MORGAN: THE VAMPIRE AUTHOR SLAYER

Anne Rice was easy enough. Most of her fans had told me she was getting soft and I guess it was true. Stephen King was a little harder to get a hold of. He was actually a King fan and considered not killing him. Even though he had only written one book completely devoted to Vampires King still had to go. Laurell K. Hamilton was a nice lady but it was her time as well. There were no exceptions. That was something he promised to himself as soon as he set out on his quest, Absolutely NO exceptions.

Probably the easiest and most fun group to take care of was all the online posters. Yes even Fan-fic authors were to be disposed of. He knew a guy who could create a virus that would infect their computers if they posted on ANY fan boards. So needless to say he took care of them quickly and quietly. "Once their computers are down I doubt they'd be able to last the night," his friend said. "They'd have to try and get through an entire night without posting." 'Good,' thought the slayer. It would've been a real pain if he had to get to each and everyone of their homes.

One by one he tracked everyone down and made sure they would never THINK the word vampire ever again. He had to get rid of short story writers, novelists, journalists, screenwriters, play writes and the occasional television producer. Sure it was hard work but he did it. There were no exceptions, none.

His journey had led him to Europe. With his back pack well stuffed with supplies Morgan made his way to an almost forgotten castle. Before reaching the trail leading to its black gate he stopped. The building it's self was little more than a pile of rocks. Still, one tower was intact. Showing in that tower's window were a row of candles and behind those candles were eyes.

"Of course," Morgan grimly whispered. "I knew it." Lunar light back lit the place and it did nothing to sway Morgan from his course.

All through his quest Morgan knew who he would have to end with. It would be someone who he never once believed to be dead. Every death was bringing him closer to that trail, through the gate and up the muddy stairs to HIS room. With him it started and with him it would end. Oh yes, it was going to end.

The door fell to the floor and shattered into splinters. Without hesitating Morgan stepped into the almost black tower room. At the window sat the row of candles almost completely burned. The owner of the watchful eyes was now completely out of sight. Morgan did not need to see him; he could feel him, occupying the same air as he.

"Finally," the other spoke. His voice was quiet, sophisticated and distant. "I knew you'd come. The candles told me."

Morgan dropped his bag. "You're the last," he spat.

"Yes, I am afraid so."

There was movement.

"Tell me Morgan," more movement. "Why do you hate us? What have we done?" As he spoke one old white hand came from the darkness into the white light of the moon and took the first candle.

Morgan slowly got to one knee and unzipped his bag. "I don't hate YOU. Just what you've all done." He removed a long, sharpened piece of wood.

"What, I ask again, have we done?" An unseen breath took out the candles flame. Then both the candle and the breath continued down the line until all the candles were diminished.

Taking his stance Morgan was ready for anything. "You've taken everything. I can't open a magazine, go to a movie or even watch television without hearing about blood hungry, sexy and romantic Vampires. You've even taken the entire holiday of Halloween. At first I enjoyed reading about the creatures of the night, until..."

Before he could finish the other spoke up, "before you're publisher suggested you write about them or else he would never publish you again?"

There was silence for a long while. A thick silence that a gasp could not break.

With fury Morgan said, "I don't know how you know that, but all this started because of you. Now I'm here to end it once and for all...STOKER!" He raised the sharpened wood towards the light. A cloak graced the side of Morgan's cheek. A rush of envy and hate shook him as a cold hand gripped beneath his chin. Morgan wanted to fight and he wanted to make love and he wanted to die all at once. There was nothing he could do; in an instant he was powerless.

"Oh no Morgan. The name of Bram Stoker has been forgotten. Now I am only called," the metallic and sweet smell of blood filled Morgan's senses and he closed his eyes. "Dracule, Nosferatu and Dracula."

Surprisingly there was no pain as Morgan lifted up the copy of his first novel, a twinge of love: Vampire romance. His publisher was sure that it would be a best seller, the greatest Vampire novel since that Dracula book.

"Thanks," Morgan said.

"Just one question." Morgan looked up into his publishers eyes, waiting for the question that he knew would come. "What made you change your mind?"

The answer was simple. "I did some soul searching." His publisher asked what he found. Morgan answered with a grin, "I don't have one."