Vampi's Dark Mansion...

It was the comic book habit that got you up in the morning and out on the Pest Control truck every day. Heck, and the comic books weren't even any good anymore. You had to admit it--they hadn't been since around maybe 1972.
But the Bug Gig got you out of the house--and into other people's houses. That made you feel mighty strange--going into apartments and homes where there was not one single book to be seen, let alone "comic".
Lunch meant blowing a buck for a cold drink and eating a baloney sandwich in the truck, usually parked on a quiet, shady lane somewhere. Today, Thursday, you read the paper, a free "entertainment" thing like most towns have. At some point you spotted a personals column titled "Amorous Adventuring" and read on.
It seemed there were lots of women out there looking for flings--or were there? Were they actually prostitutes, or maybe even undercover cops? "Man wanted for discreet affair, age, height, weight and blood type unimportant". You peeked at yourself in the rear-view mirror; that fit you perfectly.
And in fact, that phone number was right nearby, according to the area code. The more you thought about that "discreet affair" the more nervous you got. Absolutely ridiculous images of available women, laying about half-clothed and pre-moistened, trotted through your mind's eye.
And when you called the number, an older man's voice answered. "You callin' 'bout the NEWSPAPER AD?" it croaked. "Then come right over, an' hurry!" He got the address, an older place in a rather run-down area, and wondered what the "hurry" could be.
Soon he was standing in front of a sprawling and paintless old mansion, or almost one. Was he making a huge mistake? The door creaked open and hung there in the breeze. He mounted the splintering wooden steps toward it, taking a single look back at the truck safely parked on the street.
Turning back to the door a shuffling figure had appeared--a youngish fellow in stained painter's overalls and blue caboose cap who looked pale and wobbled slightly as he passes you and moves across the brown, sunburnt yard. You follow his zagging trail until a voice awakes you.
"You the guy answerin' the AD?"
You face a woman, black-haired and violently chewing gum at you. Her eyes pass over your body from knee to hairline and then back again, and you shudder red with embarrassment and want to regain the truck.
Was this a mistake, arranging midday trysts with unknown persons? Probably.
"Who was that other guy?" you query her.
"Oh him, he's a "regular". He drops by a-couple-times a week. It gets to be a little draining, if you really wanna know".
Your eyes meet hers, green and sparkling, and you know you must obey them.
"We need some new blood around here anyway" she purred hoarsely, "In ya go". And you step over the sunny threshold and into shadow.

Vampirella Goth Girl

You barely even remembered you had an Uncle Horace and then he went and died. Two days after the fact, you pedaled over to the courthouse for the reading of the will, then picked up newspapers for your daily delivery route. Afterwards, you'd head over to Uncle Horry's place, a big, mildewy old mansion just outside town.
Turns out you sort of own it now. So maybe now you can stop delivering papers for income, that not being so seemly for a 42-year-old ex-college student. That evening the sun went a crazy violet color and got choked-off behind some sick-gray clouds that'd rolled in from nowhere. It got dark so fast you thought for a minute you were going blind or had a stroke.
By the time the creaking bike got parked by the rotten porch of Unc Horry's place it was practically pitch outside. You hoped the juice was still connected inside.
Yeah, it had been a long time, but everything was still in the same place. Lamps, chairs, some rather rank drapes and several seriously stained oval rugs. A cleaner smell like Pine-Sol lingered somewhere, which was amazing because of the level of built-up filth. Years' worth of it. A small noise presented itself--a rodent?
By investigating the next room you notice a stream of smoke curling up from an immense overstuffed easy chair. "Who's there?" you mumble, faux-brave, your voice trembling slightly and coming close to cracking. No reply.
You step around in front of the big chair for the honor of being utterly ignored by the pale-skinned girl sitting there.
"Whu--who..." the words tumble out foolishly, for you cannot take your eyes from this girl. Her eyes stare into space, perfect small breasts heave in the foul cigarette smoke, and she is clad--he is amazed--in a sort of blood-red bathing suit of an unknown design that in no way complements the purple upholstery.


You try and be friendly, purposely forgetting she is probably an interloper on private property.
"I hear you come into some MONEY..." she croaks at him hoarsely, breaking her silence.
"Well, not 'zactly, not yet, anyway."
She continued, cutting him off "The realtor let me in, said someone was looking for a roomMATE..." she extended the last syllable unnaturally.
Intended or not, a vision of mating with the girl sprang into his mind. He wanted to mate with her. What could he say? To get things started?
"You a Goth chick, or something?" he smiled a little. She regarded him coldly, squinting a pretty mascaraed eye.
"Maybe. So what if I was? You got something against that?"
She rose up, seemingly taller than the New Owner in a pair of very high-heeled wet-look boots. He felt her breath on his face. "I thought maybe you and me coulda hit it off, Romeo, but I guess yer just a little Homeo."
Blood flushed your entire head like a silly beet as you respond to the attack "Naw, baby--I..."
"SHUT-UP" she barked at him. "I ain't no freakin' Goth though I may look like one sometimes and do dig some of the Music and you know Culture stuff, but you got no right ta pass judgment on me or nobody else! Izzat CLEAR, QUEER?"
She slaps your face, hard, and your smudgy glasses go flying. You needed a new prescription, anyway.
But she had touched you, actually touched your face, so maybe that was a start.

Vampi Cheap Hotel...

The night is dark and violently rainy, and after failing to find an open gas station you decide to check into a cheap motel far from the highway.
The clerk never meets your eyes--until he hands you the keys. He says "Girm in your room?" or something you can't quite understand.
Back out in the rain, you follow the chain of doors to cabin twelve, all the way at the end of the low building. The key squeaks but turns and you tumble into the darkness, dropping your soaked bag and groping for a light switch. But before you can find one, a voice murmurs out of the shadows and a 40-watt lamp bulb ignites.

"This your room?" She is a striking black-haired girl, skin as pale as the Moon, and she drills you with an icy and glassy stare.
"Well, yeah, I guess" you respond awkwardly "But what are you doin' in it?"
Then you realize the clerk never said "girm", he must have said "girl", and this must be her. "Wait a sec, lady--I know who you are--you're that Vampirella gal I seen in the magazine store!"
The raven-haired woman then rose perfunctorily and moves toward you, saying nothing. As she stands only inches away, you feel your heart thumping and pumping blood wildly to your eyeballs as if under some great pressure through heavy canvas fire-hoses.
"Do you like--come with the room?" He was instantly sorry he'd spoken, as she countered his comment with a look of complete and wearied disgust. She turned on one black high heel and grabbed a raincoat and umbrella he hadn't noticed.
"I used to, pal--USED TO." You flush with embarrassment but are aroused enough to query "Well, why not?" She fired him one last cold glance before slamming the door into the wet fury of the storm.
"Why should I 'do it' with some kook who reads comic books?"

Fer Starters...

I started this Blog to show some stuff I've written and drawn concerning the comic book character Vampirella, but not in the typical way you might expect.

One of my many portraits of Vampi.

I'm not at all happy with Comics' slide into softcore pornography and fetishism, although I admit I'm quite the pornographer myself. But, there's a sort of difference there--at least to me. See, I'm not a corporation, I'm a solitary artist/craftsman, so when I make a dirty picture it can't be porn--it's actually "Erotica". Ha ha!

I guess my big point--or target--with this thing is that no self-respecting Vampirella or voluptuous superheroine (of which there is no end nowadays, ad nauseum) would have anything to do with a "fan" or "fanboy". The Fanboy does not get the girl, in fact he never does, never did and never will. If he did, it would spoil things.

It's a lot like the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote.