Date: Thu, 17 Oct 2002 17:14:23 -0700 (PDT)
From: Reginald Brucestofski <bigfatgayvampire@yahoo.com>
Subject: Horror Freak Story: Big Fat Gay Vampires and Shit

	The fog crept in like a sleek black cat, clouding Salem's Point in
a dense, noxious pea soup, a funeral shroud which muffled the sounds of
automobiles in the streets and distorted the blue and brimstone red neon
lights of the gas station.
	"Baseball Cap" Joe sighed as he pulled his beaten 87 sky blue Buick
Skylark into the service station.  He flipped open the gas cap and shoved
the hard nozzle of the gas pump into the eager orifice of the car's gas
tank.  An eerie wind whispered through the maples that lined Elm Street;
their skeletal boughs not yet bare of leaves that were now red and orange
--candy corn that shivered in the cold and crisp October wind.
	  Joe leaned back against his car as the cold, hard nozzle gushed
fluid into his hungry gas tank, pulling his Buccaneers coat tight against
his tall, taut, muscular frame.  The gas station, with its warm neon lights
was comforting like a cashmere sweater.  Joe had many times to buy gas,
smokes and JD, to hang with his home boys and pick up hoochies.  In fact,
Joe knew the place so well, he worked there.
	Its comfort was lost on Joe tonight, though, just as Joe was lost
in thought. He thought of the strange changes coming over him just as the
mist spread over the gas station.  Joe worked as a coach for the local high
school softball team, the Salemsville Sinners.  Every time the boys scored,
he would slap them on their buttocks.  At first it was a quick and chummy
slap, but he slowly found his hand being more and more prone to incorporate
a friendly squeeze into this bonding ritual, his eyes more and more likely
to stray over their smooth, lithe, nude frames as they washed and cajoled
and brushed up against one another in the locker rooms.  It was like a
phantom slowly possessing his body.  A gay homosexual phantom who was very
scary.  The boys were beginning to notice; he could tell by the way their
ripe young globes tensed as his hand drew over them.
	"Cold as th' devuhl t'night." An eerie voice observed from behind
Joe.
	Joe, not expecting the voice to come behind him as he had been deep
in thought about his own sexual orientation, jumped and spun around,
looking for the source of the phantom voice.  A wizened old man stood at
the pump behind him, gassing up his Subaru.  He had whispy white hair, a
crooked nose, and a wrinkly face.  Bushy brows that hid two sickly yellow
eyes that regarded Joe with cold, sardonic amusement.  His cracked lips
were set into a stolid scowl, and there was a scar or birthmark or possibly
a cancerous mole on his chin. He wore a black trenchcoat that ruffled in
the screaming October wind, and white socks.
	"Yeah cold."  Joe muttered.
	"Not a night t' be caught out.  No sir.  Not fer man ner beast!"
The old man's voice was nasal and raspy in a gravely sort of way.  He
seemed to have an accent, as though he were from Hungary or possibly
Lithuania.  He was also chewing tobacco, which he spit, which was a bad
habit.  Joe was suddenly glad he didn't smoke or chew tobacco, and that he
wasn't fat.  The old guy also had an eyepatch.
	"Yeah." Joe muttered.
	"Y' know they say that on nights like this, right 'round Hallereen,
that the Foog creeps inter Salem's Point."
	"The Fog?" Joe asked.
	The old man cackled.  His wizened old hand darted up to wipe some
of the chaw juice off his chin.  It was disgusting, and Joe was really glad
that even though he might be gay, he was at least not into cigarettes or
chaw.  "You ain't nevuh heard o' it, boy?  Well, let Ol' Bruce tell
ye. Thirteen years ago t' this night, Reg'nuld Braflofski wuz livin' in the
very same apartment up on Bates Avenue that yer livin' in terday!  He was
gettin' involved in sum hanky-panky with his man-friend in the bathtub when
a water main blew, shootin' boiling hot water on to them both.
	"Now I ain't no religious type, but I do listen to Billy Graham and
Pat Rober'sin and send them all my soshil secur'ty money.  I know that gay
homersexyals don't go to neither heaven ner hell, but are doomed to walk
th' urth 's the undead!  Vampeers!  Y'know boy that they kin change into
bats and fog!  It was said that 's they lifted Reg'nuld's nude, mangled
corpse they hurd him say 'Because of yer incomputint plumbin' and lack of
confermince t' the city building code, I will be back to haunt 'n forever
change all who stay in this room!'
	"Then he keeled o'er dead and then turned into a foog and flowed
away out th' window. Others say he was buried.  Ever since then, though,
nobody goes out on foogy days in October, and nobody who stays in them
apartments lives long.  Y'see, they cover it up, boy!  Don't think they
want yer knowin' boot the hauntin' of Reg'nuld?"  He laughed.  "They'd
ne'er let out th' apartment agin!"
	Joe had purchased his sexy bachelor pad for a very low price, and
had heard nasty, whispered rumors regarding the nasty deaths of former
tenants who had lived in his apartment from his neighbors.  The office
always faked epilepsy when he tried to bring the history of the apartment
up after finding strange stains in the bath tub that looked like they could
have been blood, but he had never suspected any cover.
	He looked back, and saw that the old man had disappeared into the
eerie foggy night as mysteriously as he had appeared.
	"What took so long?" Asked Bambi Petumpki, Joe's cosmetologist
girlfriend who had been waiting in the car while Joe pumped gas and
contemplated his sexual orientation and talked to imaginary old men.
	"Nothin'."  Joe said putting on his safety belt as he always
did. "Let's go back to my place and make out, baby."
	"Okay." Laughed Bambi.  Though as they drove closer and closer to
the apartment, and the fog got thicker and thicker, she seemed to lose her
nerve.  "Joey, I'm scared." She said, folding her arms over her red
turtleneck sweater.  An ex-cheerleader, Bambi was blonde and very thin.
She had tan skin, painted her toenails, and Joe could see the outline of
her double nipple piercing right through her sweater.  They had been going
out for four months.  Joe had just met her parents a week before, and he
thought her father was a prick. "Maybe it's just my feminine intuition, but
I don't like how thick this fog is.  It's like it's reaching out, Joey.
Reaching out for you!  Let's turn around, Joey!  We haven't seen anybody on
the road since we started from the gas station."
	"Ha ha!  You are just imagining things."  Joe laughed, though the
hairs were standing up on the back of his thick football player's neck.  It
was indeed true that they hadn't seen a soul since they'd made the left on
Elm Street.  The way she folded her arms over her ample breasts made him
horny.
	"Joey," She said.  "Let's go back to my parent's house and make
out."
	"I don't want to do that." Joe said, "Your dad is a prick."
	"You are not the Joey I know." Bambi said.  "Drop me off here and I
will just walk home."
	"C'mon babe!" He urged, "Let's go back to my place, make out on the
couch, chug some brewskis, and just, y'know, hang out!"
	"Drop me off here!" She insisted.  With a sigh, Joe pulled over,
and watched as she stepped out of the car and stormed up the hill towards
her house.
	"I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon!" He said. "Promise!"
	He shook his head.  He didn't know what she was going on about.  He
drove the rest of the way down the hill to his apartment, and parked his
car in the garage.  As he stepped out into the parking lot, he found that
the fog had grown even thicker.  As he walked to the main entrance, he
seemed alone in the misty fog, and in its solitude, his mind was filled
with swimming images of nude showering boys, dancing among a sea of yellow
daffodils.  Elton John music played softly in the background, like a sexy
cashmere sweater.  Their hips lightly bumped as the virile young boys
danced together.  Their hands were intertwined.
	He slammed the door to his apartment and sighed.  Someone, probably
the half-retarded maintenance repair guy, had left the window open, and the
floor was carpeted with swirling fog.  He went to fix himself a half caf
skinny mocha red eye over ice when he suddenly realized he had no idea what
that was.
	Cap sank down on the couch, turning on a local sporting event to
try to take his spinning mind off Broadway musicals and interior design.

	Big Fat Rubbery Gay Vampire Bat Reginald was flopping about in the
sky on the way to a Cher concert when he spotted young Baseball Cap Joe
watching a televised sporting event in a small straight bachelor pad below.
He could see him, of course, as he had sonar.  Reginald swooped down to the
patio and returned to fat vampire form.  His purple sequined cape was very
gay, as were his yellow hot pants and queer rhinestone boots.  FWOOSH!  He
opened the patio door SHWOOP! and crouched behind the blinds CROUCH!  He
clandestinely sashayed across the room and hid himself beside the big
straight pizza boxes and girly magazines on the coffee table SASHAY!  He
capered in front of the TV as Joe dipped his hand into a bag of straight
Fritos and hid beside the couch.  CARDAMON!  Stealthily, Reginald pranced
in front of the TV again and skulked behind a floor lamp on the other side
of the TV.  TINKYWINKY!
	"VWA!" Said Big Fat Gay Vampire Reginald in a deep and ominous
voice, pouncing ambiguously from his gay hiding place.  Lightning flashed
and there was a very scary musical sting.  "VWA!"
	Joe lept from his butt groove in abject heterosexual horror.  "AIE!
Is my heretofore unquestioned sexual orientation about to be compromised in
some dastardly yet unquestionably arousing homosexual erotica?"
	"Yes!" Replied Reginald.  He loomed with ambiguous eeriness above
Joe, feeling the raw heterosexual life force emanating from the young man,
beckoning him like a queer cashmere sweater in a bargain bin at the yarn
barn.  "But first try this!"  He held something out in the palm of his
hand.  It looked brown and crusty.
	"What is it?" Cap asked.
	"A raspberry cream truffle!" Reginald replied.
	"No!" Cried Cap, "God no!  Jesus in Heaven no!  Someone please save
me!"
	"Shout as you like," Reginald said, "But in the fog no one will
hear you!  They have all run!  Run away from the fog of homosexual
conversion!  And now you, Heterosexual Baseball Cap Joe, you will be
converted, and will walk forever among the Queens of the Night!"
	"You can't turn me gay!" Cap cried.  "I'm in sports!"
	"Yes I can sweetie." Reginald said reassuringly. "Think about it,
men slapping each other in the butt, being manly men, standing around naked
together under hot, soapy water.  It was only a matter of time!"
	Joe suddenly found himself entranced by this shimmering world of
homoerotic bliss, where he could explore all the tantalizing, exotic fruits
of the male body; slim calves, firm six-packs glistening like peaches in
syrup.  He sunk into a dark, warm underworld of tantalizing fantasy and
freedom, where he could express his love of color coordination and gourmet
cooking without fear of bitter reproach.
	Reginald closed in slowly, casting Joe in his shadow, scooping his
victim up in an intimate embrace.  His lips brushed Joe's neck, and his
teeth sunk into Joe's jugular.  Blood rushed up like a metallic stream.
Joe lingered on the edge of mortal sanity, savoring the nauseous feeling of
utter release as his beating life rushed into his attacker's hungry mouth.
	They got it on like monkeys, and Joe lived as a big fat gay vampire
until he caught AIDs from a transexual and died from tonsillitis.