In 2110 a great deal of excitement spread through the literary world, when the great-grandnephew of Dacre Stoker published the long-awaited sequel to Dracula: The Undead, which itself was a sequel to the little-known book version of Dracula (which, surprising to many in the 22nd century, was a novel before becoming a movie and Twitter phenomenon).

Below is an excerpt:

Quincey Harker III approached the bleeding form of the Countess Elizabeth Bathory.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “why did you throw yourself in the way of that runaway locomotive to save that boxcar full of orphans, puppies, and kittens? According to the  novelization of my great-grandmother’s life by respected scholars Dacre Stoker and Ian Holt, you’re the bad guy!”
Bathory tried to speak, but found her crushed torso problematic. Instead she raised one limp arm to point just over Quincey’s shoulder.
Harker turned and saw none other than Count Dracula himself, who had hitherto been masquerading as a flamboyant, but wise circus clown throughout the entire narrative. He was busily devouring one of the orphans, but raised a finger to indicate he would be with Quincey in just a moment.
“Ahem,” Dracula said, wiping his bloodied mouth with a stray puppy, before tossing it to the railroad tracks. “I believe now we’re up to the ‘big reveal’.”
“No! It can’t be! You’re the good guy! And you’re my great-grandfather! Dacre Stoker and Ian Holt said so!”
“Um, no. We settled that whole paternity case ages ago. My sperm’s been dead for 500 years. I’m nobodies baby-daddy.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Yeah, you’re a little slow. Let me break it down for you Quentin.”
“Quincey.”
“Whatever. Back in 1897 an Irishman by the name of Stoker really messed up my groove. He wrote mad smack ’bout me–my breath smells, my palms are hairy, I don’t trim my nails. All lies. I practically invented metrosexuality. So anyway, I bided my time until the world became so shallow that someone would actually write and endorse a “sequel” to Stoker’s book that painted me as the good guy. It cost me an arm and a leg, I tell you, (Not my own of course) but it was worth it.
“Anyway, now I’m going to kill you.”
Just then the rising sun burst through the clouds, showering the two men in its golden rays. Quincey shouted triumphantly, until he realized Dracula was not turning to ash.
“Yeah, that’s another thing I had those fools add to their book. If you knew actually folklore you’d know vampires don’t burn in the sun.”
“You sparkle?”
“What?” Dracula looked down at his hands and cursed at his sparkling fingers. “Shit, I knew that rave was a bad idea.” He wiped the glitter unto his cape. “Anyway, if you’d read the original Dracula you’d know that sunlight doesn’t hurt me, it only limits my powers during the day.”
Quincey had a flash of inspiration, realizing that Dracula was now a mere mortal and vulnerable. This inspiration came too late, as Dracula drew his pistol and shot Quincey three times in the heart.
“Imbecile.”

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