Daily Screams

Fanfic Prompt

"I don't believe it!" There was a rustle of paper and a bone white hand slammed down a manuscript.

The room was dark, heavy velvet curtains blocked the early morning sun, and although there was a fireplace, only electronic flames danced there. Candlelabra scattered amongs the bookshelves and small reading tables, but all had been modified to hold lightbulbs, most of whom had been switched off. Those that were lit had been dimmed to their lowest setting.

"Look at it. Did you even read it before you brought it to me?" the voice complained. It was masculine, but high and faintly nasal with a slight lilt. It's owner sat nestled deep in a leather chair, pushed back from his writing desk. Again, there was the elctric mix of old and new; an anitque inkwell pinned down a glossy magazine, and a Carpathian dagger sat cheek by jowl with a high performance laptop.

"I could speak to the lawyers, Master." A second voice interjected. This one was low and gravelly; and whilst equally nasally, this voice sounded less astrocratic, and more as though the speaker had broken his nose a number of times. The lilting accent was more pronounced too, a twang of something Eastern European. South Eastern like the dagger perhaps.

The voice from the chair gave a snort and the white hand curled into a fist. The nails were long and poorly manicured, and in the half-light they looked more like claws.

"No more lawyers," the Master sneered. "I should have dispensed with the filthy leeches after the 1970 debarcle. Or the one in 1973, or 1977."

"I rather liked the '73 one, Master."

"You also liked Dead and Loving It," snapped the Master. "You even liked The Lost Boys."

"I felt Keifer Sutherland brought a new zest to the genre."

"I wasn't even mentioned in that one." The Master sounded peeved.

"I thought that was the idea?"

"Bah! I would not give my name to such candyfloss-dross." Those long white fingers tapped on the desk, beating a sattico tattoo.

"As opposed to, say, Blade?" Voice Two held a sly, almost gleeful, note.

"Daywalkers!"

he Master spat. "After all the information that nasty little English -"

"-Irish."

"- Irishman wrote in his foul book, you would think people would at least get the basics right."

"He did write an awful lot about you, Master. It was almost as though he met you."

"Don't be coy, Igor! It doesn't become you. You know perfectly well what I had in mind for Stoker. And it should have worked perfectly. And it did! You remember that dear Hungarian boy? Béla."

"Hmmm, the 1931 preformance. Yes, young Lugosi did you proud, Master."

"But this!" The Master's white hand waved over the manuscript in front of him. "Look at Igor! This is undoubtably the worst adaptation I have ever seen!"

"Do you glitter, Master?"

"No you fool! This is worse."

"Worse that sparkling?"

"They want to make me an alien."