A Letter To Bram Stoker

A LETTER TO BRAM STOKER

Dear Mr. Bram Stoker;

I want to set the story straight. I hope this letter clears up the details for you.

I suppose your readers believe you created an interesting legend. People like legends. They prefer them to truth, most times. Myself, I prefer the facts.

Contrary to popular opinion, I never hammered a stake through Vlad's heart. Why would I? There wouldn't have been much point considering I sent his head cured in honey to Mehmed II. On my signal, Mihai the weaselly little traitor, grabbed the bagged head then rode off to the Turkish camp. Vlad's troops didn't even realize he was dead until after the battle. It all went according to plan. My plan.

Weeks later after the sultan finished gloating, I had it retrieved and sent to Snagov for burial.

People want to believe in reason and logic. If they knew about me, they'd want to know why. They'd need to rationalize that maybe Vlad cut off my sister's tits for adultery or impaled my brother through the anus on a greased stake or that I was related to one of the Boyars he worked to death at his castle. They prefer the melodrama over the simple truth. Money is a simple truth.

Then there's the romantic slop swishing around the rumour mill about his undying love for his one of his wives. I always found the notion nauseatingly sentimental considering Vlad constructed wings in all his castles to ensconce his mistresses.

Personally, I found Vlad Dracula impressive. He was an excellent commander. He knew every nook and cranny of Wallachia and used it to his advantage. He made sure no invading army found an ounce of food or water, starving out most attempts before trouble even started. I thought his idea of sending all the bubonic plague victims into the Turkish camp and infecting them was a masterstroke. He terrorized the hell out of some of the most battle-hardened soldiers the world has ever known.

Even the Sultan's love of impalement Vlad learned as a hostage, he used against the same people who taught him to do it.

I believe you should give him the respect he deserves for holding off invaders while still managing to build up the agricultural areas. I find it impertinent that you turned the Prince of Wallachia into a flying rodent for the entertainment of the public.

It's not profitable to hold grudges in my line of work; alliances have a habit of shifting.

He was a cautious and thoughtful man. Perhaps since he spent most of his lifetime as a prisoner he learned patience. I certainly never underestimated him. Ambushes failed. Poison couldn't get to him and countless assassins didn't complete their missions.

History never recorded my part in his story. It wouldn't fit in anyone's legend, including
yours.

So you, with your twisted little mind you want to know how I did, it don't you? How did I get so close? Did the blade glint as I slashed his throat? What was it like to be splashed with the blood of the man who terrorized the Ottoman Empire and held the Hungarian Kingdom at bay in his puny little third-rate country caught between two giants?

The puzzle is oh-so-simple, Mr Stoker. Men are fools for women, even powerful men. Men will turn their naked backs on a helpless serving girl especially if they've just fucked her.

Why did I do it?

The same reason Vlad did what he did.

Survival.

Throw out the legends and there remains little difference between a legendary Prince and his unknown assassin.

Yours Truly,

X