The problem with having so many naked women trying to hump me senseless was…

Actually, there was no problem with it at all.

While I can’t admit to being in the peak of physical condition (I get winded tying my shoes, which I can’t see unless I suck in my gut), I’ve got a spring-loaded pelvis and can crack walnuts with my butt cheeks. In fact, I’ve done the walnut thing on a bet before. Watching the guy eat them afterwards was priceless.

That said, I was in good form when the Olympic Copulation began. I’m not quite porn star material, but what I lack in size I make up for in speed.

I figured out early on that not much was required from me in the reciprocation department. Everyone wanted a Bit-O-Harry, and I was happy to oblige. I just laid back, closed my eyes, and let the ladies take what they wanted.

There was a bad moment, when I felt someone with a mustache kissing me, but it turned out not to be a mustache.

Yes, there was sucking. And groping. And fondling. And pulling. And thrusting. And lots of other ing words. And by the time it was finally over, I had to admit that it was indeed the greatest thirty seconds of my life.

“That’s enough, baby.” I forced back an overzealous Harry fan. “No use trying to prime a dry pump.”

I disentangled my legs, pulled my fingers out from wherever they’d been, and shoved away some tattooed vixen writhing on the floor, because she was writhing on my pants.

“Any of you ladies know where the back door is?” I slapped away an intrusive hand. “Not that one. The exit.”

“Aren’t you enjoying yourself, Mr. McGlade?”

It was Vlad. He’d taken off his leather ensemble, and stood naked in the doorway. The last time I’d seen anything that small, it was stuck in a hors d’oeuvre.

“I’m having a blast, Vladdy old boy. But all good things must end, and frankly, you’re all a bunch of psycho freaks. So I’m afraid that—Jesus!”

The vixen nearest to me had sunk her bridgework into my ankle, and it hurt like…well…getting bitten on the ankle.

I pulled back, then felt a similar pain on my left hand. And then on my right arm. I kicked away my attackers and limped over to an empty corner of the room to finish pulling up my pants.

“Blood is the elixir of life, Mr. McGlade.”

Vlad bared his own fangs, and I noticed Little Vlad waking up to see what all the excitement was about. Even turgid, it was more appropriate for picking locks than satisfying the ladies.

“You’ve got a real tiny rodney there, Vlad. No wonder you’re a power-mad sadist. The shrinkological term is ‘overcompensation’.”

Vlad squeaked his squeaky squeak-laugh.

“You’re to be the ultimate sacrifice, Mr. McGlade. We’re going to eat you alive, then deliver your corpse to the president of the network.”

“I’ve met him. He’d prefer tranny hookers.”

I zipped up and glanced around the room. Naked, drooling vampires were closing in from all directions. There were at least a dozen. The only door to the room was the one Vlad stood in front of. The wall behind me felt solid, final.

“They didn’t listen to our letter writing campaign,” Vlad whined. “Or our Internet petition. So maybe your drained, lifeless corpse will show them we aren’t fooling around.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“What the hell are you talking about, dinky?”

“Fatal Autonomy. We want it back on the air.”

I had enough bravado left to fake a belly laugh.

“You’ve got to be kidding! You lured me here, humped me dry, and now want to kill me, all to get my show renewed?”

Vlad got a crazy look in his eye. Well, a more crazy look.

“The whole warren loved the show. We watched it every Thursday night.” His voice became school-teachery. “What is your favorite TV show, children?”

“Fatal Autonomy,” they droned in unison.

I pinched myself. I’d had this dream before. Usually, though, there were a few recognizable actresses in the orgy pile. Like the chicks from Friends. Or the Golden Girls. And no fat naked vampire guy who was hung like a Smurf.

“Look, Vlad, we’re all upset when our favorite shows get cancelled. I had to see a therapist for a while after Xena ended. But killing me won’t…”

“We have a script,” Vlad said. I half expected him to pull a sheaf of papers out of his ass and show me. “It’s called Fatal Autonomy, The Rise of the Vlad Pires.”

Everyone thinks they’re a writer.

“In the script, do you have a bigger Johnson?”

“Get your jokes in now, Mr. McGlade. When your body is found, the media frenzy will ignite a resurgence of interest in your series. The public will demand to know what really happened to Harry McGlade. And next season, they’ll find out—in the first half of a two-parter.”

“You’re crazy. Television doesn’t work like that.”

Actually, it kinda did. But I didn’t want to encourage the fruit loop.

“Children of the night…ATTACK!”

Even though they’d sexed me up, I’d had enough of Vlad and the Snuggle Bunch. Two Pires with lunging fangs got a Moe-style head-crunch, which sounded more like a dull thud than two coconuts hitting. I planted a heel onto the nose of a some nude skinny guy, drilled an elbow into the cheek of a chick who moments ago was making me sing soprano, and then sprinted right at Vlad, stepping on legs and spines and necks, and giving him a swift kick in the peanuts.

Vlad cradled his delicates like a child holding two raisins and a bran flake, and I pushed past and ran into Crazy Chainsaw Goon, just as he was yanking the cord.

I couldn’t hear my screams above the roar of the saw, but I could guess they oozed machismo and self-confidence. I took a quick left through a doorway, another left down a hall, yanked open another door, and flew into a room filled with Vlad and a dozen angry, naked vampires.

I hugged my knees and Crazy Chainsaw Goon toppled over me, falling face first onto his appliance. He must have pinned down his trigger finger, because the saw revved and came up through his shoulder blades like a shark fin, misting me with blood.

I pushed backwards, bare feet sliding in the gore, and scrambled back down the hall with a flock of Pires on my heels.

Which is where I met up with Crazy Knife Goon and his Big Ass Knife.

He slashed. I ducked. But I didn’t duck far enough, and the blade dinged off my scalp. The pain was painful. I fell onto my butt, and he raised the blade for the coup de grace.

“Hold on!” I said, showing him my palm. “You’re not really a vampire! You’re just a freak with fake fangs!”

He shrugged. “No shit.”

“Well, when readers clicked on the link to come here, they were expecting real vampires. This is just an excerpt from Suckers, where the vampires are decidedly not real.”

“Wasn’t Suckers co-written by Jeff Strand?” Crazy Knife Goon asked.

“He wrote the adjectives.”

“Did you get his permission to use this excerpt?”

“Nope,” I said. “I doubt he even knows about it.”

“What about giving him royalties?”

His face was serious when he said it, but after a moment we both started cracking up.

“Royalties!” I howled. “You kill me!”

Crazy Knife Goon raised his blade again.

“Wait!” I said. “I meant figuratively! I was talking about royalties. As far as Strand knows, Suckers has only sold six copies.”

“What sold six copies?”

I turned and saw a man standing next to us. It was Andrew Mayhem, star of Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary ), Single White Psychopath Seeks Same, and Casket For Sale (Only Used Once), all by Jeff Strand and available on Nook.

“I thought you were in the Pit, being horribly murdered,” I said to Mayhem.

“Does Konrath owe Strand money?” he asked.

“Of course not. And anytime Strand wants, he can check the doctored spreadsheet which was falsified to make it seem like there haven’t been any sales.”

“Oh, he’ll check it, alright,” Mayhem said. “I’ll make sure of it. Especially since he did that other project with Konrath.”

“That one isn’t earning anything either,” I said.

“What other project?” asked Crazy Knife Goon.

“It’s cool,” Mayhem said. “And unlike the epic bag of fail that is Suckers, it actually has real vampires in it.”

“What’s it called?” queried CKG.

“Draculas,” I chimed in. “A full length horror novel. Konrath and Strand co-wrote it with F. Paul Wilson and Blake Crouch.”

“Wow!” exclaimed CKG. “F. Paul Wilson? I thought he was dead.”

“Nope. He’s just like ninety-six years old.”

“Who’s Blake Crouch?” asked CKG.

I shrugged. “No idea. You want to see an excerpt from Draculas? Or would you rather hack up Andrew Mayhem into little pieces while I escape?”

CKG scratched his chin. “I dunno. I’m going to have to ask the readers for help on this one.”

Should you check out Draculas? If so, click here.

Should CKG kill Andrew Mayhem? If so, click here.

To read a bonus short story by J.A. Konrath and Jeff Strand, click here.

To return to the previous section, click here.