Comb-Over Vlad

Hey, come on! After several thousand years of being undead, you’ve gotta expect a guy’s hairline to recede just a little bit! And you’d expect a little vanity from a fella that dresses perpetually in a tux with waistcoat under a serrated cape. (Boy, black really is this chap’s color!)

I suppose a Romanian comb-over is better than a cheap Transylvanian toupeé. Or a huge gnarly cascade of twisted Draclocks. But there’s still something unnerving about that gypsy nose, bracketed as it is by saber canines and a pair of outsize swirling bloodshot hypno-eyes!

I think I’ll just back away slowly (being careful not to step in any blood), while I reach for the magazine of silver bullets for my Glock, a hefty wooden stake — honed to a point, of course — and my trusty pouch of gourmet elephant garlic.