COUNT KICKULA

The Legend of Lightning Dan

Here are the first two chapters of “Count Kickula: The Legend of Lightning Dan.” It’ll be available on Amazon in under 72 hours. Is it self-published? You betcha! Somehow publishers ran away from the book without even reading it. Weird, right? Still, I’m hopeful that some of you will like it! It’ll only be $5 on Kindle, and $15 for the paperback version.

PROLOGUE

Foxwoods Casino. 2013.

The promoter who came up with the slogan “Let’s settle it in Connecticut” should have been fired. But despite the tortured copy, the public came anyway. After all, the fight between “Lightning” Dan Preston and Ken K. King was an event that television executives dream of -- the rematch between the two best mixed-martial artists in the young history of the UFC.

The first battle at the Nationwide Arena in Columbus, Ohio had been a war… blood spread so completely over the octagon that Lightning Dan had lost his footing on the slick surface and fallen hard, allowing Ken King to jump on him and choke him out before he could regain his composure. After their even more brutal second contest at the DCU Center in Worcester, there were calls for MMA to once again be outlawed in the State of Massachusetts. With that in mind, the execs felt it prudent to move the third fight to a different venue.

Fortunately, the promoters at Foxwoods Indian Casino had no such reservations. They were subject only to the laws of the Mashantucket Pequot, and at no point in its history had the tribal court ever ruled against a way to make money. Besides, Connecticut had just legalized MMA fighting the month before… it was a no-brainer.

High in the rafters it seemed like every day-laborer in Boston had made the trip down to support Ken K. King. And while the “K-K-K” signs would not make it onto SportsCenter highlights, the crowd was unquestionably “wicked pumped.” A chant of “K-K-K” was started ironically by some overly hip Harvard pranksters, and it was soon taken up by the crowd… most of whom weren’t even particularly racist, but all of whom had been drinking enough to bring out their inner Southie.

To be fair, Lightning Dan had his supporters too. Unlike the Brazilian-trained grapplers who crawled around in homo-erotic power struggles… Dan was a striker, pure and simple. He attacked with speed and fury, launching roundhouse kicks that could electrify an audience. But he had turned 35 earlier in the month, and his lightning-quick kicks were becoming merely “very quick” kicks, which were useless in the Octagon. Win or lose, this was Lightning Dan’s last professional bout, because he wasn’t just fighting his opponents, he was fighting Time. But on this night at least, he faced an opponent he could beat.

The first round started well for Dan. He dodged and weaved with effortless grace, keeping a respectful distance between him and Ken King. Dan’s jab lashed out mercilessly whenever the bigger man approached. To King’s credit, he could absorb punishment, and he dutifully waded through a flurry of blows to land some of his own. Almost instantly, Dan felt that something was different than the last time they had fought. King’s punches had increased in power. They were harder than before. Heavier.

Dan backpedaled away and noticed a sneering smile on King’s face. A quick left wiped it off briefly. But it returned quickly, followed by counterpunch of King’s own, which jolted Dan, even though he had covered up against it. Each punch King landed did damage. Even the ones that Dan blocked were effective, as pain shot through his arms, weakening them. Deadening them. By the time the bell rang, Lightning Dan had lost his speed advantage entirely.

His coach, the great Sal Abruzzio, leapt into the cage with a stool as the trainers sprang into action, turning the corner into a human pit stop... a styptic sealed Dan’s split eyebrows. A gloved latex finger smeared Vaseline. A spray bottle appeared from the side and shot water into Dan’s mouth. Strong hands massaged Dan’s shoulders as he spat bloody backwash into the spit bucket that had materialized at his feet.

“Keep moving,” Abruzzio yelled. “Stick. Move. Stick. Move. He can’t match your speed!”

Abruzzio hated lying to fighters, but sometimes it was the only way to win. Miracles happened, but only to believers. So, despite the obvious fact that King was rocking his man, Abruzzio lied without hesitation. It was what made him such a great corner man. Maybe 1 out of 10 times, a fighter losing badly could hit the jackpot with a lucky punch. Of course, 9 times out of 10, the losing fighter would end up unconscious. Or worse. But those bouts were soon forgotten, while the glorious wins remained part of fighting lore, serving only to further burnish the legend of Sal Abruzzio.

Lightning Dan knew he was being lied to. He wanted to be lied to. That’s why he had hired a great corner man. To a fighter committed to victory, a truly responsible corner man was a menace to be avoided. Besides, the general advice was sound. Stick and move was always Dan’s game plan. In his weakened state it made more sense than ever. For some reason, King was trading punches with him. Surely, that worked to his advantage, didn’t it?

It did not.

The second round began badly… Dan’s weakened arms moved slower, missing their targets more often than not. King kept slugging away at Dan’s arms, until finally they dropped practically useless by his side. Dan’s kicks still held force, but King was on guard against them… and without the element of surprise, even the fastest kick was avoidable.

And so began a one-sided bludgeoning the likes of which the Octagon had never seen. Lightning Dan’s face was passing a test that human chins were designed to fail. Staggered again and again, but propped up only by force of will, the shellacking continued until even the venerable Sal Abruzzio clutched at his towel, preparing to throw it into the cage for only the third time in his 60-years of the fight game.

At last, the blessed peace of the bell.

“You gotta quit, kid” stated a shaken Abruzzio. He stood firmly in front of Lightning Dan, then placed his thumbs over his broken nose and set it, causing a brief gusher of blood to come pouring out.

The referee came to the corner.

“You gonna continue?”

“I think we’re good,” said Sal. “We’re done.”

“I’m not done, Sal,” said Dan. “I haven’t even got started.”

Lightning Dan lifted himself heavily to his feet.

The referee looked at Abruzzio. Abruzzio shrugged. He respected spirit, the fighter’s code, grit, moxie… whatever you called it, Abruzzio honored it, even as he knew it was a false god. Still, if the kid wanted to die in the Octagon, then Abruzzio saluted him. He mopped Dan’s brow one last time with the sponge, then removed the wooden stool and stepped through the cage door for the third and final round.

The crowd roared in bloodlust and appreciation.

“Remember to move, Kid”, called Abruzzio. “Move! Move! Move!”

Dan noticed that Abruzzio dropped the part about “sticking” entirely. Not a good sign. But he had formulated a plan of his own.

His speed was gone. His defenses were shot. All of his advantages were gone, negated by the ridiculously heavy hands of his opponent. But he still had one advantage he could call upon… surprise.

He staggered to the middle of the octagon and assumed his boxer’s stance. King approached warily, then easily slipped a slow jab, countering with a stern right that knocked Lightning Dan back. Eager to press his advantage, King continued his attack, only to find Lightning Dan shooting underneath him and taking him down with a double leg takedown.

Whirling on top of his opponent, Dan desperately pummeled King's face. But it was too little too late. King was still too strong. He arched up violently and rolled, reversing the positions, and gaining a figure-4 leg-bar in the process.

The crowd roared as they saw the bar go on... time slowed, and Dan knew he was beaten. The pain in his knee started as the pressure from the inescapable leverage began. For the first time in his career, he tapped.

But the pressure didn't stop.

The pain became agony.

He slapped the mat wildly, but the pain only increased.

He felt the sickening pop of his kneecap as it shattered, just before the referee tackled King. The cage swirled before his eyes. Just before he lost consciousness, he locked eyes with an aristocratic blonde who seemed to be smiling ever so slightly at his suffering. And then all went blessedly black.

Lightning Dan missed the riot that ensued...

He missed Abruzzio running into the cage, and throwing his stool at King, only to be knocked out with one blistering right. Dan missed the fighting in the stands. He missed the angry mob scaling the octagon walls until yellow-shirted security guards pried them off the cage walls.

And he missed, like everyone else missed, King's illegal, lead-loaded gloves disappearing into his trainer's kit where they were promptly concealed and later thrown away in a dumpster to disappear forever.

Later, in the hospital, Lightning Dan would regain consciousness only to find out that he'd lost the match, that the ref believed King's excuse that he couldn't hear because of the crowd noise. The ref went on to apologize about how the injury was his fault because he wasn't quick enough to tackle King. At which point, Lightning Dan Preston turned off the TV and sobbed quietly until the morphine drip dulled him into a dark oblivion.

CHAPTER 1

"The Joker" bar and grill, Santa Monica, California. Present Day.

"Finish up, Champ," said Pat from behind the bar.

"Hey, I'm drinking as fast as I can here," said Dan.

He was just Dan now. No lightning. He hadn't fought in years. He couldn't have fought for the first year, anyway... not after his knee had been so badly blown out. Even now, despite extensive rehab, his left leg was better at predicting the weather than delivering a kick. At the age of 42, he fully realized that his career was over.

Unfortunately, Dan hadn't figured that out before most of his bank account had been spent. His ex-wife Traci had taken half. She left as soon as his earning potential was over. She was dating a hockey player now, or so Dan had heard. He didn't really care now. He had been completely infatuated at the time, but looking back, he realized that he had married her mostly for her looks, with the great sex coming close behind. Such good sex. Sex so good his brain insisted he was in love, despite the obvious red flags that he was being taken advantage of. She was the kind of woman who would hire a pool boy even when there was no pool. But still, when she left, Dan’s pain was real, even if their love had only been as deep as his pocketbook.

Dan had blown the rest of his money on stupid things... the now-repossessed Lambo. The now-foreclosed Malibu mansion. The now-bankrupt art gallery that his cousin Laurent (born “Larry”) had assured him was a great investment. The 50-minute independent film directed and produced by his other cousin Gale. Yes, it took 7^th-place at the Long Beach film Festival, but there had only been 8 entries. Besides, “LARPERS in love” was never designed to make money. And why had Gale insisted it be shot on film? When it came to his finances, mistakes had been made.

But Dan still had enough money for three-dollar Budweisers at The Joker.

"How about one more, Pat?"

"How about you blow me, Champ?" came the reply. Pat was from Boston, and he was blessed with the gift of gab innate in all Bostonians.

"Where's the fire, Pat?" said Dan. "It's not like you've got such great life to rush back home to. Come on. Shut the place down, then pour me another, and pour yourself one too."

"I can't stay up all night again, Champ. I'm fucking tired. You can finish up your drinking at home"

Dan sipped his beer. He and Pat both knew he couldn't finish up his drinking. He was a drunk now. Not a hopeless drunk, Dan mused. But the only thing stopping him from being a hopeless drunk was that he still hoped that his alcoholism wasn't hopeless. It was a confusing bit of logic, but if he drank enough it made sense. Next year, he'd go back to drinking socially. That was his plan.

"Come on, Pat... we're only young once," slurred a woman who was quite clearly no longer young. Her name was Lorraine, and she sidled up next to Dan hoping for either a free drink or an invitation to spend the night.

Pat looked around the bar. 5 people were left. Dan, Lorraine, Jimmy the cook, Grumbly Bill and himself. "Why not," he thought.

Pat went to the front door and locked it. He placed the "Closed" sign in the window. "We're officially closed, people..." he paused... "Cider's on me!"

A small cheer went up from the broken patrons. Whenever Pat allowed after-hours drinking, it always started up with a round of free pear ciders. No one knew where Pat got that tradition from, but everybody loved it, even if they all hated pear cider.

As Pat poured the ciders, a knock came on the door. Pat kept filling without looking up.

Another knock.

"You'd think the 'Closed' sign would be a clue," said Dan as Pat lined the ciders up. "Or maybe the locked door."

"Bar's closed," yelled Pat in his thick Boston accent. "Cerrado."

“Oh, come on... let him in,” slurred Lorraine, happy for a last desperate chance to hook up with someone. Strangers at closing time were always her best bet. “Come on in, honey!” she yelled.

“Fuck that, we’re closed,” said Pat. The verdict was final. Lorraine sighed. At least she was getting a free cider.

Pat finished pouring. He pushed one to Grumbly Bill, one to Jimmy, one to Lorraine and one to Dan, all of whom had lined up obligingly in a row.

But now there was one more customer at the bar... a man dressed all in black, wearing of all things, a black cape.

"I hope you've got enough for everyone," said the stranger.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" asked Pat.

"My, my... manners please," said the stranger. His voice was arch and dangerous. His accent... a curious blend of Oxford and all-purpose foreign. He certainly wasn't the usual clientele of The Joker, thought Dan.

"What's with cape, Zorro?" said Grumbly Bill.

"I think it looks good on you," said Lorraine, trying to ingratiate herself to the only man at the bar she hadn't yet slept with.

“Shut it, Lorraine,” said Pat. She shut up, but kept touching the stranger’s arm. Touching was crucial in seduction, she felt. That, and being the last woman at closing time. The stranger smiled at her, and she felt a thrill shoot through her. No man this rich or handsome had ever been in this bar, ever.

Dan Preston stayed silent, but he was on edge like he hadn't been in years. The stranger was too calm. Pat was a big Irish bartender. Most sober men try not to piss off big Irish bartenders. But this new guy couldn't have seemed more comfortable chiding Pat about his manners. Something was wrong. Dan was certain. Nothing had actually happened yet, but it already felt like the situation was spiraling out of control.

"Tell you what," said Dan. "You can have my cider. I've still got some beer left and I feel like calling it an evening soon."

Pat frowned. "Hey, fuck that." He looked at Dan. "You drink your Cider, and You..." he pointed at the stranger, "...you beat it."

"I don't think so. I've decided to stay a while."

The man grabbed Pat's shirt and pulled him forward with his left hand, then punched Pat in the nose with his right. Pat slumped backward, clutching his broken nose. Lorraine screamed and shrank back in fear. But the stranger kept his eyes locked on Dan.

"Is there no one here who will protect the barkeep?" said the man sarcastically. He grabbed Lorraine. "Or perhaps the woman will trigger some nobler instinct?"

At that, Grumbly Bill snapped. He had spent the past 50 years of his life dreaming of heroic acts while drinking beer, and finally he had a golden opportunity to redeem himself. He grabbed a barstool and swung it with all his might over the man's back. The barstool's seat broke from the impact, but the caped man was unaffected.

"That's the spirit, old man!" said the stranger, releasing Lorraine for just long enough to deliver a stunningly fast roundhouse kick that dropped Grumbly Bill to the ground in an instant. Jimmy the Cook cowered in the open doorway of the kitchen clutching a meat cleaver.

The caped man stared at Dan with bemused eyes. "No? You won't join in?"

Dan stayed on the stool. "Why are you here?"

"To fight you, of course."

"What the hell is that gonna prove? I'm washed up. Look at me. Look at this place. You don't want to fight me, pal... I don't fight anymore."

"You will fight me."

"Or what?"

"Or everyone in here will die."

Dan looked at Bill on the floor. He could hear Pat moaning softly on the other side of the bar. Dan shrugged.

"Careful what you wish for, friend," said Dan. "You just might get it."

Dan looked over at Jimmy, then tried to land a spinning reverse punch with his beer glass. But Dan hit nothing but air.

"What the..."

"Naughty, naughty, " chided the stranger, who had ducked his blow with ease. He wagged his finger at Dan, then moved in a dizzying blur over to the kitchen, and stood in front of Jimmy, who was trying to dial his cell phone while holding the meat cleaver.

"I'm going to have to ask you to turn your cell phone off."

The stranger breathed deeply into Jimmy's face, and a heady scent of Lavender filled his nostrils. Jimmy slumped down contentedly, quite happily unconscious.

The stranger raced back to his place at the bar. This time Dan's eye was able to track the movement, but his mind was still unable to comprehend it.

"Who the hell are you?" Dan asked.

"That's up to you to decide," replied the man. "My name is Razvan. And I am either your killer, or your savior."

"How about neither?"

"Alas, that is not an option."

"Then I choose door Number 3," said Dan. "Me kicking your ass."

Dan swung at Razvan, who easily slipped the punch.

"I thought you were supposed to be quick, Mister Lightning," said Razvan, smiling. He punched Dan, sending him sprawling over a pool table.

Adrenaline flooded through Dan's body. His years of training returned instantly, and he righted himself with a handspring off the table then went into a series of combinations that no man alive could've avoided entirely. Unfortunately, his opponent hadn't been alive for 5 centuries.

Not a punch landed.

"This is what passes for a champion these days?" said Razvan. He hurled Dan against the cue rack.

"I told you," said Dan as he picked himself up off the floor, "I'm not a champion." Dan grabbed a cue and circled his opponent warily. "But I sure as hell am pissed off."

Dan charged in again, swinging and missing each time. His opponent was once again a frustrating, unnerving supernatural blur. Dan's attack ended when Razvan caught the cue, wrenched it out of Dan's hands then broke it over his head. Dan staggered back, blood pouring out of his scalp.

"You're not human," said Dan. "Nobody moves that fast."

"I'm a vampire, Mr. Preston," said Razvan. "We all move this fast. Or almost this fast. I take some small pride in being the quickest of my kind."

"A vampire?"

Dan looked at Razvan. Honestly? A vampire? The silly accent and the cape made it seem like he was being punk'd. But the speed! He'd never seen anything like the speed. This guy could actually be a vampire. He was something, that was for sure.

More blood dripped down from his scalp wound, and when Dan wiped it off, the back of his hand was covered in red. "This can't be good," he thought. "If he really is a vampire, this can NOT be good."

Razvan's eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared involuntarily. For the first time, his fangs became visible.

"If you're here to feed, you're gonna leave hungry," Dan said, assuming a fighting stance.

Dan positioned himself between the two pool tables. They formed a chute. If Razvan was going to use his supernatural speed to attack him, he'd naturally be funneled right in front of him. Dan guessed that if he timed a front snap kick right, maybe Razvan would end up running into it. At least that was the hope. He didn't have a lot of other options.

Razvan started to blur forward, and Dan unleashed his fastest kick. He caught the vampire right in his undead testicles. Whether these worked like living balls, Dan didn't know... but they certainly registered pain. The vampire staggered backwards, momentarily stunned.

Dan leapt forward, raining blows on his inhuman assailant. He pummeled Razvan with all his might, his knuckles splitting as he hammered the stony hard vampire flesh. Despite the ferocity of the onslaught, Razvan recovered quickly. He grabbed Dan's left fist, then his right, and held both of them stock still. Blood dripped down from Dan's scalp and landed in the vampire's mouth. Razvan licked his lips sensuously. His eyes rolled back in pleasure, and he let out a small shuddering sigh.

"Great," thought Dan. "I'm about to get killed by a gay vampire."

Razvan threw Dan off him, into a pillar some 15 away. The old vampire rose to his feet and adjusted his cape with a flourish. Dan staggered to his feet as well, picking himself up wearily.

"You always play with your food?" Dan said. He balled his fists and prepared to die.

"If you were food, I'd be on dessert already," said Razvan. "Instead, you have passed your audition."

"My audition? What are you talking about?

"You will see," said Razvan. "But for now... sleep."

In an instant, Razvan crossed the room to stand face to face with Dan. The vampire exhaled his sweet lavender breath once more.

As Dan slipped into unconsciousness, Razvan gently lowered him to the ground, and stroked his hair.

"The Countess will be most pleased with you."

Razvan turned and looked at Lorraine, the only human still conscious. "As for you, my dear... I am feeling a trifle peckish."

CHAPTER 2

Dan stepped into his shower more sore than he had been in years. Blood washed off his scalp and knuckles, and he tried to figure what exactly had happened at the bar. No one was sure. They had all woken up at around 2 in the afternoon, groggy. Apparently, they’d all been black-out drunk the night before because no one could remember anything. The only thing they could piece together was that they all must’ve been in a fight and that, judging by how they looked, they’d all lost.

As Dan let the hot water take away his pains, he thought about calling Lorraine. She was at the Joker every night, and he vaguely remembered her being there. But she wasn’t around when everybody came to. Still, she probably knew what happened. Then Dan thought better about it. God forbid she thought he was taking an interest in her. They had slept together once, and for the entire next month she acted like they were married. He wasn't going through that again.

He stepped out of the shower and saw the orange and pink hues of a smog-fueled Los Angeles sunset take over the sky. Another day wasted. He poured himself a bourbon and ice and rubbed his jaw. Somebody had clocked him pretty good, that much was certain.

On the counter, his cell phone started ringing with its "Eye of the Tiger" ringtone. He had purchased it from the iTunes store a month ago, half out of mocking self-hatred, and half out of the idea that maybe he could turn his life around in some kind of glorious montage scene. But his life had turned into a different montage... "The Lost Weekend" montage with neon bar signs and martini glasses floating around. He sipped his bourbon and listened to the ringtone play out. Whoever it was he didn't want to talk to them. Not this early, at least.

At last, the phone went to voicemail and Dan finished his bourbon in peace. A little blessed numbness crept over his jaw. He went to the cabinet and poured another drink, the last one left from a gallon handle of Evan Williams. He glanced down at his phone to see whose call he had missed.

Marty Licht. His old promoter.

Dan frowned. Why the hell would Marty Licht call him? Once it had become clear that Dan couldn't rehab his knee to anything close to a professional standard, Marty had disappeared from his life quicker than "Pluto Nash" left the theaters.

Marty wouldn't call unless there were money it in for him. But as far as Dann could tell, the only money he could make right now was in roofing, where he made 20 dollars an hour as the only white guy on a crew. He was the new guy, but he was getting paid as much as more senior members of the team, mostly because of one unique job skill.... being legal. As such, Dan's responsibilities included hauling heavy crates of tiles up ladders, some nailing, and being highly visible if ICE ever came around.

None of this would impress Marty. Not even the greediest of agents try to take 10% of a roofer’s salary. Marty would be looking for something bigger. Maybe he'd have a golf outing with a fan who was a businessman. It had never happened before, but it seemed plausible. Or a mall opening somewhere. Or maybe, just maybe, a commercial. Christ, he could use a commercial. Dancing with the Stars? Celebrity Survivor? Dan’s mind raced, but nothing felt right.

The only thing Dan knew Marty wouldn't ask him to do was fight. After all, he wasn't a draw anymore. And now that Dan was relatively sure that he'd lose if he fought, somehow a lot of the fun had gone away. Roofing might pay less, but it was a hell of a lot less likely to lead to a blunt-force trauma induced coma.

Fuck it. He was curious.

One more sip of bourbon, and he hit the "send" button, dialing the number that had last called him.

"Danny Boy!" said Marty. "Lightning fast on the ol' redial!"

"Hey, Marty," said Dan evenly. "What type of gig have you got?"

"What, this can't be a social call? A man's forbidden to call an old friend? I don't like this new America you're talking about!"

"Marty. If we were friends, you wouldn't have dropped me as a client before I even wheeled out of the hospital."

"Business and friendship are two very different things, Danny."

"Which is why I called you back."

"You're fast, Danny! Still quick! Which is good... ‘cause I got a fight lined up for you!"

Dan shook his head in disbelief. "A fight? The last thing I need is a fight. I'm old, Marty!"

"What if I said I could get you 200 grand? Then would a fight be the last thing you need?"

Two hundred grand? For him? Who would pay to see him fight now? He rubbed his jaw. For fuck’s sake, he had just got his ass handed to him in a bar fight that he couldn’t remember.

"That doesn't make any sense," Dan said.

"And what's better... you get an extra million if you win."

Dan was in total disbelief.

"Are you telling me you the 200 grand is guaranteed?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, Danny Boy. This is easy money!”

"What's the catch? Who am I meant to fight?"

"Here's the great thing... I never heard of him. Razvan Tomatocanovich or something like that.

"What are you talking about?" The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. He was sore and hung over and that damned lavender scent was somehow still lingering in his nostrils.

"The fight's in Romania," said Marty.

Romania? Already the deal was getting bad. Dan hated flying. But unless someone had built a bridge across the Atlantic to wherever the hell Romania was, he was gonna have to fly there.

"Come on,” Marty continued, “It’ll be great. It's an exhibition. Some Countess wants you to go to her castle in Transylvania where she's having a big-ass party, and fight. You know, a dinner party fight."

Dan felt even more on edge. He had known friends who had boxed at dinner parties held by Russian mobsters. They were never just "exhibition" matches. If you didn't fight your hardest, the gangsters would break your legs. Still, he'd already had his leg broken. And assuming he self-medicated with butt-loads of Bourbon, he could fly.

"I'm in."

Marty beamed. "That's the spirit, Danny!"

"When do I leave?"

"There's a car outside your door, Dan. You've got a ticket in your name on LOT flight 1720. Leaves in 5 hours. Just pack and go."

Dan went to the window and peered out into the dusky gloaming. There was indeed a Crown Victoria illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant, its Armenian driver standing beside it and talking animatedly into a cell phone, pausing only to smoke his Marlboro Red.

"What the fuck?" asked Dan. "Just like that? No training time? Are you kidding me?"

"Hey, when a Countess wants to pay you 200 grand, she gets to make the rules," Marty replied. "She said there's a gym there. The fight's in a month, but she wants to watch you train."

"Wait, now it's a month of my life in Romania?" said Dan. The deal was getting a lot shittier in a hurry.

"You got anything better to do for a month?"

He didn't.

"Tell the driver I'll be down in a half-hour."

Dan hung up and started throwing some clothes into his suitcase. He tried to guess whether Romania was cold in March, before realizing that he wasn’t really sure where Romania was. Somewhere in Europe, and not the fun part. Wherever it was, it didn't make too much difference. Dan didn't have too many clothes to choose from. It was all workout gear, and a pair of stonewashed jeans for formal occasions. He stuffed his parka into his bag just in case, grabbed his daub kit, and then he was pretty much done.

He paused for a moment. He had just packed his entire life in under 10 minutes. A grown man shouldn't be able to do that, he thought.

The only thing missing was his bourbon. Not really a great training aid, he thought. Still. They might not have Bourbon in Romania. Best to be safe. He tossed a handle of Evan Williams into his duffel and zippered it. He shouldered the bag, walked out the door and took the slow California Condo elevator ride down two floors.

When he walked out the driver spotted him immediately.

"Babam, I gotta go... my fare's here," said the driver. "Klirus tstsi." He hung up his cell and turned his attention to Dan.

"Hello, my friend! Let me to get this for you," he said taking Dan's bag and putting it into the back of the Crown Vic.

The driver was a talker. By the time the car had pulled off the 405 at the Howard Hughes Center drive and onto Sepulveda, Dan had learned that all LA women were whores, and that the secret to romantic success was to "feed them the presents, then you feed them the cock." He had also learned that no advance in synthetics could ever replace pure silk. And soon after, in case he hadn't guessed, Dan learned that the driver's purple Oxford was also pure silk. In point of fact, it was also a pussy magnet, rivaled only by his cross of pure fucking gold.

By the time the driver passed the Wally Park on Century Boulevard where Nude Nudes used to be, he was forced to stop waxing philosophic and actually ask Dan a question about his destination.

"What airline, my friend?"

Danny checked his ticket. "TAROM, operating through LOT."

"TAROM... that's Romanian, yes? Lot of sweet gypsy ass in Romania. Just hold on to your wallet if you fuck a Gypsy, my friend."

"I'm going to some place in Transylvania, I think."

"Ah, Transylvania. It gets a bad rap, Transylvania. Good fucking people in Transylvania. Everybody is like, ‘Oh, Dracula this. Vampire that.’ But you know what. The real Dracula was a good fucking guy. A fucking Turk Killer. The Turks they come to Transylvania to expand their fucking filthy empire, and what do they get? They get a fucking stake up their ass. That's what all Turks want anyway."

The driver rolled down his window and spat.

"I'm not much of a history buff," said Dan.

"You don't have to know history to know that all Turks are gay," said the driver. "Super gay. But get this... the real Dracula, Vlad Tepes... in one night, he killed 15,000 Turks and Bulgarians. Snuck into their camp and killed them in their tents while they slept. Sneaky motherfucker. The Turks hated him so much that when they finally caught him, they say they cut off his head and sent it to Istanbul. His body, they left in Transylvania. No one knows for sure where it's buried. Or even if it is buried. Scientists exhumed what they thought was his body to find out more about how Dracula died. But the body wasn't his."

"How'd they know?"

"For one thing, it still had its head attached," said the driver. He pulled up to the Tom Bradley terminal. "Here you go."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Mr. Licht's taking care of it."

"Give yourself a hundred-dollar tip then," said Dan.

Dan collected his duffel and wandered into the airport. He checked his tickets. First class. "No line for this world traveler," he smiled. Then he noticed that there wasn't much of a line at the LOT counter anyway. Oh well... it was still cool.

"Can I help you?" asked the blonde Pole in her crisp uniform. She clearly enjoyed flirting with first-class customers. This one looked a little sloppy, but years of working in Los Angeles had led her to the conclusion that half of the entertainment industry was filled with middle-aged Jews desperately clinging their youth by wearing shorts and using backpacks. The other half of the industry was slick, cocky Jews in designer suits. She liked them better. Still, this man looked ruggedly handsome. Maybe even an actor. Maybe even not Jewish.

"Tickets? Passport? Visa?"

Dan was good to go until the last question. He didn't have a visa. Hell, he was lucky to have a passport.

"I don't have a visa. I didn't know I needed one."

"Yes. Yes. Romania requires a visa, Sir. I'm afraid we can't fly you there until you obtain one."

This was turning into a logistical nightmare beyond Dan's ability. He was a fighter, not a travel agent.

"I have Mr. Preston's visa," came a woman's voice from behind him.

Dan turned. And immediately goggled. A raven-tressed woman clad in black riding leathers held out his Visa.

"Uh.... well that's convenient. Thank you." His mind whirled, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but who are you? And how did you get a visa so fast?"

"I am Narcissa Dracescu. I'm the Deputy Consul-General of Romania in Los Angeles. Getting a visa for you was quite easy. Getting it to you through LA traffic, well... I'm glad I ride a motorcycle."

The blonde behind the counter was impressed. Governments didn't go out of their way to help nobodies. Whoever this "Dan Preston" was, he was important. "Thank you, Mr. Preston. And as a first-class passenger, can I recommend you try our VIP room at the Star Alliance lounge? As a matter of fact, I'll actually be coming off my shift right after we're done, and I'd be happy to escort you there."

"That won't be necessary," said Narcissa. "I'm quite familiar with the lounge myself. And I'll personally be travelling with Mr. Preston to Bucharest.

Soon, Dan was walking towards the security check with his leather-clad escort leading the way, and a rather disgruntled Polish ticket agent watching him disappear into the airport. Despite Deputy Dracescu's high-heeled boots, she managed to achieve a surprisingly quick pace, and Dan struggled a touch to keep up with her. He was still a little stiff from the barroom fight. Or at least that's what he told himself. The alternative, that he was so washed up he couldn't even keep up with a girl in stiletto boots, was too depressing to contemplate.

"I'm glad you showed up when you did, but this seems like a lot of trouble for little old me," said Dan.

"Nonsense. What the Countess wants, the Countess gets. And what the Countess wants, is you."

Dan's mind raced. Why the hell would anyone want him? In particular, a woman. A woman who happened to be a Romanian Countess. It just didn't add up.

Dan was still thinking when they arrived at the backscatter X-ray machine. But he snapped out of his own thoughts when he heard the TSA agent behind the monitor say "Ew! What a butter face" when Narcissa was being scanned. Dan looked at the beautiful Romanian once more. "These LA TSA guys must have some pretty fucking high standards," he thought to himself.

Of course, Dan never saw what the TSA agent had seen... a woman with the body of Angelina Jolie but the face of an undead Phyllis Diller... terrifying, ancient and angular. The X-rays pierced through the glamours that mystified a human eye, and the washed-out blue image revealed the face of a creature more harpy than human... a face filled with pollution and death. But this being Los Angeles, the TSA had seen hundreds of plastic surgery patients walk through his machine with faces just like that. As a result, he never looked up from his monitor to see the disconnect between the computer image and what his eyes would have told him.

Narcissa paid no mind to the rudeness, and once Dan was through, she marched swiftly to the lounge, Dan gamely trying to match her speed.

"Winded already?" Narcissa asked when they came through the doors of the VIP lounge and settled into a booth. She smiled as the words came out, but behind the teasing there was a hint of menace.

"She does know I've been retired for years, doesn't she?"

"Don't worry. I'm sure Her Excellency will find a way to whip you into shape."

"Well, until then, if you don't mind, I'm hitting the buffet," said Dan. And the bar, he thought to himself, but he left that part unspoken.

As he rose, he heard a snort of derision, but that hardly stopped Dan's straight line to the smoked salmon. She could go fuck herself, thought Dan. He'd been living on Egg McMuffins and Bourbon for a year now, so any change of pace sounded pretty good to him. He went down the line loading up his plate as if he were a losing gambler in Vegas trying to make his money back in deli meats.

With Dan's attention squarely fixed on the buffet, he didn’t notice that there were no other customers in the lounge. Nor did he notice the red-haired janitor lock the front door and put a "closed" sign over the handle before pushing his slop bucket over towards the opening of the dining lounge.

Narcissa, meanwhile, was so engrossed in her phone that she didn't look up to see the janitor unscrew the mop head from the shaft, turning what was once a humble cleaning instrument into a deadly silver-tipped javelin. As she finished composing an unflattering e-mail detailing Dan's faults, she couldn't possibly be aware that the janitor had advanced directly in front of her, pushing his bucket with a spear.

But it was at this very moment that Dan rounded the meat section and moved in for the croissants. As he turned the corner, he saw the janitor poised to hurl the silver spear into his unwitting escort. Dan charged forward and lunged into the man, hitting him in the middle of his throwing motion.

The javelin sailed just off the mark and landed quivering in the booth. Narcissa looked up from her e-mail, and realized she'd have to make a few revisions to her initial review.

Dan rolled on the ground with the homicidal janitor, but he wasn't doing nearly as well as he'd expected. He had tackled the man mid-throw and put him to the marble floor with a slam that would have concussed an NFL quarterback. Even if Dan was out of shape, he had still spent almost the entirety of his adult life training to fight. The man should’ve been stunned. Yet this apparent custodial services engineer had recovered completely from the initial blow and had succeeded in slithering out of a brutal chokehold that would have caused lesser men to pass out before they even had a chance to tap.

A few seconds later, it was Dan in the chokehold.

"You fool," hissed the Janitor in an accent not unlike Narcissa's. "You should have let me kill it."

The grip around Dan's neck suddenly loosened. "Do not get on that plane if you value your soul."

The janitor's eyes rolled up, and the point of his javelin extended out his chest. He slumped to the side, dead, and Narcissa stood behind him.

Lightning Dan rose to his feet shakily, silver stars shooting around the periphery of his vision. "What the fuck was that about?"

"We must be going now." Narcissa moved Dan away from the corpse and towards the door, stopping at a table to grab a linen napkin and wipe the blood off his sneakers.

"We can't just leave," Dan said. "This is a crime scene."

"A man tried to kill me. I killed him. The crime has been solved. We must leave."

"Are you crazy? There's a dead man. When they find him, they're going to shut the airport down. "

Narcissa looked at Dan. Her eyes flashed with anger. "Then it would be best if we were in the air when that happens."

She held Dan's gaze, and his willpower crumbled. What's done was done. This poor shmuck fucked with the wrong girl. Besides Narcissa was so very beautiful. Dan didn't want to disappoint her. A whiff of lavender was in the air. And soon he was walking out the door, the "closed" sign the only protection from the authorities.

If indeed, it was the authorities he needed protection from. Despite his clouded head, he could still see the image of the dead man, speared by the woman he was trailing. And the lavender... Dan knew that scent from somewhere. Still, her leather-clad ass was impossible to resist. Damned if he didn't almost hear it whisper to him to follow as she strode through concourse. Something was very wrong here. But his whole life, Dan Preston had chosen wrong. He wasn't about to stop now.

At the gate, the usual crowd of businessmen, tourists and babies waited for boarding announcements. Three pairs stood out from the rest. Three fighters and their handlers, Dan guessed. Dan even recognized one of them. Constantine Kokkinos. The original Greek Freak. He had to add “the original” after Giannis Antetokounmpo became an NBA superstar.

Constantine had gotten out of the fight game right when Dan was getting into it. They had never fought, but they had been on a few cards together. They’d also shared more than a few drinks together at after parties. In his prime, Constantine was a force. Now though, he was old. He had to be 50. Dan was pretty sure he had become a gym owner. Which seemed like a better career move than roofing. Except for the fact that they were both at the airport, about to fly off to an unsanctioned cage match in Romania.

As for the 2 others, they were young. One black and one white. But Dan could tell they were fighters easily enough. Their ruined ears made it plain as day. And the badly misplaced nose on the white one suggested that he wasn't the best at what he did. Which was good, since Dan had a decent chance of fighting him sometime soon. Still, if they were getting paid even half as much as he was, this was getting to be a pretty expensive party someone was throwing.

"Dan Preston," smiled Constantine.

"Constantine."

The two men shook hands, according each other the respect due fellow warriors.

“Who are your 2 kids," said Dan.

Before Constantine could reply, the white kid was in his face. "I'm your worst fucking nightmare, Grampa!" The kid was barely in his twenties, dressed in an Affliction hoody, workout shorts and Nike sandals. Dan knew his type right away. So would anyone. The kid was an asshole.

Suddenly, the two men were firmly pushed apart by the strongest hands they had ever felt. Razvan had arrived. Dan didn’t recognize him, although he had an unsettling feeling that he should. And that he was very dangerous.

"Gentlemen, please,” said Razvan. “No fighting until it's time for fighting."

"Whatever," sneered the younger man, "It's your money." The kid turned away and returned to his seat escorted by a giant African in a dashiki.

Razvan turned to Dan, "I see you've met our charming friend, Billy Hunt. He's a bouncer. Or used to be until he got into too many fights. His silent companion is DeSean Johnson." Razvan nodded towards the black fighter. "A former member of the Green Berets, I believe."

"And you are...?"

"Ah. I forget we haven't officially met. I am Razvan. I am in charge of the tournament."

Tournament? Dan thought he had just signed up for one exhibition bout. The last thing he wanted was a whole bunch of matches. There was no way he had the stamina for that anymore.

“Hold on a sec,” Dan said. But before he could continue, Narcissa interrupted. "Razvan. We have had... difficulties."

Razvan cocked his eyebrow. Narcissa nodded. "Then perhaps it is time we board. Tell me all on the plane."

Razvan motioned for the four fighters and their handlers to come with him, then he proceeded down past the ticket agent. The man opened his mouth to challenge him, but a moment after he locked eyes with Razvan, the agent's mind was broken, and he said nothing. In fact, the poor man would say nothing for an entire week, and then spend almost an entire year watching only "how-it's made" on TLC in an attempt to soothe his shattered psyche.

Once they got to the plane, Razvan pointed to the first-class seats. "Sit" was all he said. Then he disappeared into the cockpit. Within a minute, the flight attendants were closing the door, and the near-empty 747 was pushing back from the gate, the disgruntled ticket-holders getting an announcement about mechanical difficulties, despite having clearly seen seven passengers enter and not return. But their near riot would go unnoticed for another 6 hours, when the early morning shift of the airport lounge finally arrived, only to find a red-haired janitorial imposter dead on the floor, and 3 living employees tied up in a back closet... all forced there by the impaled victim.

In the air, however, all was peaceful as the giant plane flew ever further from the crime scene.

By the time they were over the Atlantic, an international incident was brewing. The strange behavior of a flight taking off without the vast majority of its passengers was viewed suspiciously, especially when judged in light of the dead man in the lounge. Worse for Dan, Lorraine’s body had been found in a dumpster behind The Joker bar, completely drained of blood. When his name was found on the passenger manifest, well... questions were raised. It was only the vehement assurances of Romanian air transit authorities that the plane would be thoroughly searched upon arrival that problems were averted.

Dan knew nothing of this as he flew. Thanks to the free cocktails in the flying skybar that was the upstairs lounge, Dan had almost succeeded in blotting the memory of the VIP lounge out of his mind. He had certainly succeeded in getting quite drunk, much to the obvious disapproval of Razvan and the other handlers. But that wasn't going to stop Dan. They owed it to him not to hassle him. He had saved Narcissa's life, then fled from a crime scene. That called for more than a few drinks. Plus, he really hated flying.

No one else on the flight seemed particularly perturbed. Constantine was asleep in his lay-flat chair, and the two youngsters listened to their iPods through Beats by Dre headphones. Their handlers sat impassively in recliners looking out the window. As for Razvan, he was seated at a grand piano, presumably left over from some golden age of jet travel that viewed 747s as flying ocean liners, not merely gigantic air busses. What was worse was his choice of music. Although undeniably skilled, the ridiculously caped man was playing Liszt's Totentanz. Even "Girl From Ipanema" would have been better. Each powerful chord jangled Dan's nerves. He slurped down some more bourbon to try to make the flight end faster.

As if reading Dan's mind, Narcissa came over to his table where he sat alone.

"I thought fighters were supposed to be big, tough men," Narcissa chided.

"I thought you were meant to make my trip easier, not almost get us both killed."

"Listen to me," Narcissa leaned in. "Where you are going is a dangerous place. Rudeness is not tolerated. Drunkenness is not allowed. I owe you the debt of my... 'life.'" Even in his drunken state, Dan heard the strange way she hesitated on the word. "But I cannot protect you in Court. You will be before the Countess Bathory. And she shows mercy to no man. And less to a woman. For both of our sakes, I suggest you behave when you meet her."

"This whole thing is starting to sound like a raw deal," said Dan. "Sounds like maybe I should just turn around and go home again."

Across the lounge, Razvan laughed. "Go home? That, my friend, is something you will never do." He stopped his playing on an ominous unresolved minor chord. Razvan waved his hand, and suddenly, the cabin became cold. Dan's breath became visible.

"What did you just do?"

Razvan leaned in close. "By now, you must have realized that this is no ordinary fight. The Countess is no ordinary Countess. And I am no ordinary man. My master trained for 9 years at the feet of the Devil himself. And I have spent my almost the entire span of my time on this earth learning from him. Changing the temperature of a room is a cheap parlor trick. But I have found that even the tiniest touch of stagecraft adds impact to a simple mind."

Dan stared at him. The gentle whiff of lavender came to him once more, but this time it was such a tiny tickle on his nose that it served not to erase his memory, but to jog it. The fight at "The Joker" came flooding back to him. Dan's eyes darted from Razvan to Narcissa and back. He was on a flight to Transylvania on a plane filled with vampires.