I was just passing through Transylvania, heading down Highway 65. Oh, and no, not that Transylvania, by the way. Nope, this one was barely a blip on the map in the northeast corner of Louisiana, just a stone’s throw from the mighty Mississippi. Still, it was worth stopping at, if only for the kitsch-factor, which the town, if you could call it that, played up to the hilt.
“Velcome, velcome,” said the general-store proprietor in what could only be called a hick Romanian accent, his face an ashen white, dried blood (ketchup?) on his chin. “I vant to suck your blood.”
I grinned. “My wallet, more likely.”
He shrugged and promptly dropped the act. “Dracula T-shirts on sale: two for five and a quarter.”
“Why would I need two?” I asked.
The shrug remained. “Heck, why would you need one?”
I
