sibilantmacabre: (Bathory.)
Some of you may have the misfortune of having been around long enough to remember this masterpiece.

A long time ago, in a Hot Topic far, far away, my fourteen-year-old self haplessly stumbled upon some fanfic involving Dani Filth, Manson, and Twiggy Ramirez, and broke with God. Some months ago, I noticed this tome of terror leering innocuously from a table at a bookstore and had a moment of orlynao, before purchasing it later and commencing reading in the midst of a drug-induced haze. I was nodding in and out of consciousness, yet retained the lucidity to murmur 'What the shit' on almost every page or occasionally expel some ghost of a snort. Almost 400 labourious, lol-fraught pages later, I have learned the hard lesson that there are more reasons to forsake God than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio.

As Dacre Stoker, leech of his deceased uncle's-best-friend's-girlfriend's-Scrabble-club-buddy's estate, and his prison shower pal Ian Holt, compel us to ponder, WHAT IS A MAN BUT A MISERABLE PILE OF FANFIC.

Suffering in the throes of his lifelong affliction of having never gotten laid, Stoker was denied admission to a highly exclusive MEETIN' IN THE LADAYS ROOM, decided that he would BE BACK REAL SOON, and allocated his right hand to writing masturbatory lesbian fiction while fapping to Boxxy with the left. FOOLS! WHAT /B/ LURKER OR TROLL WAS EVER SO GREAT AS BOXXY, WHOSE MEME FLOWS IN THESE-- Anyway. One fateful eve whilst cruising seedy bars with a nametag advertising his lineage in the hopes of coaxing some lightweight minxes home to Xena roleplay with him, he acquainted Ian Holt, a downtrodden, disenfranchised academic trying out the alcohol diet. Look at these toolbags and tell me I'm wrong:

Diggin' the Barnebus Collins pancake makeup. You didn't hear this, but I am so pumped for this.

Courtesy of one '' The name alone says it all.

The 'O' face.

And Christopher Lee, Peter Cushing, and Bela Lugosi are among the luminaries billed in the acknowledgements. Poor guys. Dude, and Lugosi was so sick of his legacy by the end of his life. I'm sure he's grateful to have influenced such a pivotal work of art. What the fuck happened to my Transylvanian Twist.

Lounging with some adoring fans. It was Truck Driver Appreciation Day at the local Shoney's.

But now, let us delve into this literary tour-de-force. Note that I did not actually start bookmarking lulzy moments until about halfway through the book, so there remains a virgin treasure trove of entertainment awaiting your perusal (not that I ever actively admit benevolent intent toward anyone, but guys. For your own good. Don't do it), and much of the facepalmage lies on a grand scale in the plot and characterization, anyway. Let us meet our heroes:

Quincey Morris, Jr. is like that guy from Monty Python and the Holy Grail who doesn't want to get married and inherit the castle that keeps falling into the swamp; he'd rather...he'd rather...SING. He's this impetuous theatre diva-reject (which should say it all) whom Daddy doesn't understand, and can easily be envisioned as the lost Hanson brother in Victorian garb. And the book ends with him boarding the Titanic, so it's just like an extra epic helping of fail. Mina is as cringe-worthy as ever and carries the Victorian stereotype of the household angel horrified at her own sexuality and budding capacity for autonomous decision-making to its fullest excruciating extent. Bitch move, seriously. Jonathan is basically Keanu Reeves all over again, but drunk, bitter, and (hopefully) endowed with a broader range of facial expressions at his disposal. Van Helsing apparently saw the 2004 feature with his name (well, his surname, at least) and subsequently went crazy, as we all did, and constantly wavers on the precipice of arthritic death while bitching about ultimate evil and how we are all doomed to the dark and YOU BETRAYED SHIVA. Seward is a morphine addict written by authors who probably faint at the sight of needles, Holmwood is a suicidal aristocrat (games we all know), and all of the passages with the detectives and cops were just too tl;dr to even comment on.

And now, introducing our key players:

Now, I DON'T KNOW MUCH ABOUT EASTERN EUROPEAN HISTORY OR EASTERN EUROPE IN GENERAL, but this book is just so.embarassing. There really is no other word for it. I am embarassed to be seen with it. I am embarassed reading it alone in my room. Someday, there will be a film starring Cat Sigmon in Douchefinder General. In the meantime, I need to start drinking now so that maybe I can forget this by next decade.

Also, didn't this happen on Dreamcast in like '94? And didn't it suck then, too? Even the Hammer Films crew is hiding. You make kitty/Ingrid Pitt very sad.

But I'm just poking unfounded fun based on my own all-encompassing hatred, so have some direct insight into the great and terrible power of these gentlemen's words.

She moved to escape her misty rapist, but her attacker forced her back down into the armchair, straddling her. (182)

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, SOMEONE BUY THIS MAN AN INTERNET. I expect 'misty rapist' to become a staple of all of your vernaculars from this moment forward. It will be taken for $200.

Quincey was in awe. This was something that could never be accomplished with gaslight. It would enable them to add a malevolent mood never before seen on the stage. (206)

...You all know about me and dumb sinister alliteration. Be prepared to see this one again. And again.

The horrifying memory of Lucy's crime scene photograph flashed across his mind. Thus it had been all evening. Like a bad meal, the images came up again and again. (211)

How do you even write this with a straight face. Or sexual orientation.

A gaseous wave formed in the pit of Hamilton Deane's stomach, exploding out of his mouth as an echoing belch. A nearby crew member arched an eyebrow. (252)

Christy. Did you do this. Tell the truth.

Bathory gazed at the flaming ruins of the Lyceum Theatre, reveling in her victory over Basarab. "Good night, sweet prince." (280)

Because slandering history and literature wasn't enough, they totally had to take the most gut-wrenching moment of From Hell (and come on, the allusion is obvious, what with the time period and shit) and obliterate it. Also, most contrived line ever, seriously. The other night, the Tuesday dudes and I were watching Blacula, and Louis and I were praying for the guy to say 'Good night, black prince' at the end.

Dr. Max Windshoeffel and his wife chose not to board the train after seeing the blood-covered woman and the severed head that had rolled onto the platform. (N00bz.) They would wait for the last tube to take them from the Strand to Finsbury Park. Max moved his wife away from the gory sight of the severed head, wondering if he should alert the police. As a doctor, it was his civic responsibility. His thoughts were interrupted by the horrendous sound of breaking bricks followed by an earsplitting screech.
A winged dragonlike creature suddenly appeared, flying out of the stairwell. Both he and his wife were too frightened to scream. The demon's tail, whipping behind it, sliced through the station wall's green and white tiles as if they were tissue paper. The demon then swooped down into the tunnel as if it were chasing the train. Max Windshoeffel had made up his mind. He was going to tell no one what he had seen.

I actually read this once, stared blankly at the page for a moment, started cracking up, and had to read it again to verify that it was real. Everyone go watch read and watch The Midnight Meat Train to purify your (in)sanity now.

"You were our friend!" Holmwood said.
"I still can be," Van Helsing replied. "Dracula can be, too."

And now. The story is getting scary.

Mina took Dracula's hand in hers. The icy cold of his touch sent shivers through her body, like a schoolgirl touched by her first love. (330)

Just go to a Yahoo chatroom and get laid already. Please. Your friends and parents will throw you a party, I promise. You'll even get a piƱata if there is a real vagina involved.

Forgotten furniture covered in dust cloths stood like forsaken ghosts around the room. (351)

During a hiatus from masturbating and crying under a cold shower, Dacre Stoker was enthralled by Cat Sigmon's award-winning performance in Douchefinder General and took it upon himself to secretly record conversations between her and some slut-mouthed Asian schoolgirl. Once his brain had been thoroughly fried from all of the The Mummy Returns reenactments and sordid coastal haunted house liasons, he had become suffused with sinister one-liners whose sarcasm was utterly lost on him. Holy shit, if I could get famous for spitting out dumb sinister phrases. You guys. You don't even know.

It was as if fate had known her destiny long before she ever had. (352)

...Which is kind of what fate means, but ok.

"You are asking me to accept your dark gift. To become as you are." (358)

And now...THE SOFTCORE PORN SCENE. The third sentence is where I lost it; see how far you can make it without laughing. The last line actually made my roommate start from her Ventrilo to see what was so hilarious on my side of the room.

Dracula stood before the great hearth, in which a fire was roaring. He turned to her. With the fire and the flickering light of dozens of candles, the room was alive and vibrant. Dracula gazed at Mina with yearning and hope. She crossed the threshold. ...
He moved slowly toward her, and her heart raced at the idea that soon his hands would be on her body. With great trepidation, she reached for the small gold cross on her neck and pulled. The necklace's thin chain broke and the cross fell to the floor. The hunger in Dracula's eyes grew. ...
He carried Mina to the bed and laid her down. Touching her in ways that Jonathan never had, his hands and lips explored her body. He made her feel like a woman.

Bathory bared her fangs. As slowly and as silently as she could, she snaked toward him. The rain will hide the sound of my footsteps. (366)

DUDE YOU ARE A FUCKING VAMPIRE. WHY DO YOU GIVE THE VAGUEST SHIT. Also, Bathory rides around in some carriage drawn by possessed horses that do her bidding or some shit, and I'm almost positive she is referred to as 'the black queen' at some point. Have you heard of Helena Markos? Oh yes, she was a very famous Black Queen. Not that either of the authors would know enough about classic horror to understand that anyway; but, you know. Also, learn the magic of diacritic markings; I'M NOT SURE, BUT I THINK those little serifs on the bottoms of 't's and 's'es might mean something. Oh, there's some completely tl;dr subplot about Elizabeth Bathory being Jack the Ripper for shits and giggles or something. I almost want a sequel in which H.H. Holmes jumps the Atlantic and owns her ass.

Finally, from the chilling authors' epilogue:

In the end it was our most important goal with this sequel to right the wrongs done to Bram's original classic. We have worked hard on this front. In this way, I, as a Stoker, and Ian, as Dracula's greatest living fan, hope to apologize for losing the copyright and control of Bram's magnificent and immortal story for almost a century.
Then again, all of the terrifying events Ian and I wrote of in our novel may, as Bram once suggested, have really taken place.
Pleasant dreams.


In closing:

But I got derailed by Night Train while watching Night of Death! and The House That Dripped Blood last night, and I hate everyone anyway, so you don't have to take my word for it.
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