The Dullsville Community Blood Bank was not a place known for energy or glamour. It was tucked between a laundromat named "Loads of Fun" and a shoe repair shop run by a man named Earl who could only fix left shoes. The blood bank had seen exactly one exciting moment in the past decade, and it involved a fainting spell, three liters of cherry Kool-Aid, and a confused Boy Scout troop.
Carl J. Beasley, the night shift supervisor, was the kind of man whose hobbies included counting paperclips and labeling pens by emotional color. ("Melancholy Blue" was a favorite.) Tonight, as the ancient wall clock ticked like a slow, indifferent metronome, Carl was alphabetizing adhesive bandages.
He was on "P" for "Polka Dot" when the automatic doors whooshed open with an overly dramatic hiss. A figure stepped inside, silhouetted against the flickering exterior light like a soap opera villain arriving at a funeral.
"I require your finest Type O," the stranger intoned.
Carl turned slowly. The man standing there wore a velvet waistcoat, an opera cape, and the kind of expression normally reserved for allergy medicine commercials.
"I'm sorry, sir," Carl said carefully, "but we don't sell blood. We store it. For medical emergencies. And sometimes interpretive art installations."
The man sniffed. "I am Count Vladislav the Uncomfortably Moist."
Carl stared. "That... raises more questions than it answers."
Before Vladislav could explain his sweat glands, the door opened again. This time, it was Janet Brewster, the perky blood courier from the local high school's Emo Club drive. She was dragging a bright pink cooler labeled "HUMAN SNACKS (Totally Not for Pets)" in glittery stickers.
"Hi Carl!" she chirped. "I brought the usual. And one extra glitter vial. I think Darren thinks he's a Twilight fairy now."
Janet paused mid-step, spotting Vladislav, who was attempting to hover menacingly near the receptionist desk.
"Oh," she said. "It's another one."
"Another what?" Carl asked.
"Vampire. We've had like four this week. One tried to pay in doubloons."
"I carry no such coinage," Vladislav said with mild offense. "I'm on Venmo."
Before Carl could process any of this, the doors hissed open again. A tall woman wearing sunglasses, a leather trench coat, and sipping from a juice box stepped inside. She flashed a badge that looked like it had been printed at a children's pizza arcade.
"Detective Melba," she said. "Vampire Task Force. Don't mind me—I'm just here to observe. And possibly confiscate any unauthorized capes."
Carl blinked. "Is that badge made of laminated garlic bread?"
Melba nodded. "Keeps the suspects at bay and it's a great midnight snack."
Janet sighed. "This town used to be boring."
Melba glanced at Vladislav, then pulled out a notepad shaped like a bat. "You, sir. Are you officially registered with the local blood donor consumer registry?"
"I filled out the digital form!" Vladislav protested.
"It was in Comic Sans," Melba noted. "That's an automatic red flag."
Carl interjected, "So is he allowed to be here?"
"As long as he doesn't try to bite the vending machine like the last guy."
Vladislav gasped. "We are evolving! I now use a reusable metal straw!"
"Environmentally conscious bloodsucking?" Janet mused. "Neat."
And with that, the blood bank officially became the weirdest place in town—second only to the haunted mattress store.