The QuestioNs

The Universe is a vast and mysterious place. Many questions wondered go annoyingly unanswered and lost to the annals of time. This book holds one specific purpose and that is to answer a very specific question about the digestive functions of a mysterious variety of person. This book holds the answer to a long asked question about the ever cryptic sub-species of human known as the Vampire.

Given that a vampire has a liquid diet, that bares the question, pondered by many and researched by few... Do they need to poop? Or is their butt mostly for decoration?

Some would say the answer to that question depends on the type of vampire. Are they a magic vampire who draws their restorative and supernatural power from the blood? Perhaps they contracted a blood born virus? Then again, what if they were simply a mistake of science?

This book seeks to answer this ancient question, along with others, by simply taking a short trip through the stories of extraordinary people. Stories of a journey in which we will bring light to an number of mysteries of the universe. What manner of mysteries would that be? One such example would be: Where does the name mortician come from?

Well, it is actually the male version of Morticia, which is the Slavic word for night lady. Back in their native Slovenia the night ladies were women who would sneak into your house in the middle of the night to take away any dead bodies you had for burying.

The modern male-centric world has since changed the word to make it more fit for men. Additionally the job now ensures that Morticians, or night fellas, are confined to funeral parlors. No more stealing bodies in the middle of the night.

Could you imagine if grandma died in peacefully in her sleep and then by morning her corpse was gone? The only thing left behind being an open window and a thank you note on her pillow? No, my good sir or madame. That is not a world I would want to live in any more.

While that is no longer the way of the world, in most places, it is neither here nor there. However, in the here and now, as the title postulates, by the end of this book we shall finally lay to rest that question of old: Do Vampires Poop?

1.

What would happen if a horse died standing up?

The question posed by the ages of myth themselves seems simple. While it would be quite easy to give just an answer, that would not give the answer credibility or backing. No, this answer requires more. There is a story behind the events that lead to the answer we seek. Characters that set events in motion to solve this query.

Do not be disheartened if there are no vampires to speak of right off the bat. They will show themselves in time but for now we go to a small farm set in a hilly valley of middle America. A man named Derek Snyder rode his motorcycle towards this hilly farmland because the hills were most fun to ride his dirtbike over. He never got permission to do so but he knew Barb, the old woman who owned the place, and she never seemed to mind.

It was a pleasant Saturday morning as he drove down the winding roads, listening to National Public Radio on a headset built into his helmet. There was a famous forensic scientist who had been studying vampires but he was publicly shamed at a conference in Virginia about his theories. Apparently he was of the crowd that believed vampires pooped and this was an unpopular opinion. Most scientists in the field were certain that all waste the vampire's digestive tract produced was excreted through urination, and so the scientist was shamed. Not one vampire, to this point in history, ever discussed their bowel movements with any who were not vampiric so he had no evidence or even heresay to report. Silly as it may seem, vampires turned to ash once dead and living vampires were less that cooperative on an operating table.

Derek chuckled to himself as he listened in to the radio, deciding to himself that they probably did not defocate. As he rode down the road, on this same Saturday Barb's son Rich, had come to visit. Barb was concerned one of her horses was sick. She said he'd laid down on the field on Thursday and she hadn't seen him move much since.

When Rich arrived he saw the horse had not only died on it's feet but then fell over on it's back afterwards. It was laying with all four feet up in the air like something out of a cartoon. He wasn't sure if she was joking when she said the horse was a bit under the weather, but he set out to take care of it either way.

He rode the old green tractor out of the barn and started wrapping a chain around the inflated carcas. Two days in the sun didn't do the dead horse any favors. The twelve hundred pound beast was bloated with gas trapped in it's decomposing body making the corpse bloated and fat. He managed to get it tied off and hooked up to the rear of the tractor then set off.

Rich drug the horse's body over the hills of their farm and found a somewhat secluded spot. He unhooked the bloated horse long enough to use the scoop on the front of the tractor to dig a rather deep hole. Once he was sure that the hole was deep enough, he used the scoop of the tractor to push the horse in and then cover it with dirt afterwards.

Satisfied with his work, Rich returned the tractor to the barn and then returned to sit with his mother on the back porch of the farm house. She had a glass of lemonade ready for him as they sat back.

“Well at least he didn't die in the barn,” Barb started off.

“True,” Rich sighed, “That would have been a mess.”

“How would you have even gotten him out if he did die?” She wondered, “You'd have to of taken out one of the walls.”

“No,” Rich sighed again, “I would have had to spend a day with a chainsaw, seeing things I really don't want to see.”

The sound of a dirtbike echoed through the hills as Derek sped down the road towards the hills of the farm.

“Who is that?” asked Rich as he saw the man go off road and down into the hills along their field.

Barb chuckled, “Oh that's just a young man who comes down to ride his motorcycle on the hills. He's not doing any harm to no one.”

“Well, no. I 'spose not...”said Rich as he heard the sound of the dirtbike as Derek jumped over the smaller hills, riding up and down every which way, “But I just buried the horse out there.”

It wasn't long after that they heard the dirtbike stop suddenly as a sound echoed across the hills which could only be described as mix between a large pop and a fart. A moment later they heard rich scream and the shrill shriek echoed throughout the valley. Trees and plants turned black and withered fast. Barb and Rich heard the sound of his scream and it resonated in them.

Barb looked to her son, “Your ears are bleeding...”

Those words were the last thing either of them heard as the valley died.

2.

What would Happen if you Survived a Cocaine overdose?

Steve Jablonski wasn't ready for a day like the one he was having. Given the day he was having, few would have been. He was in the back of a plane as it took off from a jungle air strip out of Columbia. It certainly wasn't the first plane to take off from that airstrip with a cargo hull full of weed and cocaine headed for the states.

Unfortunately, as it took off, Steve and his pilot were fleeing members of a rival cartel who were armed with submachine guns. The plane was coming under heavy fire as it took to the air. Fortunately it's hard to aim a submachine gun while firing and leaning out of a Jeep at the same time.

The hull was riddled and Steve was forced to dance as the floor erupted up from under him with a flurry of bullets. There was no where to go in the confines of the cargo hold so he jumped atop one of the massive pallets of marijuana. He lay atop the pallet and let it soak up the bullets for him while checking for holes.

There were no holes except the ones in his clothes but the bullets continued to rain on the underside of the plane and more than a few hit some of the bricks of cocaine in there with him. A heavy dust of energy-giving highly addictive white powder soon filled the air in the back and coated Steve.

He tried to calm down but his heart was going a hundred miles a minute even though the bullets had stopped. A cocaine fueled fire burned within him and erupted in his legs as he suddenly shot up from the weed blocks and to his feet as he started pacing through the clouds of white wafted back into the air over and over by the wind coming in through the bullet holes. He marched up to the front of the plane shaking like a paint mixer.

“Cocaine everywhere!” Steve Shouted.

The pilot looked back as the cocaine clouds wafted to the forward cabin, “Jesus, Steve. Dip into the product a bit, did ya?”

Steve looked at himself, noticing that he was now coated in a fine white powder dusting, “Shit. Do we have any wet wipes or something?”

“You're not flying Aeromexico, in case you didn't notice,” the pilot replied, “You hit?”

“Don't think so!” Steve shook his head, shuddering with the high of a thousand lifetimes, “But there's cocaine everywhere back here!”

“Patch the holes with somethin' ya moron,” said the pilot, “It's just gonna keep blowing around.”

“What the shit am I going to patch it with? Weed?”

“I don't know,” said the pilot, “Just find something.”

“Did they nick the fuel?” asked Steve.

The pilot checked the meters on his controls, “Fuel levels are holding steady. If they hit the tank or the lines we'd be seeing it drop off kind of fast.”

Steve nodded and started to jitter as he talked faster and faster, “I'm gonna shove something in those holes so we don't inhale all of the product before we hit stateside. I know we were shot at a whole bunch but I feel really good about the rest of this flight for some reason.”

Cocaine acts as a stimulant and ordinarily, with an ordinary sized dosage, the person would experience the peak of the effects in thirty minutes. However, in a saturated environment the effects could last longer, especially when on borderline overdosage for hours of travel in a stressful situation.

The drug effects each person differently, but in the case of Steve Jablonski, after he finally made it back to the states his bosses decided to give him five days off for recuperation. It was five days without sleep. Still full of energy, they called him back in.

They sent a car for him that morning, to his small apartment in San Diego. As he got in the black sedan with tinted windows, there was bleach blond British man in a black suit already in the back of the car.

“Well if it isn't Mr. Jablonski the mathmagician himself,” smiled the Brit.

Steve scootched into the car and the driver closed the door for him. He watched the driver walk round front then looked to the British man's clean cut suit before back to his own discheveled and mis-buttoned suit. He adjusted his shirt to look more proper, “I'm sorry, I thought that I was meeting with Orlov directly.”

“Oh, you are,” smiled the British man, “But while you were gone he hired me as an intermediary. The name's Pritchard.”

The car started and was underway as Steve replied, “Just Pritchard? No first name?”

“None that you need to know of. Think of it as a mononym,” Pritchard pulled a cigarette case from his suit jacket, letting Steve get a good look at the gun strapped to his shoulder. He took out a smoke and offered one to Steve, “Care for a fag?”

It took Steve a moment to remember that fag was the British slang for a cigarette, “No thanks. I don't smoke.”

“Fair enough,” said Pritchard as he snapped the case shut and replaced it in his pocket, “Do you know what this meeting is about?”

“Columbia and the cartel I assume,” said Steve, “But all I did was go there to check inventory and work the books. I didn't have anything to do with the attack.”

“On the nosey and we know you didn't, but the boss still needs to see you in person,” Pritchard smiled, sparking up his cigarette. He then pulled a blindfold out from a different jacket pocket and tossed it to Steve, “Here, you know the drill.”

Steve sighed and donned the blindfold as he and Pritchard were transported to elsewhere in town. A location that was to remain a mystery to the mathmagician. After he got out of the car clumsily, Pritchard removed the blindfold to reveal that they were at a worn down, rusted over, warehouse at a port he didn't recognize. Not that he was supposed to.

A few guards were posted at the entrance and as he disembarked, they held the door open for him. Steve and Pritchard walked in to see there was a poker table in the middle of the large building. One man sat behind the table and had several more guards standing behind him.

Steve approached with bloodshot eyes. Exhausted but unable to sleep, he stood before his boss, Yegor Orlov.

“Steve,” Yegor began, “Been a while. How are you?”

“A lot of sleepless nights, Boss Orlov,” Steve replied.

“Nervous about needing to pay back for that coke you huffed?” Yegor smiled.

Steve stared wide-eyed, “Not exactly. I haven't slept because the coke they shot in that plane is still keeping me going.”

Pritchard approached the Boss and offered him a cigarette. Yegor took one along with the light that his new intermediary offered. After a puff of smoke he asked, “You haven't crashed? Is bad for you to no sleep.”

“Yeah, that has me worried too,” Steve nodded, “Did you say pay you back for the coke?”

“But of course. The product is expensive. We aren't running a charity here.”

Steve was running eye zaps and microsleeps and after so long awake he wasn't sure the things he was hearing were really the things he was hearing, “I shouldn't have been sent to Columbia. You sent me there to check the books and I ended up almost dying. I didn't snort or shoot up that coke. It was shot at me with bullets till it was in my eyes and everywhere involuntarily.”

“And we apologized for the mix up at the airport. Affairs have been settled. People have been dealt with,” Yegor began, “But to fix situation, there must be one final pay off made. They want you to make it and will accept no other. Only you.”

Yegor snapped his fingers and one of his guards brought over a metal suitcase. The boss took some keys from his pocket and opened the case, then turned it to face Steve. It was filled with cash. Bundles of hundred dollar bills filled the case to the brim. He closed the case, set the keys on top along with a set of tickets.

“If I do this then we're square?” asked Steve.

“You do this and we are on the road to being square,” said Yegor as he slid the case with the keys and tickets over to Steve.

Steve took a look at the bus tickets. The top ticket went all the way to Maine, “Where exactly am I going?”

Yegor smiled. “Ticket is to Maine but you will be going part of the way with this for exchange. A man with a red suit at the rest stop in Gothenburg Nebraska will give you another case and you will trade tickets with him. They you get on his bus with his case and you will bring it back here. Easy enough, right?”

“Sounds easy enough,” said Steve as he took the case, keys, and tickets in hand.

“Better get going. You have a bus to catch,” said Yegor with a smile as he sparked up a cigar.

Steve was escorted out of the warehouse by Pritchard, and he was brought back to the car. Scarecely a word was had as they took him to the bus station. Microsleep was taking it's effect on him as, after so many days without sleep, he started to finally fade.

He made it to the bus stop and after a few short hours wait, he was able to board his bus with case tightly in hand. He walked to the back and managed to take in the view for a bit, but the rocking sway of the the big bus took it's toll and escorted him off to dreamland as the crash had finally hit and hit hard.

Steve had pleasant dreams and wandered through a magical land. He was a flying wizard with powerful magic and a majestic beard the likes of which he wish he'd have been able to grow when he was awake. He had to go fight the evil dragon Zorbulak and rescue his princess fiancee. He took a long look in the mirror observing his sleek brown hair and green eyes. His face was just as it was in his life outside the dream, except for the beard, and much like in real life he had a disappointing bit of extra pudge that he never seemed to be able to get rid of.

He ran to the window and flew off into the night sky, riding into the storm. Steve was ready to fight Zorbulak and his fire hordes but that was when someone nudged him on the shoulder. He stirred but then slipped right back into the dream.

The second nudge wasn't gentle. It was more of a jostle. That's when he woke up in a bus depot. It took a bit for him to come back to reality as he wiped the drool from his mouth. Steve looked up to see a uniformed man. It was the bus driver.

“Hey man. End of the line. You gotta go,” said the driver.

Steve looked around, “What? Where am I?”

“Landlake City,” said the driver, “You gotta get off my bus. You're not supposed to be in here still.”

“Oh shit... how far is that from Gothenburg?”

“I don't know where that is, man.”

“Nebraska.”

“Holy crap dude,” the bus driver chuckled, “Nebraska was like two days back.”

“Shit! Shitty shit shit...”

“Shit's right if that's where you needed to get off,” said the bus driver, “Speaking of... you got to go man.”

“Why didn't anyone wake me up?” asked Steve.

“Man... I ain't nobody's baby sitter. You're a grown ass man.”

“What if I was dead?”

“Wouldn't have been the first on my bus,” said the driver, “Seriously though, get your ass out the seat and off my bus. My shift ended twenty minutes ago.”

Steve checked his immediate surroundings and saw, with a sigh of relief, that in his sleep he had laid on top of the metal briefcase in his cocaine fueled mini-coma. There was an impression on his face that confirmed he had been sleeping on it for some time.

He managed to get his lethargic legs out of the seat and stood weakly to his feet. He clutched the suitcase to his chest as he walked off the bus he realized just how hungry and thirsty he was after not having eaten or drank anything in a few days. Steve's stomach made noises he had never heard before as he walked off the bus and into a large parking lot filled with identical busses.

He walked out of the fenced in parking lot and came out on 36^th avenue. Not the best neighborhood to walk through with a metal case full of money. Lucky for him there was a diner across the street and bad neighborhood or not... he needed some food. He set the suitcase atop a broken newspaper dispenser, unlocked it and took out a few hundreds.

When he closed the suitcase and locked it again, he felt his phone vibrate. After a few days he was surprised it had any battery left at all.

Two percent battery. Two hundred and three text messages. Ninety-seven missed calls. He thought for a moment. Steve looked at the suitcase and took a good long think about just what was going to happen to him if he even tried to explain what happened to him... or the money he had with him. These people were very prompt about money and Boss Orlov wasn't known for being forgiving.

He made a decision, pulled a paper from the broken stand then headed headed to the diner to check the classifieds for apartment listings.

3.

What is the Thirty-Seventh best use for an invisible car?

I know what you're thinking... where are all the vampires? For the time being, they are lurking in the shadows, still in wait of nightfall. Before they make an entrance there is just one more bit of exposition that must be established first. That being said, I can tell you that they are coming and by the end of this book, the mystery of their bowel functions will be resolved. As this story unfurls, the city where it happens and the characters involved fall into place. Fires of ambition burn with a new super villain who sought to make himself known.

In Landlake City there were superhumans. Heroes and villains and those who sought to make a name as either one. This story begins with a villain who had made a name already paired with one who had yet to do so. The villain who sought to make a name for himself went by the moniker of Death Shriek but for this venture, he was merely the getaway driver.

Death Shriek was a caucasian man of average height and build. His costume was black and white spandex with a swirling motif that wrapped around his body. He wore black combat boots and thick, elbow length gloves. His black mask covered his face and neck, but left his mouth and eyes exposed. His black-dyed hair was a foot long and spiked straight up out the top of the mask that wrapped all the way around his head. On his chest was a black and white picture of a mouth screaming with little white sound waves emanating off the sides.

He sat in his car, in the parking lot outside the Clementine National Bank and was only brought in on this job because of the special car he inherited. The vehicle was invisible to any who didn't carry a special medallion that looked like a simple gold tie pin with the letters RS embossed across it. The car was built for speed but, because it was invisible, it was also armored as people often ran into it unintentionally.

The villain of more prestige, who wore one of the special RS pins, went by the name of Lucky Devil. He was a handsome man who wore an expensive red suit and tie, with a black silk shirt, and black eel leather shoes. He looked like an ordinary white man with bright red hair, a pointed goatee and a curled mustache. The main thing that signified his namesake were the three inch long horns that protruded from his forehead.

He tapped a black ivory cane on the ground as he tap danced up the bank steps and into the front door, holding the door for an old lady as she made her way out. As he sauntered his way in he pulled a mere three red dice from his suit pocket and flicked one to the ground.

Tick tack tick tack it bounced across the floor, but no one noticed the die. Then the bank manager exited his office.

“Dianne could you get me a copy of... Hwooop!” as he slipped on the die he fell back. The ground was very forgiving despite his fat acting as an extra cushion on the landing. He was unable to move after he hit the hard floor as his back had gone out and the series of unintelligible mumbles didn't help, but it did grab everyone's attention. The tellers, the security guard, everyone.

That's when Lucky Devil flicked his second die behind the teller counter and hit the button to start the vault opening. He leaned on the counter as one of the tellers returned along with the security guard.

She ran behind the counter, only to slip on the die on the floor back there. That's when he started to mosey his way over behind the counter himself.

“Hey! Stop right there, mister!” said the overweight security guard. He put a hand on the holster where he had his night stick.

Lucky Devil looked over his shoulder with a grin then flicked his final die towards the floor, it bounced with a loud clack, then hit the security guard square between the eyes. The guard hit the ground out cold and Lucky Devil caught the die again. He walked into the vault with an upbeat whistle and a skip in his step.

He grabbed two sacks of money that had been leaning on the vault door and, hefted them over his shoulder, and proceeded towards the egress. Money over one shoulder, cane over the other, and he couldn't have been more casual about the whole affair.

A burly bank customer in overalls and a red flannel shirt walked up to the horned man as he made his way to the exit, “Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing? You can't just take that money.”

“Oh I beg to differ,” Lucky Devil smiled and with a quick swipe of his black ivory cane, across the temple of the burly man, and his way to the egress was no longer blocked. He sauntered out just as easily as he sauntered in.

He made his way down the steps to the invisible car in wait, knowing full well that no one else could see it but him, then opened the back door with a final look to the bank. He gave a tip of his hat to the on lookers then took his seat and closed the door, effectively disappearing from view of everyone looking.

Death Shriek looked into his back seat, saw his passenger and then the huge bags of cash, “Wow. That was quick. There's nothing on the police scanners about this yet either.”

Lucky Devil cast him a gaze as if to say 'so what?' but then actually said, “Shut up and drive.”

Not wanting to lose his cut of the money, Death Shriek did as he was told and go them out of there with a minimal number of accidents in the invisible car. His cut was left on the seat as Lucky Devil skedaddled on to bigger and better things.

D.S. was then left to his own devices. He drove to the parking garage where he stowed the invisible car and then made his way to his apartment. He wondered if his roommate would find it funny if they ordered pizza with his recent cash influx.

One might think that he'd have changed out of his supervillain outfit on the way to his apartment, but one would be wrong. He was an unknown so he might have just of easily been mistaken for a hero as a villain. Despite his acheivements he had gone utterly unnoticed though had plans to change that.

He made his way up to the seventh room of the seventh floor and then walked into his apartment only to see, what most would consider, a very strange sight. There was a man dressed like a mod straight from the 1970s only his whole body seemed to be that of a ragdoll. The ragdoll man's left arm was extended a good seven feet longer than it should have been and casually held up a pudgy man against the wall.

“Death Shriek. Good to see you. A man came to the flat so I invited him in for tea,” said the ragdoll man, “I'm sorry to say I never caught his name.”

D.S. looked at the scene and to the pudgy, brown haired, green eyed man that was effortlessly held aloft by the ragdoll man, “Nice to hear, Mod Doll... but a question comes to mind... why did you bring him in here at all? Now we have to kill him.”

Mod Doll looked to D.S. with his button eyes, “I thought it was you at the door so I opened it in full villainous appearance, then I pinned him against the wall and not a minute later... here you are.”

“I see,” said D.S. as he looked to the pinned man, “Well, maybe we can find out a couple of things first. Who sent you here, and why?”

“I was just answering your posting in the classifieds,” said the man on the wall, “It said you were looking for a roommate.”

“I never put in the address,” Death Shriek replied, “Only a phone number. AND it said that only villains need apply plus I already have a roommate. I think you two have met, if I'm not mistaken.”

“I'm good with computers. I really needed a room that wasn't a motel. I used to work for the Russian mafia so I figured that was somewhat villainous. You never answered your phone and my name is Steve.”

Mod Doll walked over to D.S. while keeping Steve pinned to the wall then whispered, “How much did you make on the job?”

D.S. whispered back, “Enough to buy that place but rent would be a bit tight for a bit if any jobs go sideways.”

“Mafia isn't a bad background. I've got that truth detector touch so I know he isn't lying. He could take the couch, maybe?” whispered the ragdoll man.

D.S. looked to Steve as Mod Doll released him, “Well, we could let you stay on the couch, at least for a while but you'll still need to chip in on a third of the rent. I hope you know that it goes without saying that if you tell anyone about us you'll be killed in so many painful and slow ways it would daunt the mind.”

“Better than a hotel,” said Steve as he clutched a metal suitcase tight to his chest.

“Right ho then,” said Mod Doll, “A few more questions first. Where are you from Steve?”