Count Battula x Mugathan Harker

By Bram Stroker (AKA Mugdown Staff)

MUGATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL

3 May.—Left at 8:35 P. M., on 1st May, arriving at CSTATylvania early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but bus was an hour late. Navasota seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible.

In any case, I made it to the hotel on Joe Routt safe enough. I had trouble sleeping that night—there was a train howling outside my window seemingly every time I shut my eyes. Tomorrow I will track down the Count and try to gain access to his private chambers so we can talk business.

4 May.—I awoke to a letter slid below my door:

“My Friend.—Welcome to CSTATylvania. I am anxiously expecting you. Meet me below the Wellborn underpass. My carriage will await you and will bring you to me.

Your friend,
Battula.”

Dressed in my best jeans, t-shirt, and blue baseball cap, I went where the letter directed and was met by the carriage—a 2-seater golf cart with a half bed—piloted by a dark-looking young man in a maroon t-shirt. I tried to spark up a conversation with him, but my attempts were unfruitful.

“Awfully humid today, huh?” I asked him. He didn’t even glance my way. I frowned. Must be an engineering student.

He dropped me off at a building called — according to a bit of signage — the MSC, located in the heart of CSTATylvania. There was no one else around, so I approached one of the numerous sets of doors and figured I could find my way to the chambers of this mysterious Battula without interruption.

As I reached for the handle, I heard a soft voice call my name from afar. 

“Mugathan!” The voice said. I turned to see a lean figure striding toward me. He was young, around my age, and much better looking than I had anticipated. I swallowed nervously and wiped sweaty palms on my jeans.

“You’re Mugathan, no?” he said. His face was pallid, gleaming in the moonlight, and he wore a dark black tracksuit. He was handsome in a definitively twink-y way, but lucky for him I’m into that sort of thing.

“That’s me,” I said, shaking his hand. “So, this is the great MSC, huh?”

He smiled, charming. “What do you think?” He gestured to the brutalist architecture and, wide swaths of pristine, untouched green grass. “I went to great lengths to prepare it for you.”

“Your efforts do not go unnoticed. Shall we head inside?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, opening the door with a sweeping bow.

I hurried inside, pulling the brim of my cap down to hide my blush.

“Wait!” Battula shouted.

I turned to see the Count’s eyes inches from mine. I gasped and took a step backwards, finding my back pressed against the wall.

“You can’t wear your hat in here,” he said softly, reaching up and taking hold of the brim. He held it a moment too long, staring into my eyes. “Let me… uncover you.”

I caught a breath as he pulled off my cap, my blond hair tumbling down my head and shoulders.

“Th-thank you,” I breathed as he took a step back, handing me my hat. We shared an uncomfortable silence.

“Um… come with me,” Battula said, gesturing down the hallway.

He led me through hallways and down several staircases until we were very low in the building. It must have been the basement level.

“In here—my private chambers,” the Count said, opening a glass door past the lower food court. I stepped inside. It was dull, dank, and dark. The meager overhead lights cast long shadows on the walls, which were almost entirely covered in the corpses of old newspapers, sheets of paper, and sticky notes. The whole place smelled like stale newspaper ink and mildew.

“So, uh… what kind of things do you do in here?” I asked Battula, turning to where he was standing by the entrance. He shut the door, and I thought I saw him slip something resembling a key into the pocket of his tracksuit.

“All my private matters are handled here,” he said, sidling past me. He walked deeper into the room and gestured to a couch set into one corner.

Uneasy, I sat downon one side of it. He sat on the other.

“I call this my ‘newsroom,’” Battula said, sliding a little closer to me on the couch. “It’s where I handle all my news-related business. I sleep in one of the attached back rooms.”

“You have a bed in here?” I asked, pretending not to notice him sliding even nearer. “It’s awfully dark to be doing work down here. Aren’t you worried about your eyesight?”

“Oh no,” he said, coming to a rest with our knees barely touching. I swallowed, resisting the urge to fall into him.

“Have you ever played ‘Counting Shoulders?’” he asked suddenly. “It’s a CSTATylvania classic.”

“Oh, uh, no, I haven’t,” I stammered, trying to keep my mind clear. I was here on business, not for games. Right?

“Not to worry,” the Count smiled. “I’ll start.”

He pointed to one of his shoulders.

“One.”

He pointed to his other shoulder.

“Two.”

He pointed at my shoulder, the one closest to him, before counting my other shoulder.

“Three.” His eyes lit with a fire. “And four.”

He let his arm rest around my shoulders as he laughed. I laughed along, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

“That’s how you play,” he said, pulling me closer. “What do you think?”

“I think, uh, I think you all have very different games here than we do where I come from,” I said, but I didn’t pull away. We stayed like that for a moment while I listened to my heart beat in my ears.

“So,” Count Battula said, tipping my face towards him, “what was it you wanted to talk about? Ad space in the next paper, yes?”

“Uh, y-yes,” I managed, drinking in his beautiful pale face and long dark hair as if I were lost in the desert. I lifted a hand to brush it out of his eyes.

“I need a half-page ad,” I whispered, tucking his hair behind his ear, “or maybe I could do two vertical quarter-page ones, depending on what you need for spacing.”

He hummed, contemplative. “I think we can work something out,” he murmured, leaning in, eyes flickering down at my lips. “We have a buy-one-get-one-half-off discount for registered student organizations.”

“I don’t think I’m registered,” I said softly, letting his hand find the small of my back and lay me down beneath him on the couch. “Unless there was some other way I could convince you to give me the discount…”

“Let’s talk more about that,” he breathed, pressing against me.

A sharp knock at the door alerted him and I and relinquished the heat from between us. Battula sat up quickly, patting his hair back into place.

“Just—just wait here, Mugathan,” he said. “I’m not sure who that could be.”

“I can wait,” I said breathlessly, smoothing out the wrinkles in my shirt. He gave me a pat on the cheek before going to check the door.

“Oh, Professor Van Welshing! I wasn’t expecting you,” the Count said from the front of the office. He returned, rounding the corner with a large, professional-looking man in a maroon suit. The Count caught my eyes nervously.

“Oh, I-uha didn’t realize you had company,” Van Welshing said in a ridiculous Dutch accent.

“Of course, allow me to introduce you,” Battula stepped between us quickly. “Mugathan, this is Dr. Van Welshing; Dr. Van Welshing, Mugathan.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” Van Welshing said. “Now, Battula, let us go down to the office now, eh? Surely you remembered? Much business, little time.”

“Certainly, professor,” the Count said, following him deeper into the newsroom. He kept his eyes locked with mine as long as he could, conveying a whispered goodbye that could not be spoken aloud.

I heard a door shut down the hall, and then muffled voices. I lay back on the couch, one hand over my heart, as I thought about what had just happened. I came here on strict business, but now—it seemed to have turned into a trip of pleasure, and with none other than Count Battula!

— Mugdown Staff