I was in the rear, stuck in with the rumanian bread, liverwurst, beer, soft drink; wearing a green necktie, first necktie since the death of my father a decade ago. I had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the Count's voice saying to me, “Good morning.” I started, for it amazed me that I had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. “Quick, let me in! I've got one hundred rainbows and the heat is right behind me!” Borst closed the door. I kicked it in and ran in with the chick. What I saw appalled me. The moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room was light enough to see. On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan Harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though bending into the muff and chewing. Kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad figure of his wife. By her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. His face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognized the Count, in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. Himself. String. Wire. Some arrangement. Roy claimed he had to jack-off six times in order to get the perfect snap. A whole day's work. There it was: With his left hand he held both Mrs. Harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension. His right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare chest which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. As we burst into the room, the Count suddenly felt her working. She had a mouth like one of those toilet plungers that unstopped toilets. They'd suck your brains out if you let them. With a wrench, which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned and told my wife: “This is Louie the half-ass and this is Marie, Queen of the Quick Suck, and this is Nick, the half-hobble.” Then I turned to them and said, “This is my wife– this is my wife– this is–” I finally had to look at her and ask: “WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR NAME ANYHOW?”
“Mina.”
“This is Mina.” I told them.
Having answered the Count's salutation, I turned to the glass again to see how I had been mistaken. This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in the mirror! The whole room behind me was displayed, but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. But by this time the Professor had gained his feet, and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the Sacred Wafer. I think they did it to each other when I wasn't around, just as poor Lucy had done outside the tomb, and sailed across the sky. And when the gaslight sprang up under Quincey's match, Baby leaned over and kissed me, gave me the tongue down the throat. I got my palm on her haunch. I was trapped. I didn't know what to do. I needed a drink. This, as we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting open, had swung back to its old position. 3 idiots locked together. A moaning and the flight of the last bluebird into the eye of the sun. It was a child's game, a stupid game.
Charles Stoker : Count Bukowski's Zen wedding