Bats in the Belfry (Literally)
The town of Dullsville had one defining feature: it was excruciatingly dull. Local legend claimed that even tumbleweeds got bored and rolled on. Their town slogan? "Come to Dullsville—Where Nothing Ever Happens!" printed in beige Comic Sans, naturally. The most recent scandal had been when the library accidentally stocked a book with mild profanity. It was a cookbook. The offending word was "zesty."
So when the church bell rang at midnight—loudly, wildly, and accompanied by an ominous screeching of bats—it felt like the entire universe had taken a wrong turn.
Pastor Bob, a man more accustomed to spiritual counseling and sudoku, blinked up at the ceiling from his La-Z-Boy. The holy water on the coffee table quivered. His microwaved burrito (cheese, no spice) was half-eaten, its wrapper glistening under the soft light of the TV playing reruns of "Angels With Attitude."
Ding-dong-ding.
More bat screeches.
"Sweet cherubs of choir practice," he muttered, grabbing a flashlight, his emergency crossbow (a birthday gag gift from the youth group), and a family-sized canister of garlic powder. With a heart full of faith and a stomach half-full of melted processed cheese, Pastor Bob headed for the steeple.
The church's bell tower was rarely visited by anyone other than pigeons and overly enthusiastic ghosts. As he creaked open the trapdoor, the smell of guano and questionable life choices wafted out.
What greeted him was the kind of sight that makes a person question reality—or at least their dairy intake.
Bats. Dozens of them. Wearing tiny sunglasses. Playing poker.
The cards were glittery. The stakes were high. One particularly smug bat was seated atop a pile of sunflower seeds.
Pastor Bob blinked. "What in the name of Saint Nosferatu is this?"
A rotund bat with a "#FANG LIFE" tattoo squeaked, "You're interrupting the tournament, padre."
Bob staggered back. "Bats don't talk!"
"We didn't until last Tuesday," replied another, fanning himself with the King of Spades.
"Y'all need Jesus," Bob mumbled and promptly fainted into a dusty hymn book.
---
Meanwhile, two blocks down, Tina Bletchley was losing an argument with a vending machine at the 24/7 Quick Bite.
"Give. Me. The. Donut."
She kicked the machine. It responded by spitting out a granola bar with the smug finality of a machine that knows it has won.
Tina scowled. "Healthy food? That's violence."
She worked the graveyard shift at Quick Bite: a fluorescent-lit convenience store where snacks went to die and coffee tasted like boiled pencil shavings. A plaque behind her register proudly read: Employee of the Month (By Default) - 11 Months Running.
The automatic door chimed, and a breeze swept in—chilly, dramatic, and unnaturally scented like old spice and funeral parlor.
In walked a tall, pale man in a sweeping black cape. His cheekbones could cut glass, and his hair looked like it had been styled by a tornado with an emo phase.
"Good eeeeevening," he intoned, voice dripping with exaggerated vowels.
Tina looked up from her granola bar vendetta. "You look like a Hot Topic exploded on a haunted mannequin."
"I am Count Flatula," he declared, throwing his cape over one shoulder with a flourish that would have impressed even a Shakespearean actor in a wind tunnel.
"Flatula?"
"It is Romanian for... bringer of doom."
"It's also dangerously close to 'flatulence.'"
Count Flatula frowned. "The 'u' is silent."
"No, it isn't."
He ignored her. "I have traveled far, across misty moors and moonlit mountaintops, to seek your finest slushie."
Tina gestured to the aging slushie machine. It wheezed like a smoker on a treadmill.
"Take your pick. Blood orange, grape, or 'Mystery Red.' We think it might be ketchup."
He peered into the tank labeled 'Mystery Red' and recoiled. "You mock the thirst of the night?"
"Buddy, it's 2:47 AM. You want crushed ice and sugar syrup or not?"
He nodded solemnly. "Blood orange. Fitting."
---
Back at City Hall, Mayor Grizzlebaum was roused from his slumber by what he later described as "an unholy sound like Sinatra possessed by a fruit bat."
Outside his window, a chorus line of bats was perched on his sill. They were singing "Total Eclipse of the Heart." In harmony. With choreography.
He pulled on his robe (monogrammed: Mayor G), opened the curtains, and stared at the scene like a man trying to reboot his brain manually.
"Is this a flash mob?" he croaked.
One bat did a pirouette.
"Oh good," he said. "I've died in my sleep and gone to some kind of ironic purgatory."
He poured himself a glass of prune juice and waited for the end of days—or at least the end of the number.
---
By 3:03 AM, the streets of Dullsville were… no longer dull.
Flatula, slushie in hand, now stood on the roof of the Quick Bite, delivering a speech to a small gathering of fellow vampires who had somehow materialized like moody fog. There was Vladislav the Uncomfortably Moist, Sabrina the Brooding, and Greg. Just Greg.
"My comrades of the night," Flatula boomed. "This town is ripe. Ripe for integration, not domination. We shall not conquer! We shall… cohabitate awkwardly!"
The vampires cheered. Well, they politely golf-clapped. Except Greg, who sneezed and accidentally turned into a bat.
"Tomorrow," Flatula continued, "we begin the paperwork. We get our permits. We register for municipal garbage service. We buy throw pillows. For we are not monsters—we are misunderstood citizens with a rare dietary requirement!"
Tina, sipping from the other end of her Mystery Red slushie, muttered, "This is the weirdest night since the town chili cook-off ended in arson."
A paper flyer floated from the rooftop, caught by the wind. It read:
"Vampire Community Association: Weekly Meeting, BYOB (Bring Your Own Blood)."
Below it, in neat, gothic calligraphy: "Snacks will be provided. Mostly crackers."
And thus began the most exciting chapter in Dullsville's unremarkable history.