The Count languished in anguish. Without

The Count languished in anguish. Without a tongue, life had no savor. He should have known that his latest dinner guests were from Argentina, and the silver content of their blood

would sizzle the life force right out of him. And yet. He practically melted into his coffin recalling the electric zing of that first sip, the way the sweet dusky flesh parted,

dead and stuff. He didn't care. He thought of Mama Cass and how she choked on the Ham sandwich. Ah, his favorite part. Then mourners showed up and he laid back down pretending

he was floating in a giant lake filled with Glenfiddich whisky. Ah, the smoothness, the smokeyness. Then he heard someone say:'This one ain't dead yet, he's still breathing! Should

we pump his stomach or put him on an IV?" "Both and treat the burns" said two Doctors coming hazily into my view. The explosion at the Glenfiddich Distillery and ensuing flood

that proceeded shortly after all made sense to me now. I wasn't the primary target in these attacks. The two doctors then began pumping morphine through the IV. I am in so much

pain, I begin to hallucinate that I've discovered the truth of the universe. "That which does not seem is that which is," I explained. "It's just the morphine," the doctors ""

quoted with their fingers. But I knew it had to be more than the morphine. Take for instance, the Raven spirit guide at my bedside, could any drug account for that?

The only person who would know was Edgar Allen Poe, and he wasn't talking.