Dear Director,
I hope this letter, handwritten with the finest ink, finds you well. I’m contacting you because I feel I must pen down some considerations that have been consuming me for decades. I’m usually reluctant to reveal myself to the public, so you ought to consider this letter as a great honour.
I am Vlad III Tepes, Voivode of Wallachia, Son of Vlad II Dracul, however you might recognise me by the diminishing moniker that writer Bram Stoker chose for me, “Count Dracula”. Such is only the first of many inaccuracies I had to endure: while dracula, son of dracul — where dracul means dragon — might be formally correct, the epithet only defines me in relation to my father, and I certainly have achieved much greater resonance in history than he has. It would be such as referring to one of the American presidents as “Junior”; Bush II should have washed this offence with the blood of his entire cabinet. But while it should be remembered that I am not, in fact, what people in this century would call a nepo baby, this is not my reason for temporarily coming out of the shadows. I am writing to you to clarify some points that appear to have metastasised in the general knowledge as facts about me, and that are completely wrong and offensive. I will begin with minor but annoying inaccuracies, and then proceed with a more general consideration.
Firstly, I am not allergic to nor cursed by garlic; it’s an utterly ridiculous superstition. While I could eat the bulb if I wanted to, it’s simply not my preference: garlic is a stinky, repugnant vegetable that only peasants could accept as an ingredient of one of their unsophisticated soups. Plus, you know what they say: one minute on your tongue, a day in your breath, three days in your sweat, and I take my personal hygiene and scent very seriously. Now you can understand why the common image of a version of me waving their hands up to the sky, hissing like a cat at the sight of a vegetable garland, is an intolerable caricature.
Secondly, I was never infatuated with Mina Harker, as some later scandalous retelling of my story, only wishing to titillate the low-brow reader, suggested; nor was she repelled by me. As already stated, one does not live for centuries without taking reasonable care of one’s own body, and I am most certainly not the disgusting beast I’ve been portrayed as. I concede that Stoker was fair in his recollection of my relationship with Mina, which was indeed one of predator and prey in the timeframe of his novel. It is also true that our rapport changed in time: Mina and I did indulge in a dalliance some years later, when she had been a married woman for some years and was seeking vigorous comfort, however our rapport never rose to the ranks of emotional attachment, and remained in the proximity of what some would describe as intercourse pals (my pen refuses to write the exact crass words your contemporaries would use, we are passing through a period of vulgarity but I ceased adjusting to the tide of times eons ago, I’d rather have time catch up with me). Tangentially, the one aspect Stoker depicted accurately was Mina’s pedantic interest in train timetables; the woman was obsessed, in hindsight, she might have been on the spectrum.
Thirdly, I do consume food, and gross depictions of me projectile-vomiting anything that is not pure blood are a grotesque divergence from reality. Most comestibles, just like sanguine fluid, are nothing but a mix of water, protein, and salts, all providing nourishment, and I don’t see why I should reject the former while accepting the latter. Blood is but a necessary integration to my main diet, which consists of nutritionally balanced dishes created by my personal macrobiotic chef.
Finally, and most importantly, I am compelled to dispel a fundamental misunderstanding about my biology by the general public: I have absolutely no need to take human lives. While my condition requires me to undergo the aforementioned integration of human blood, I can easily control my thirst and interrupt draining my prey well before death becomes inevitable. Generous citizens have been parting with their burgundy gold for decades, donating it to the unfortunates, so the possibility of understanding one can give bodily fluids and remain alive should not escape you. Why do you still take lives, then, you might ask. Why, well, because I can.
I am now approaching my seventh century of walking the Earth, achieving more than you could ever imagine. I have chosen to live a low-profile existence, content in my castles, my exotic palaces, and my condo in Florida; I do, however, need a stratagem to escape boredom. Forcing people to part with their mortal existence is tantamount to a reason to keep living, an enthralling pastime that motivates me daily. Yes, I could take squash, or instrument playing, or tarot reading, I can confirm I tried, and yet, having no need nor desire to perpetuate my presence on this land via procreation, killing is still my utmost chance of making an impact on the direction of humankind. I’m able to change the world while sustaining myself, therefore I do. Plus, the chemistry of a dying body gives blood a delicious metallic aftertaste.
I’m certain my letter has helped provide clarity, and, wishing you a pleasant life, I now bind you to immediately publish it. Tangentially, I can see you reading this letter, in the living room of that squalid apartment you live in. You should reupholster your sofa; it’s hideous.
Gracious Regards,
Vlad III Tepes, Voivode of Wallachia, Son of Vlad II Dracul
