The ancient vampire lay in a torporific state, oblivious to his physical surroundings. Though his body be a prisoner of the soulless land of Catatonia while the sun still ruled the sky, his mind rode Xanadu’s sacred river Alph down to the sunless sea.
He slept not the dreamless sleep of the dead but the eternal morpheus sleep of the undead. His dreams flickered across the cobwebs of his mind like the silent films that fascinated him a century ago.
Dreams of the countless loves lost, senseless wars fought, and unspeakable horrors committed, danced through his head, unbidden. And the sun-- like all nosferatu, the vampire dreamed of the sun and the bittersweet day when last they embraced.
Here tucked in the protective confines of his coffin, sealed within the safety of the mausoleum, the creature basked in the brilliance of a harmless imagined star. A star so bright it brought a crimson tear to his ghoulish eye. He basked in the glow, savoring the sensation of warmth upon his sun kissed skin, flesh glistening with perspiration.
Perspiring from the heat of Helios … heat … The heat was intense. The fiend did not understand. The smell of charred cloth and burning hair -- his hair-- penetrated the misty veil of his consciousness. The searing pain that invaded every fiber of his languid frame was unbearable. How was this happening?
The vampire fought monstrously to break the grip of the supernatural lethargy that plagued him. Screaming in mindless frustration and willing his limbs to move. He felt his skin smolder and crack as he simmered in his own bloody juices. In one mammoth act of desperation, he flung open the lid and slithered weakly over the side, congealing in a pool on the floor of his tomb like drying blood.
The coolness of the marble floor revitalized the still smoking vampire. Standing to his full height, he surveyed his surroundings, quickly deducing what had taken place. With moral indignation and outrage he yelled…
“Who's the wise-ass that put me in the tanning bed!”
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