17th. August 1470; Bran Castle, Transylvania: Not a lot of people know this but Vlad the Impaler, Prince of Wallachia, husband of Ilona kept a secret diary! Herewith the entry on the occasion of his 39th birthday.
Got up and cleaned me teeth with a mildly abrasive solution of pink Himalayan salt, a substance that allows natural saliva re-mineralization what I acquired from some whingeing oriental bloke I had impaled only last week. Mind as far as the whitening of the old gnashers goes it is in my considered opinion about as much use as a laptop battery for they remain as black as taffy’s arse.
Such is life yet at least my mood was on the up at last what with it being my birthday. I had truly thought that the wife whose name I have always struggled to say – that’s why I call her Sandra – might have got me at least a brace or so of Ottomans to impale, maybe a baker’s dozen of nubile virgins to satisfy my sensual desires to boot yet what did she get me? Sweet Fanny Adams that’s what! I was having a bit of breakfast when in she pops in from the back yard, sits down next to me and asks me to pour her a cup of tea whereon she put her nose in the Budapest Herald for the next half hour – didn’t say a fucking word. As she got up to make haste for Lidl’s (she is particularly fond of the sundried tomatoes they sell) I couldn’t help but say, ‘Have you not forgotten a little something Sandra luv?’ ‘Don’t think so Vlad,’ she replies. Well that was it wasn’t it – I let loose with both barrels pointing out that today was the day I am one short of the big four O. With that she flutters her eyelids evocatively and says that if I’m nice to her today I’ll be on a promise tonight and that she’ll get a bottle of cheap red plonk from Lidl’s to celebrate over dinner as it’s a special occasion. How very short-changed I felt on the old gifts for a king front.
Pissed off yet undeterred I contemplated a swift b’day impaling to kill a bit of time. So it was off to the dungeons to select a couple of suitable victims. Imagine my dismay when I discovered that the cells were empty. My gaoler was swift to point out that I’d impaled every single prisoner only last week but had failed to re-stock. The thing is my subjects expect me to maintain an edge of ruthlessness thus ensuring my reputation goes before me and if on the occasion of my birthday I can’t even have one of my enemies raised aloft in the town square with a spike up his arse then what kind of ruler am I?
Plainly it was time to put my thinking cap on. Over a light lunch of salad leaves and braised seaweed enhanced tofu I thought back to last year’s birthday celebrations. That day I was so very, very proud of the way I had three score of Moldavians staked out in a geometrically precise ring of concentric circles dying a slow death and their corpses left to decay for months. Artistry with a pinch of genius I call it.
The thing is during the afternoon when I took it upon myself to take a constitutional about the town not one bastard afforded me a polite nod let alone offered me birthday greetings. I took the long walk back to the castle on the cusp of a fully-fledged depression wondering what the point of being an impaler with nobody to impale was.
However just as I was about to have me horse brought round the front so as I could pop across to Budapest and get shit faced a funny thing happened for down comes the drawbridge and in comes Sandra and behind her all the townsfolk belting out, ‘Happy Birthday to Vlad, Happy Birthday to Vlad, Happy Birthday you Impaler, Happy Birthday to Vlad.’ I choked up and am not ashamed to say I had a tear in me eye at that point. Better still was the fact that my subjects – plus Sandra of course – had all clubbed together and purchased me the gift of all gifts. You see following in the wake of the masses was open carriage after open carriage of Tatar slaves heralding from the banks of the Danube for me to impale. In my book there’s no better scumbags to have spiked than a Tatar. I’m not ashamed to say it was my best anniversary of my birth ever.
So I as I sit at my desk late evening penning this diary entry and stuffed to the gunnels with booze and fine fodder I can report that I, Vlad the Impaler have impaled well this day and as it happens my sacred feathered quill of office can now be set aside for I do detect the pattering of Sandra’s delicate tootsies heading in my direction – and after all I am on a promise.