The creature's hand snakes out from beneath the cardboard. One side of the coffin proclaims Frigidaire and This Side Up. It is a perfectly ordinary hand, if not a bit on the pale side, that shivers out, tentative at first, then with increasing confidence. The seemingly flimsy lid shoots up and hangs straight into the air for the briefest of moments, like a raised proletariat fist, and a black-haired head begins to rise from the refrigerator carton.
It is Dracula of course. His canines glisten in the streetlights, arrows of light slice the wallpaper of the motel room. His black plastic cape is frayed at the bottom, with bits of lettuce and coffee grounds stuck to the hem.
He snaps his fingers. A bucket of hot water appears by his side. Snap! Another bucket. Snap! snap! and again snap! They steam and the great gobs of white mist envelope him as he upturns each bucket into the coffin.
He shakes off his compost-y cape, lays it gently on the musty motel bedspread, and undresses quickly. The steam wraps his thin body, giving it a sheen of shimmering lustre. His legs, arms, body, are white, whiter than the whitest Christmas snow.
He dips in a toe. Ooh...aah! He puffs up a plastic pillow and fastens it to one end of the makeshift tub, then gingerly climbs in.
With a sniff then a scowl at his armpits, Dracula spits his teeth out into his hand and plops them into a nearby water glass, then sinks slowly down into the warmth.