Vlad Dracula Was a Duck?

Director Fury heard Alvin's slightly provocative words and grinned, baring a set of snow-white teeth that looked completely out of proportion with his enormous mouth. "Tormented Souls mixed with blood should be a fine choice."

Alvin pursed his lips and tilted his head. He obligingly poured him a beer and a glass of whiskey. "Then hurry up and drink those, and get out of here. Honestly, buddy, I'm finding it hard to like you."

Fury laughed. "Why? Because I don't have a sexy ass?" He seemed to think he'd cracked an incredible joke, and laughed uproariously at his own punchline.

Alvin watched Director Fury with a trace of coldness. His smile lost its warmth. "I'm a hospitable man, but you're definitely not on my list of customers."

Fury asked with interest, "Why? Because of Stark's ridiculous antics on television these past two days? Or are you a racist?" He exaggeratedly widened his one eye, looking at Alvin with the curious gaze of a child eager to learn.

Alvin poured himself a glass of whiskey over ice and looked coldly at Fury. "Frank told me one of his close comrades, a man with a lot of influence—the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury—helped him deal with the trouble after he got his Vengeance against the Gang.

"The price was that he wouldn't go after any more government officials." Alvin downed his whiskey in one go, then looked at Fury, who wore an expression that seemed to ask, What's the problem?

"Frank trusted that guy so much that he even named his son Nick. But when Frank's wife was blown up and his son lost a leg, where was that influential son of a bitch?"

Alvin slammed his fist down on the bar. "When Frank was misled and sent on a mission, where was that son of a bitch?" Alvin fixed his eyes on Fury's single eye like a hawk. "When Nick was lying crippled in a hospital bed, where was that son of a bitch?"

The playful grin vanished from Fury's face. He stared coldly at Alvin and said furiously, "Then let me tell you where that son of a bitch was."

He glanced at Frank, whose expression was complicated. "When the explosion happened, that son of a bitch was in Europe, chasing a bunch of Terrorists. When Nick was in the hospital, that son of a bitch was in the Middle East, dealing with a chemical weapons crisis. When Frank got his Vengeance, that son of a bitch was cleaning up after him."

Fury glared at Alvin. "To protect Nick, that son of a bitch altered the records of the guy who adopted him, and made his best Agent look like a complete fool here. They're still laughing about it."

Fury slammed his fist against the table and roared at Alvin, "You tell me—where was that son of a bitch?"

Alvin looked at Fury mockingly and said coldly, "That son of a bitch holds a high-ranking position, but he's too busy to even make a phone call? He knew his comrade had lost his wife and his son was injured, but couldn't even spare someone to check on them? He knew how cruel it was to send Frank on a mission at a time like that, but couldn't speak up for him?"

Fury didn't back down. "We're all public servants. Serving our country is his duty. It's mine, too. All my time is spent trying to protect the entire planet."

Alvin spread his hands and sneered. "See? That's the difference between us. That's why you're not my friend. Don't barge in during my family gatherings again. Now!" He glanced at Fury and the flustered Coulson, then pointed toward the door. "Get out!"

Fury realized that he and Alvin held completely different views. He put on a businesslike expression and said, "I'm not trying to convince you, Alvin. I'm just here to warn you that Vampires are a huge problem. Before you get in too deep, get out while you can."

Alvin watched Fury with amusement. "I can't understand why the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. would come to me to say this. I thought that at least when it came to Vampires, we were on the same side. Isn't it S.H.I.E.L.D.'s job to deal with things like them?"

Director Fury glanced at Frank, who was drinking in silence, and sighed helplessly. "I can't explain all the complications to you. You can kill every Vampire you come across, then face whatever retaliation might come. You're capable of that. But you can't expose them to the public. S.H.I.E.L.D. already has a special department dedicated to hunting down criminal Vampires and keeping them from harming humans."

Alvin didn't understand politics, and didn't care to think through all the complications. He had one simple idea: wolves and sheep would never be friends. They were natural enemies. The relationship between humans and Vampires was the same. Alvin couldn't understand why, in his previous life, so many people liked Vampires and thought they were cool. Nor could he understand why this world had so many "Vampire fans."

But Alvin's power was limited. Hadn't Stark also fled to Afghanistan to test his new Missiles because of pressure from the outside world?

After thinking it over, Alvin said, "Dealing with them is your job. I'm only responsible for killing them all if they show up around me! Because—" He snatched a Remington from behind the bar and fired toward the door. "This is my territory!"

A dashing figure was blasted out of thin air.

He had short, curly dark brown hair, a handsome face with chiseled features, and a sexy little mustache. His lean, rugged build was clad in a bespoke suit that was clearly the work of a master.

Alvin's shot hadn't hurt him. A ripple of black shimmered in front of him, stopping the bullet.

The man with the mustache wasn't at all embarrassed to have been blasted out of thin air. He flourished his cane, behaving like a refined English gentleman, and nodded to everyone present.

He walked up to the bar and first nodded to Fury. Then he looked at Alvin and smiled. "Perhaps you could start by pouring me a glass of blood whiskey." He looked as if he had everything under control.

Alvin remained calm in the face of this unexpected arrival. That kind of entrance wasn't enough to rattle him. If the guy had been wearing a tight blue suit with his red underwear on the outside, maybe Alvin would have been terrified.

Alvin smiled, poured him a glass of whiskey, and handed it over. "I'm Alvin, owner of the Peace Hotel. May I ask who you are?"

The handsome man with the mustache took the whiskey, brought it to his lips, and took a sip. He chuckled softly. "You may not have heard of me. My name is Vlad Dracula, an Earl from Hungary."

Alvin covered his mouth in surprise. "I always thought Dracula was a duck!"