I'm Undead And I Vote

I'm Undead: And I Vote By Jackie Rose The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. I'm Undead and I Vote Copyright ã 2004 Jackie Rose

ISBN: 1-55410-173Cover art and design by Martine Jardin All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher. Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, Look for us online at: www.zumayapublications.com www.Extasybooks.com Dedication: To all those who care enough to get out and vote—even if it means getting out of their coffins to do it. Tarot: Six of Wands Triumph, power and acclaim—just what you get when you provide the swing vote in a really close election year—that's one interpretation of the Six of Swords card. ~*~ Having been a real pain in the neck while she was alive, Tiffany Golden remained one after she died, and in a much more literal sense. As a volunteer for Senator Felix P. O'Neill (D-Mass), she had spent a lot of time annoying registered voters. Her task entailed calling them at home at all hours, to ask how they were planning to vote. If they gave the desired answer, she then went on to ask if they needed a ride to the polls. In such a close election, her party needed every vote she could scrounge. Sometimes one of the strangers would tell her that it was none of her business and hang up. That was a distinct disadvantage of working for liberals, she thought. Conservatives probably tended to have better manners. At the same time, she felt guilty for having been such a nuisance to a fellow liberal, but that remorse did not last long. Her grandfather, after all, had been an old-time union organizer, so she could imagine how hard he had had to push, at a time when joining a union was considered to be just this side of anarchy. He had had to do it among some pretty rough customers, too, although perhaps never as rough as hers turned out to be. Unsurprisingly, she was unmarried at age twenty-five, but hoping to change that status through her volunteer career. She had accordingly taken a semester off from her studies towards a master's degree in American literature at George Mason University, thus moving her teaching career even farther into the future. Her parents supported her financially in both endeavors, hoping that one of them would lead her to a husband who could the lift the economic burden. Soon enough, alas, she learned that both graduate schools and political headquarters were crawling with single women with the same goal in mind. What's worse, she was living and working in the Washington, DC area, where women outnumber men by a notorious six to one, and where almost all of Senator O'Neill's female volunteers had the same hopeless crush on him that she did. But, what the heck, she

figured, she didn't have anything better to do with her life. Which was true, as far as it went. Her situation changed abruptly the night she fatally decided to go to Denny's in Fairfax after her volunteer shift instead of settling for her usual Lean Cuisine, as dictated by her tendency to plumpness. After that night, she would no longer see a plump girl in the mirror. In fact, she would not see anything at all. The change came while she was walking past a cemetery—and trying to convince herself that the forces of evil lurking there would have no power against a good liberal who was in the area, because she had been fighting the good fight for universal health care and all the other positive things that her candidate stood for. Apparently, it was not quite good enough. Through the cemetery gates emerged a young man with pale skin and slicked-back dark hair, in an incongruously formal black suit. Startled at first, she felt one hand moving to her Vera Bradley shoulder bag (in the floral pattern created to benefit breast cancer research) and the other to her throat. She soon realized, though, that he could not possibly be what he seemed. She would have asked him what he was doing there, but from force of habit, she decided to first say, "Good evening, I am Tiffany Golden, and may I ask who you are planning to vote for?" "I don't vote," he answered, gazing at her from compelling black eyes. "And I don't drink—wine, that is. I've always wanted to say that." Stepping back in growing unease, she asked, "Are you a vampire buff? Is that what brings you here?" "Sort of," he replied, as he grasped her hands in his cold ones and pulled her close to him. With his right hand still firmly on her shoulder in its emerald green quilted silk jacket, he held out his left arm in a slow, theatrical, beckoning gesture (at least, he hoped it was beckoning). Then he ran that hand slowly through her curly red hair and onto her freckled face. Even through her fog of helpless terror, she sensed that he seemed to be following the instructions of some movie director, rather than the forces of evil. As he would soon tell her, he had, indeed, been an enthusiastic (not to say fanatical) film student before his untimely death two years earlier, at age twenty-three. But even without his cinematic background, he would have known how to press his lips against the throbbing vein in her throat and sink his pointed teeth there. She recovered from her swoon to find him still there, with his hands on her arms. He had not hurt her after all, she decided. And despite his decidedly strange pick-up lines, he was still a voter. "May I talk to you about voting for Senator O'Neill?" she asked. "He really needs your help." "I told you, I don't vote," he said. "I never registered." Unconsciously changing his normal voice into a fake Transylvanian accent, he added, "Now I cannot, because I am one of the children of the night. What beautiful music they make. And now you are one of us, too." Then I cannot vote for Senator O'Neill, she thought, stunned. A moment later, however, she decided that there was no real reason why not. When, after all, had Senator O'Neill ever discriminated against anyone?

"You mean, I am a vampire?" she asked. "No, you're one of Charlie's freaking Angels," he answered, in some annoyance, caused largely by her failure to notice his Bela Lugosi impersonation. "What do you think you are? Of course you're a vampire. I just bit you, didn't I? And what do you think I am, a Jedi Knight? More like a Galactic Stormtrooper. We are ruled by the forces of evil." She thought of that, and all its implications, for a long, shuddering moment. Then she shrugged and said, "So, my grandfather was a Communist, at a time when that was even worse. So I'm a vampire. That does not mean I will allow the president to be re-elected. That really would be giving in to the forces of evil." "A vampire can't vote!" he told her, in growing annoyance and an increasingly human tone. "We're dead, Jim." "Honey, I came from Chicago, and dead people vote there all the time," she assured him. "The only difference is, they use proxies." "We would need proxies, too," he retorted. "We can't go out in the sun when the polls are open, remember?" "They will be open until it's very dark this November," she said. "And I can register you. The form asks if you are a citizen, remember, not if you are alive. And you can give this place as your address," she added, waving towards the cemetery. "They never check on that, anyway." Bowing to the inevitable, he waited as she pulled her ever-present registration form from her shoulder bag. It now seemed all-too-appropriate for the occasion, with its pink ribbons, white lilies-of-the-valley and green leaves against a black background (which did, however, seem a rather startling choice of a dominant color to symbolize cancer research). Now it was her turn to hesitate, though, before she handed him a pen. "How many vampires are there?" he asked. "Especially in, like Ohio and Michigan, because they could go either way." "How do I know?" he demanded, in growing exasperation. "You think we are a freaking political action committee?" "Not yet, perhaps," she whispered. Now it was his turn to feel a growing dread. But still, he was her sire, as he realized, and that gave him certain duties. And some pretty good privileges, too. "Let's go back to my place so we can talk about it," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders, in a gesture suggesting that the arm was supporting a black satin cape. "You mean, your coffin?" "No, the freaking Bates Motel. Where do you think I live? Why did you think I was in the cemetery?" For another long moment, she told herself sternly that she had to be more open minded in adapting to different cultures. Then a more pleasant thought struck her, concerning the particular demographic that would now apparently include her.

"Do we have wild sex there?" she asked. "I mean, is that permitted by your—I mean our—like, cultural mores?" "Oh, sure," he said, his black eyes gleaming, although not the rat-like red he could have wished. That hungry gaze told her that, vampire or not, he was not exactly making out like a madman and that, in fact, she was probably the first maiden to receive his dark kiss. The thought was strangely touching. Actually, she thought, un-dead intercourse was not much better than the ordinary mortal kind. For one thing, everything felt colder. There was no sensation of warmth when their bodies met: Quite the contrary. There was, however, the feeling of a very large, hard and hungry penis thrusting into her throbbing and eager vagina, when they were both at least as horny as any hard-up UN-undead couple would have been. If it was not any better than mortal sex, it was certainly no worse. But then, as she sternly reminded herself, there had never been any reason to think that vampire sex was best. It was just another stereotype, designed to keep her people down. If 'people' was the right word for them. **** Things being how they were, when Tiffany arrived with her companion at the Hyatt Regency Hotel, they had to ask the doorman for permission to enter. He thought they were being unusually polite. Upstairs in the Grand Ballroom, the host did think it was rather peculiar for Tiffany Golden to be asking permission for herself and her friend to enter the volunteers' reception. She was, as they all knew, a long-time volunteer. But being on the lookout for reporters or hecklers rather than vampires, he assured the two that they were more than welcome. So did the candidate, when they approached him. Of course, they had to wait in line, but once they reached the end of it, he was courtesy itself. "Thank you for coming to see me," he told her, with becoming modesty. "I could not be doing it without you." With that, he fixed his bright blue eyes on her, which were such a startling contrast to his warm brown skin and luxuriant wavy black hair. Both his looks and his Blarney had been inherited from an Irish rebel ancestor. His descendants had eventually made their way to Boston and found new opportunities there that did not center around trying to topple the British Empire, although they had raised their share of money for the cause in their day. He was neither surprised nor embarrassed to see how stunned and overwhelmed she seemed to be with his brief moment of attention. Like almost all of his other female volunteers (including, he suspected, some among the Lesbian League), she was more than half in love with him. And, indeed, at that moment she was reminding herself that she was not supposed to swoon over the candidate—on the contrary, men were supposed to fall down (both literally and figuratively) over her. Although, on second thought, she realized that she had been trapped by stereotyped thinking once again. In any event, she found herself being helplessly drawn to him, and possessed by a need to serve him. And wasn't that exactly what she had come for? Just as he was giving her the final handshake while looking past her to the next girl in line, she blurted out, "I have found a new minority group, Senator, and I think they've got enough votes across the country to get you elected." As his hand fell to his side and his blue gaze turned back to her, she realized that she really did have his full attention now.

"I mean the vampires," she said. "I am one of them. And this is George Zagorsky, who is my sire." "Holy Dracula!" George muttered. "Why didn't we just go directly to Saint Elizabeth's Hospital? He's going to think we're berserk." But Sen. O'Neill (D-Mass) was long past the point of being dismayed by the antics of a nutty volunteer, especially one who did not seem to threaten him. Looking at George's black burial suit and slicked-back dark hair, the candidate quickly decided what kind of nut he was. "I enjoyed 'Angel' too," he said. "And I'm sorry it was cancelled. It's nice to meet my fellow fans." "Angel!" George exclaimed. "He's an Uncle Barnabas!" Seeing their blank stares, he went on, "Like in the 'Dark Shadows' movie, when he kept trying to protect the mortals from his own kind. Angel is the same way. Like an Uncle Tom." "Uncle Tom was not an Uncle Tom—" she heatedly began, but then remembered her purpose, which did not at present include a heated (or, in this case, chilled) defense of feminist writings. "We are more than that," she insisted, trying out her own hypnotic vampiric gaze on him. When it did not seem to be working, she added, "Do you see that mirror behind you, Senator?" Indeed, the mirror was hard to miss, with its rococo gilded frame. Turning, he saw his own reflection, but neither Tiffany nor George. "It's a trick," he whispered. "You did something to the mirror!" "Oh, yeah?" George demanded, having gotten into the spirit of the thing. "Then what about this? Has anybody got a cross?" Fortunately for our heroes, the fifth girl in line happened to be an Irish-Catholic who was supporting Senator O'Neill on a largely ethnic basis. She was ethnic enough to be wearing a large Celtic cross around her neck. Quickly unfastening her necklace, she handed it to George, who howled and dropped it before displaying the burn mark in his palm. After a long, stunned moment of gazing with widening eyes, the other girls in line opened their mouths to scream. But, once more, Sen. O'Neill proved that he was made of sterner stuff. After rapidly recalling the latest polls—which showed, putting it bluntly, that he needed every vote he could get—he cut off their cries by exclaiming, "And we are very happy to have two representatives of our vampire community with us tonight. Or do you prefer Transylvanian American?" "Our parents did not come from Transylvania," George added firmly, seeing the way the wind was blowing and realizing it was gusting in his favor. "We are American vampires. And I know for a fact that plenty of us are in Arlington Cemetery—during the day, at least—because they died in all our country's wars." He was getting the knack of politics already. O'Neill fought off the image of vampires at Valley Forge, draining the blood of the fallen Redcoats, not that it didn't serve the Brits right. "I have always known that there were fine patriotic vampires among us," O'Neill assured Tiffany, once more fixing her with his blue eyes, which could have more than matched any vampire's hypnotic gaze.

"And for too long, we have neglected their needs. Our blood banks should be open to them, so that they will not be driven to find their food by other methods. And of course, we should not allow discrimination against these fine citizens." With the tact that had become automatic, he declined to assume they were 'fine people'. It did not matter to him, as long as they were fine voters, but the term could possibly offend them, if they did not regard themselves as 'people' in the technical sense. "In fact, they are a wonderful asset for employers who need workers at night. And, of course," he added in conclusion. "We must keep the polls open until midnight, to help them exercise their right to vote." **** Later that night, he repeated his statements on television, after setting the stage by having Tiffany and George repeat their proofs of vampire-hood for the cameras. The photographers were stunned, but not to the point of forgetting to say, "Look over here, honey," and "Can you say that again, George, without the Transylvanian accent?" Since their demonstration was leading every news show, Tiffany and George were able to see it replayed while sitting among their fellow vampires, as they sat around the 27-inch plasma TV in Dr. Charles Carmichael's McLean mansion, sipping plasma of another sort through the tubes in their blood-bank bottles. It was not the traditional gothic or Victorian mansion—but, things being how they were, the vampires of Washington felt themselves lucky to have any meeting place at all. Brick Georgian Colonial was certainly better than some sort of contemporary rambler or bungalow. To the dismay of our heroes, their fellow vampires were not impressed by their coup. "Sure, he wants our votes now," Tim Johnson said aggressively. "But as soon as the election is over, he'll be telling us that we can afford to be patient, because we can wait forever. Literally." As a vampire of African-American heritage, he knew whereof he spoke. "I am telling you, he is the real thing!" Tiffany insisted. "He will remember who got him elected, especially since he'll need us next time. His triumph will give us our pride and acclaim. And besides, what do you think the incumbent will do for us? He's even against Gay Rights, let alone ours." "But then, we'll have to come out of the closet. Or out of the coffin, I mean," Tim objected. "They could lynch us the moment we showed up." As it was, his modeling income had plummeted, since he could only work at night without being able to explain why. "Not if enough of us are there," she said firmly, in a tone that ended all discussion. "So where is the nearest Home Depot? And where is the phone book?" Learning that the nearest location was Merrifield and it closed at 10 p.m., she led her reluctant crew there in search of posterboard, Magic Markers, industrial staplers and wooden stakes. They naturally started their preparations by sawing off the wooden tips, in case anyone else attending the rally was overcome by prejudice. **** While no one was actually overcome, many in the crowd that filled the DC Armory cast anxious glances at the 50 or so very pale people who were clustered together clutching their signs: "VAM-power!"

"Blood is Beautiful!" and, perhaps most effective of all, "I'm undead—and I vote!" The un-undead contingent quickly forgot their fears, along with everything else in the world, when their candidate strode onto the platform, waited for the roars to die down and exclaimed, "Thank you all for coming here tonight and proving once again that our party embraces everyone!" And he spread his arms wide, to illustrate how all-inclusive it was. "We are especially proud to welcome here tonight a group of citizens who have entertained us so often, in movies and TV shows, but who have never before been welcomed into our political family," he declared, in his most confident tone. He had thought of saying 'into the body politic', but that might give offense. Jane Fonda had set a new standard for sensitivity, he recalled, with her abject written apology for her extremely insensitive statement when she said that putting someone or other in charge of something or other would be "like putting Dracula in charge of the blood bank." Dracula would now be a perfect custodian of the blood supply, she now realized, having so much reason to protect it. She had originally said that he had a stake in it, but immediately realized that that would be the most hurtful phrase of all. Sen. O'Neill would have sounded much less confident, if he had known what was happening behind the men's room door, which bore a sign saying 'closed for repairs'. There, a group of self-chosen Vampire Slayers was hiding their crosses and sharpened stakes beneath the linoleum, in case the need arose. This was easy to do because one of their numbers was an installer. The others were his fellow members of the Jefferson Davis High School PTA. While the teachers were urging tolerance, these parents had met in the hallway to angrily agree that vampires were a greater threat to their children than drugs and gangs put together, because they really did have only one way to reproduce their kind. Some of them harbored less admirable feelings. Blacks, Hispanics, gays, they thought—all those minority people were bad enough, but at least they were people. These undead un-Americans were going to far. And there was no hope coming from the courts. After some friends of current president brought a hasty lawsuit, the federal court was forced to rule that voting requirements did indeed call for 'residency' rather than 'life', just as the vampire's lawyer had argued. The Slayers had thus agreed to use those weapons if the need should arise, which it would do if this slimy creep were actually elected, bringing his incredibly creepy followers along with him. They already knew that his 'Victory Celebration' would be held in the Hyatt Regency and, if it really did turn out to be a victory celebration, with no quotation marks needed, they would know how to end the celebrating fast. **** Buoyed by the promises of nutritional subsidies for blood banks, where the more fortunate among them were buying their supplies, and anti-discrimination laws, the vampires did yeoman service in getting out, or, in some cases, digging up, the vote. Some of the more enthusiastic even went about making, or rather,

siring new recruits. Of course, they made sure that their sire-ees were good liberals. When Tiffany found out about it, though, she discouraged that particular campaign, from her new position as liaison to the vampire community. It would just encourage offensive stereotypes, she insisted, like the notion that vampires bit people on the neck. "But we do bite people on the neck," Tim objected. "Why should we be ashamed of our heritage?" "Because it won't bring O'Neill any votes," she answered firmly. "Once we get him in the White House, we can celebrate our heritage as much as we want. On a consensual basis, of course." "Of course," George replied, although in a disappointed tone. He saw the reasoning, of course, but was nothing, pardon the expression, sacred any more? Could you see Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee or even wimpy Frank Langella saying, "If you want me to stop biting your neck, just say 'transfusion'?" I mean, what about our own cultural heritage, he demanded silently. Everyone knows we are supposed to gaze into our victim's eyes and win him or her over that way? Hey, isn't that just what he'd done with Tiffany herself, who would never have become their spokesvampire otherwise? But he knew that every minority group had to give up some of its folkways, in order to enter the mainstream—or bloodstream, as it were—and he should have realized that vampires would be no different. Besides, he and Tiffany were both being paid small salaries as Senatorial aides, which were still larger than any he had ever earned before. The least they could do was to avoid embarrassing him—by leaving corpses lying around non-consensually drained of blood, for instance. He just hoped that Tiffany had not seen his hesitation on the subject. For one thing, he did not want to be accused of feeding stereotypes. For another, he had seen the way she gazed at Sen. O'Neill, making it clear that she wanted to do all kinds of consensual things with him. While she was still, literally, getting screwed in George's coffin, he had a feeling that she would rather do it in the Lincoln Bedroom with its tenant. If the ghosts really walked there, they would accept it as a matter of professional courtesy. Tim Johnson, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Now that he was able to come out of the closet, or coffin, he was getting more consensual action than he could handle. Better yet, the assignments were pouring in. Now that everyone was embracing vampires—metaphorically, at least, every sponsor wanted to follow the trend with an authentic undead model. Since he was also a Black man, that gave the clients two minority markets in one. Those erotic romance novels were especially hot for him. Since their readers had secretly loved vampires for a long time, the publishers were eager to put a real one on their covers. Their problem was, most real vampires were pretty geeky, compared to the fantasy versions. No one was likely to buy a book because good old George was on the cover, trying to look like Bela Lugosi and failing. Tim Johnson, they agreed, looked the way a modern vampire should: dark and dangerous, with muscles (and other things) bulging. Naturally, he did not charge the O'Neill campaign for the poster he posed for, to arouse the vampire voters. He was sure it aroused a lot of un-undead females, plus a few males, as well. Now the vampires were in Dr. Carmichael's mansion, waiting to watch the Sunday morning talk shows, which a fellow volunteer had thoughtfully recorded for them.

The McLaughlin Group, in particular, started on a high note that soon rose higher yet. John McLaughlin set the tone by anointing the vampire vote as 'issue one'. But there was even better to come when the discussion ended. One a scale of one to ten," McLaughlin had asked his Group, "how much will the vampire vote help O'Neill—with 'one' being a stake through his heart and 'ten' being a very Happy Halloween?" 'Eight', the numerical average had been, with the extremes represented by Eleanor Clift voting 'nine' and Pat Buchanan 'one'. "We've got to give these people a chance," she had insisted, only to hear him shout her down, as usual. "Yes, a chance to bite our necks," he had exclaimed. "Don't you notice that they are afraid of crosses? They are just another interest group trying to secularize America and destroy our culture. If they can't live by their laws, let them go back to Transylvania." Fortunately, Eleanor had defended social justice in her usual way, by retorting, with rueful laugher, "Oh, Pat!" McLaughlin had raised the vampiric spirits still further by shouting, "Nine!" to decide the issue. His reaction had been so gratifying, even Tiffany dropped her plan to send him a written protest against the cheap cracks about 'stakes' and 'Halloween'. She was even more grateful to Bill O'Reilly, who had publicly invited an un-dead spokesperson on his show, while pointing out that his nightly program was taped live, long after the sun had set. Knowing O'Reilly's old-fashioned gallantry, at least towards women who openly admired him, O'Neill had chosen Tiffany for the honor. When, inevitably, the host had asked if vampires ever lured teenagers with unnatural sex, Tiffany had replied that she would much rather lure him. Considering O'Reilly's good looks and Irish charm, she was able to speak sincerely. After that, he had beamed on her as warmly as she fawned on him. As the ultimate proof of his favor, he did not interrupt her even once. Living in Florida, her parents learned about her new career via Larry King Live. Her mother's first response was, "I saw you on television and you looked beautiful!" And her grandfather was even more supportive. "You tell the people the truth!" he shrieked, from his retirement home. "Their anti-vampire crusading is just a way to keep the masses from turning on the real vampires, the bosses, who are sucking the blood of their labor." Knowing the candidate's more moderate views, Tiffany realized that she had better not tell the masses any such thing. But it was the Presidential Debate that really showed which way the wind was blowing, and it was apparently coming straight from Transylvania. Asked about the vampire vote, O'Neill waxed eloquent about the great untapped resource that this hitherto-underrated minority would provide. This was not remarkable, because he had been saying the same thing for months—but what the incumbent said, was very impressive indeed. While accusing his opponent of trying to build yet another minority voting block, he refrained from criticizing the group itself. He had forced himself to avoid attacking gays, radical feminists and illegal aliens, as he reminded himself, so vampires should be easy. In any case, there were some, like Dr. Carmichael, who would be natural conservative voters, based on their economic interests, if they did not feel that their ethnic-or-whatever-you-call-it group was under attack. In any event, the vampires were obviously proving to be a force to be reckoned with.

**** They showed just how much of a force they were on Election Night. O'Neill won the presidency by one half percentage—corresponding almost exactly to the vampire population. The undead were among the liveliest of the supporters who stood waving their signs and congratulating each other in the Grand Ballroom. Of course, the mortal majority chose to shake hands rather than embracing their undead comrades-in-arms, but everyone agreed that that was understandable. Nor, on the other hand, could one blame the undead contingent for staying away from the gilt-framed mirrors. On the platform, the band played 'Happy Times Are Here Again', as the returns kept pouring in. 'Happy Days are Here Again' would have been insensitive, as the president-elect's liaison to the vampire community had told them. Obviously, vampires never had happy days, due to their metabolic challenges, but only happy nights. The musicians had hastily assured Tiffany that they understood her feelings completely. For one thing, as the drummer said, he was into the Goth movement, which looked up to vampires, and even hoped to join their ranks after the election. Just as it had since the Roosevelt years, the music provided a happy background for the crowd. Mortals and vampires together, they stood staring up at the television screens and cheering as the returns came in. Needless to say, the loudest and longest applause came when they heard the long-awaited announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, the next President of the United States!" That was the time-honored signal for the president-elect and Mrs. O'Neill to stride through the doors, signaling that the election was won. Close observers noted that, while Mrs. O'Neill often wore a small cross around her long aristocratic throat, it was notably absent tonight. An even more certain harbinger of victory was the appearance of the four Secret Service agents who would now protect him. They were followed almost immediately by the solemn, craggy face of Dan Rather appearing on ten televisions, announcing that the NBC Victory Desk had just given the election to O'Neill. With his usual faint smile, he added that the new minority consistency had breathed new life—if that was the term—into the election. Knowing the importance of having Rather on their side, Tiffany decided, once again, not to send a note of protest. One always had the feeling that, if the Victory Desk could give the election, they could just as readily take it away. And the guards came striding through the double doors not a moment too soon. A few moments later, and the new minority might well have become even smaller. As the Secret Service agents were moving towards the stage, the self-appointed Vampire Slayers burst through the double doors, holding their stakes and crosses high. Rather to their surprise, they were greeted by the screams that should, in all decency, have been aroused by the vampires. "Unholy fucking shit!" cried George Zagorsky, forgetting, in the stress of the moment, to wonder what Bela Lugosi or Christopher Lee or even wimpy Frank Langella would have said in similar circumstances. In another moment, he had collected his wits long enough to push the president to the ground behind the podium and jump on top of him. For a long moment, O'Neill wondered if he should form a cross with his

fingers, but was deterred by the prospect of having to explain that to Bill O'Reilly. So close to George, he could not help noticing that the vampire's breath did not smell of blood, which was not surprising, when you realized that he could not be said to breathe at all. Even more reassuring, his eyes were not gleaming with his desire to thrust his fangs beneath the candidate's sky-blue pinstriped Brooks Brothers shirt. On the contrary, the young man (or whatever) seemed so concerned for the candidate's safety, he was exposing his back to the stakes and crosses in order to protect him. Without recourse to supernatural explanations, O'Neill could hear generations of Irish pol ancestors telling him that such loyalty was just as rare as a leprechaun and even more valuable. It turned out that the protection was not needed. The Secret Service immediately formed a human wall between the Slayers and the revelers and radioed for the police. As the former were taken away, they heard the president-elect urging the crowd to stay calm because the alarm was over. "We have seen yet another example of human prejudice," he said, with his own mussed black waves showing how violent the example had been. His voice shaking with indignation, he added, "I will direct the Attorney General to prosecute these so-called Slayers as a hate group and terrorist organization." Good liberals that they were, committed to free speech and association, the crowd cheered those words. The Slayers' targets, after all, had won the election for them. And if blood was thicker than water, votes were thicker than anything. Hearing their cheers, he was encouraged to continue with a plan he had half made. "But I was shielded from danger by a fine young member of the vampire community, at the risk to his own life," he said. As he paused, while wondering whether 'life' was quite the right word or whether he should have said 'existence', he saw the crowd turn briefly towards Zagorsky and heard them burst into cheers and cries of, "Way to go, George!" Seizing the moment, the president-elect then added, "and two years from now, in the next Congressional election, I will do my best to make sure that George Zagorsky will replace the incumbent from that other party, just as I did tonight!" When the roars had died down from the undead contingent, he said, "He is moving to the Great State of California which is, as I know you will agree, the state most open to just this kind of progressive innovation." While George had not been planning to move to California, a moment's reflection convinced him what a good idea it was. For one thing, he would be near the movie studios, and might even get cast as a vampire. A cinematic career had done nothing to hurt Arnold Schwarzenegger. Too bad they weren't still taping 'Angel', even if he was an Uncle Barnabas, because that show would have been a natural for his debut. He might even have played himself, just as Mayor Bloomburg had done on 'Law and Order'. Of course, all off-screen biting really would have to be consensual there, once he was in the public eye. That should not be a problem, though, since California Girls were known for consenting to all kinds of things.

O'Neill interrupted his thoughts by throwing his arm around the new Congressional (and cinematic) hopeful, grinning broadly and waving, while urging his new political protégé to do the same. And that, thought O'Neill, smiling even more radiantly, is the best way to thrown the vampires a bone —unless that was more for the werewolves—without having to actually give them anything, such as an anti-discrimination bill, for instance. Not that that such a bill would ever be passed, but perhaps he could get the vampires included under the Americans With Disabilities Act. Not being alive was certainly a disability, Lord knew. On the other hand, the more militant among them might resent having their heritage regarded as a disability, or even a challenge. His grin grew even wider. Such were the burdens of power, he thought, and he certainly looked forward to carrying them. If nothing else, he could appoint a vampire ambassador to Transylvania. "But, Mr. President," Zagorsky muttered anxiously, as they descended together from the platform, "I'm going to get my ass kicked." "No, you're not," O'Neill assured him, "because you're cute." Hearing 'The Candidate' quoted so aptly, Zagorsky knew that he had backed the right man. But if the burdens of power were great, the rewards were even greater. O'Neill realized as much once again when he glanced at Tiffany Golden. She looked radiantly happy and therefore prettier than ever, not to mention patriotic in her mini-skirted navy suit teamed with a white blouse, plus red belt and shoes. What's more, the reason she looked so joyous was that he had triumphed. What's more, even among presidents, this really would be an affair to remember. Not even Bill Clinton ever had vampire pussy, he thought. When my two terms are over, I will write my memoirs naturally, and let's see how long anyone remembers Monica Lewinsky then. Not, of course, that I would risk having oral sex with Ms. Golden—he shuddered at the thought—but then I won't have to. Vampires don't get pregnant, do they? Except perhaps with another vampire, like on 'Angel'. The Senator liked to keep his fingers on the pulse of the people, even if, like this new contingent, they didn't have one. His concubine-elect's usual escort, the future Congressman (Congressperson? Congressvamp?) Zagorsky, was surrounded by a double ring of girls. They were all obviously hoping to win his hand in marriage, or at least to win eternal life from his dark kiss, or preferably both. So, as usual, Felix O'Neill took full advantage of the opportunity. As he leaned down to thank Tiffany Golden for her help once again, he smiled and whispered, "Can you really turn into bats and fly through people's windows?" When she nodded somewhat dubiously, regarding that as an insensitive question, he added, "I know that you have been in my Georgetown town house. Did you notice that my wife and I have different rooms? Do you think you can find mine again?" This time she nodded rapidly with an ecstatic smile as he went on, "Then you also know, make it at midnight. There are some traditions that we ought to follow on this occasion." Especially, he thought, if we plan to record the event in our memoirs. **** So as the witching (and also vamping) hour came, she floated seductively up and down before the window—like the kid in the first, and best, TV version of 'Salem's Lot', as George would have said. In the spirit of the occasion, she wore a diaphanous white nightgown, hastily purchased at Marshall's

discount store. On her congressional staffer's salary she could not see paying Victoria's Secret prices, just for the sake of the label. The president-elect, on the other hand, was wearing the finest striped pajamas that Neiman-Marcus could provide. He had even had them form fitted, since he had donned them on many similar occasions. Not, as he realized, that any of those occasions had been completely similar to this. None of those other girls had waited for him to pull the windows open and invite her to enter, before she literally floated through the air towards him. Seeing that, he started to wonder, with a queasy feeling, if he really wanted to do it with a vampire, after all. This whole encounter, he realized, might, quite literally, suck. But when she came to rest lightly on her feet and smiled adoringly up at him, he decided that he wanted it very much. For one thing, he remembered, not one of his predecessors had ever done it with a vampire—not Roosevelt, not Kennedy, not Clinton, not even Griff Nyle, who had apparently made Clinton look like a monk, judging by the best-selling expose Rogue President. Wondering how you were supposed to treat a vampire, he quickly decided to do it just as he would any other girl. So he leaned down and kissed the top of her wiry red hair—which, she was wishing desperately, had been flowing straight down to her waist. Even if you were not George Zagorsky, and had not taken your idea of vampires from movies, everyone knew that your hair was supposed to do that. With his usual practiced gesture that was so effective for all but the heaviest girls, he lifted her into his well-toned arms and carried her to his bed. But as she raised her lips towards his, he suddenly felt impelled to draw back his head and say, "There won't be any non-consensual biting, will there?" "Of course not," she replied indignantly. "It must be a mutual decision." Thus satisfied, he placed her on the Irish linen spread, which had been hand-embroidered with shamrocks and presented to him and his wife as a keepsake during his last triumphal tour of the Auld Sod. He had thoughtfully checked it out beforehand, to be sure there were no crosses, Celtic or otherwise, in the design. While he had never before wondered what vampire women wore under their diaphanous gowns, he was now glad to realize that the answer was: nothing at all. As he straddled her with his legs, he lifted her gown and rubbed his hand along her (very) white thigh. The coolness was strange but not unpleasant, especially when you considered that neither John Kennedy nor Bill Clinton nor even Griff Nyle had ever stroked a thigh like that. And her red patch of hair showed that she was a redhead all over, further enhancing his pleasure. She, in turn, welcomed the warmth of the hard brown thighs that her cool hands stroked in turn, after he had slipped his pajamas to his knees. He showed himself proudly, still grinning. And, she realized, he had a lot to smile about: His phallus was very, well, phallic: hard, wide and long. As she spread her knees to receive him, he used his own knees to push them further apart. Her legs wound around him, and her body rose to meet his as he thrust himself inside her. So they rocked up and down, each time faster and faster as he thrust deeper and deeper, until the final moment, during which he had another surprise. "I never knew vampires had orgasms," he said, forgetting, for the moment, the danger of seeming politically incorrect. "Except when they are biting someone, I mean, on a consensual basis."

"How could any girl not have an orgasm with you, Senator?" she asked, gazing at him with such adoration, he knew that he had to send her back to give Bill O'Reilly the same adoring-fan treatment again. "But about that neck-biting thing…you know we do that only on a consensual basis, but I hope you will consent to me." "That would be something for you to brag about," he answered cautiously, remembering that nowadays presidential concubines often wrote their memoirs, too. "That is not why I want to do it!" she cried. "I want to give you immortality, and that's little enough to give, for someone who has done so much for us—and for me." For a long moment he was seriously tempted. Then he regretfully shook his head. "The country is not yet ready for a vampire president," he said. Then he added, with his most boyish grin, "but ask me again in four years." About the Author Living in Northern Virginia, Jackie Rose indulges her passion for history by touring restored colonial homes. A resulting newspaper story on historical re-enactors led to a Virginia Press Association first prize. This was the first of five VPA prizes she earned during her ten years of feature writing for area newspapers. Her husband David shares her love for history, travel, cruising, Walt Disney World and their son Frank. He also supports other hobbies: working out with Jazzercise and buying the latest Vera Bradley pattern handbags.