man observed the scene with a nod of approval.
 

“Delivered, as promised!” Bedirhan announced, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
 

He raised a key card, which was swiftly snatched from his grasp by the murderous boy. Next, he produced three keys, swiftly claimed by the girl. 
 

In a flash, the children—dressed in tattered rags—vanished from his sight, leaving Bedirhan to straighten his suit with a satisfied smile. The only witness to the true nature of his sinister generosity now lay lifeless on the ground, killed by the very offspring she had abandoned six years prior, all in the pursuit of her career.

The narrative unfolds:
 

Stevianko Poddar had just concluded a stern confrontation with a detractor who dared to air disparaging remarks about his team on Ticky Tocky. In this ruthless realm, there was no room for leniency, especially not for trolls peddling their so-called truths wrapped in legal jargon.
 

His enterprise generated a steady income of at least $1,500 weekly, and Stevianko was resolute in his commitment to its success. This was neither the time nor the place for complacency; maintaining the enthusiasm of investors was of utmost importance.
 

For those possessing street smarts and unyielding resolve, opportunities abounded—opportunities that were not only plentiful but also profoundly lucrative. Stevianko was convinced he was the perfect candidate for the task, having navigated the underbelly of life with a bravado that would make anyone question their own limits.
 

With his Turkish associates, who were never short of their illicit substances of choice, the path ahead appeared far less rocky. Few dared to challenge Stevianko Poddar; those who did often faced dire consequences—illness, accidents, or even a descent into homelessness. Some even tragically chose to end their lives.
 

Anyone subjected to Stevianko’s self-congratulatory monologues, even for a mere twenty seconds, quickly learned that he fancied himself the illegitimate son of Steven Spielberg, treating Hollywood, as if it were his personal playground.
 

Bedirhan, his unwavering companion, lingered like a benevolent shadow—always present, a reminder of their shared past. Few among the survivors had known Stevianko as long as Bedirhan had.
 

Natasha Grausig trailed behind, playing the role of a devoted groupie. Yet, in truth, her affection lay more with wealth than with any individual, living or dead. This was hardly unusual; behind her glamorous façade, a relentless pursuit of money, parties, and media attention fueled her existence.
 

In stark contrast, her sister Bianca found herself on a harrowing journey. She operated a podcast and created live videos for extra income, while Natasha dismissed her sister’s attempts at financial gain, instead thriving on a risqué website that outshone Bianca’s efforts. It was a calculated advantage, one that left Bianca in the dust.
 

“Five million clucks on #OnlyHens, Losers!” she would exclaim with irreverent glee.
 

Jacqueline epitomized the modern victim, her name a mere echo of her upbringing. A disco mouse, a barfly, and a club pilgrim, she had mastered the art of clawing her way to money and substances, no matter the cost. “Brugh, worst-case scenario, we find something, listen to some tunes, and enjoy the pleasures of the night once the ladies are high!” Bedirhan evaluated.
 

Stevianko’s grin, reminiscent of a menacing, blonde scarecrow, spread across his face—a practiced expression honed over nearly two decades to convey authority and control. He was, without a doubt, a winner fueled by sheer ego.
 

“We need a car that truly captivates the ladies!” Stevianko declared with conviction.
 

Indeed, for a certain breed of women, the trappings of capitalism were all it took to win their affection, only to lose it just as swiftly. A majority of those eager and desperate souls offered more than any rational individual would consider acceptable.
 

It was, as if “Evil Dead” had been rewritten through Stevianko’s lens. The essence remained unchanged; he had invested heavily to acquire an authentic “Evil Book of Power.” Vampires replaced demons, but such details were trivial to Stevianko, who had convinced himself that he could outsmart both Dracula and Nosferatu, should he wield similar powers to those hinted at in Stephen King’s “Salem’s Lot.” 
 

“We’ll sell the livestream, monetize the knowledge, and if any of that eerie occult nonsense proves effective, we’ll reach out to Bianca for additional revenue from her horror community!” Bedirhan proclaimed with an air of determination.
 

In a world where mediocrity often prevails, Stevianko and Bedirhan thrived, their weekend escapades yielding more rewards than many would see in an entire year. It wasn't mere chance that propelled them forward; it was their astute business acumen that set them apart. As they sped down the road at sixty miles per hour, exceeding the limit, these four champions of revelry reached their rented haven in less than thirty-five minutes. Unlike the unprepared city dwellers, they had meticulously arranged their surroundings. Their hired hands had ensured every detail was attended to: the space was impeccably cleaned, stocked with supplies, and equipped with chemical toilets—two in blue and two in pink—eliminating the need to venture outdoors for such matters. Three portable fridges hummed with life, filled to the brim, while the beds were not only cleaned but had brand-new mattresses waiting to cradle them.
 

As evening descended, the atmosphere was charged with relaxation and laughter. Alcohol flowed freely, and the air was thick with the scent of grass, inviting a sense of liberation that transcended the mundane. Amphetamines offered the promise of vitality, while mild ecstasy pills were available for all. The ladies, confident in their allure, embraced their roles, setting the stage for an uninhibited night.
 

Stevianko’s carefully curated mix of substances ensured that spirits soared and regrets were absent, a euphoric state that would last for the next two hours, sustained by further supplies that would banish fatigue. As the hours slipped by and the thrill of intimacy began to wane, conversation turned to the enigmatic “Book.”
 

An hour before midnight, Stevianko stood, a figure of determination, dispelling any doubts about his family’s troubled history. With a flair for the dramatic, he recited a formula from the Book, his voice resonating with conviction. Just as he concluded, a knock echoed through the hut, breaking the moment. The four friends exchanged glances, each grappling with a flicker of apprehension. Yet, with an unwavering spirit, Stevianko approached the door, undeterred.
 

Before him lay a small metal box, its presence igniting their curiosity. He closed the door behind him and placed the box on the table, opening it as his companions looked on, anticipation hanging in the air. Inside, nestled among protective foam, were four small glass vials and a note, rolled tightly.
 

“What does the note say?” Natasha inquired, her voice tinged with intrigue.
 

“A little test, only lasts for three hours,” Stevianko read aloud, his tone steady.
 

Bedirhan’s gaze locked onto Stevianko, while Jacqueline fumbled for words, and Natasha stood momentarily speechless.
 

“Should we really risk it?” Natasha questioned, her concern palpable.
 

The four engaged in a spirited debate, weighing the unknown against their desire for adventure.
 

“What sort of test run is this supposed to be?” Jacqueline asked, her brow furrowed.
 

“Hunters of the night!” Stevianko proposed, a glint of mischief in his eye.
 

“Must we drink it, or inject it?” Natasha pressed, her curiosity piqued.
 

“Drinking, of course; there are no syringes here!” Bedirhan concluded, his logic clear.
 

Once more, the four scrutinized the box, cautious yet intrigued.
 

“Well, no time for cowardice! Let’s embrace the unknown!” Stevianko declared, a sense of resolve filling the room.
 

In unison, they raised their vials and, with a resolute gulp, consumed the contents. They felt the substance course through their bodies, yet the anticipated effects remained elusive. The night was still young, and the adventure had only just begun.
 

Then, the insatiable thirst surged within them! All four burst through the door, eager to embrace the night air, vaulting onto the hut’s rooftop before swiftly returning to the ground.
 

“Can you believe it? This is incredible!” Jacqueline exclaimed, her voice a blend of exhilaration and disbelief.
 

With heightened senses and the fervor of predators, the four raced into the shadowy embrace of the forest. Only Bedirhan’s steadfast discipline ensured that the cabin door remained locked, preventing it from gaping wide in their absence.
 

Whoever crossed their path next, fate surely had already deemed them another insignificant victim.
 

At 3:35 AM, most of them returned to the hut, groggy and undeniably human, as the effects of their transformation began to fade.
 

“Where’s Jacqueline?” Stevianko asked, a hint of concern lacing his words.
 

“Caught by the police after attempting to rob a gas station with cameras rolling. In a panic, she even assaulted an officer. The local news is buzzing about it already,” Natasha replied, her tone both matter-of-fact and grim.
 

“Are you serious?” Stevianko and Bedirhan echoed in unison, disbelief etched across their faces.
 

“Indeed. They suspect a drug-fueled frenzy, but none of the Van Helsing nonsense is mentioned,” Natasha added.
 

They unanimously agreed that rest was essential, for dawn was approaching, and their bodies were drained from their earlier escapades.
 

Though shock had washed over them, it paled in comparison to the euphoric rush they had just experienced—the ruthless legacy of the legendary Bloodsuckers.
 

“Could Stevianko give me a ride to Bianca?” Natasha asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil.
 

“Of course,” Bedirhan replied, casting a glance at Stevianko, who seemed ready for anything.
 

Stevianko and Natasha hopped into the car and drove off, leaving Bedirhan alone in the hut.
 

Around 4:00 AM, an unfamiliar voice broke the silence outside the door.
 

“Why wait? Why share?” the stranger inquired, his tone dripping with intrigue.
 

“Because I possess honor!” Bedirhan shouted defiantly, his voice echoing in the stillness.
 

“Yet Allah does not grant you eternal life. You remain trapped in the purgatory of the ignorant and delirious, like most mortals,” the stranger countered, his words sharp and chilling.
 

“What will become of Stevianko and Natasha?” Bedirhan pressed, his heart racing.
 

“To me, they appeared pale, almost lifeless. But the silver lining is that your car awaits you outside. Customer care service,” the stranger replied, a smirk evident in his voice.
 

In that moment, Bedirhan understood that he was faced with a singular choice: to become a mere corpse or to embrace the mantle of the hunter of the night.
 

“Master?” he asked, relieved that no fellow Turks could witness the tremor in his knees.
 

“My wise, new apprentice!” the stranger mocked, a sinister glee in his tone.
 

Minutes before sunrise, the hut erupted into a spectacular bonfire, the flames consuming everything in their path. The book was engulfed in the blaze, and nothing more was ever heard of Bedirhan. Yet weeks later, his abandoned car was discovered in Belgium, a silent testament to his fate.
 

THE END