My Favorite Fangs: The Story of the Von Trapp Family Vampires

THE HILLS ARE ALIVE...WITH THE SOUND OF SUCKING! Maria von Trapp is sweet, innocent, and can sing like an a ngel. Oh, and she's also a bloodthirsty vampire. When Maria is kicked out of the zombie-infested Abbey where she's beenresiding for the past 612 years, she's forced to take care of the family von Trapp, a rowdy clan in need of some serious discipline...orvampirification. After Maria turns the von Trapp children into childrenof the night and marries the von Trapp patriarch, the family seemsdestined for eternal (really, really eternal) bliss. But the NaziUndeath Squads are on the march, intent on ridding Europe ofbloodsuckers. And Maria will have to do everything in her power --supernatural or otherwise -- to save her vampire brood.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

CHAPTER 1  HOUSED ON WHAT the majority of Austrians agreed was the most rancid corner in Salzburg, the nameless Abbey was an eyesore, so painful to look at that nobody looked at it. Its asymmetrically constructed grayish-brown and brownish-gray stones, its cracked windows, its spiked wrought-iron front gate, and its rotting vegetable garden were a blight upon the city’s otherwise gorgeous architecture. And then there was the Abbey’s stench, an almost-living-and-breathing odor that some likened to that of a leprosy-sufferer, while others said it was reminiscent of a decomposing stag. Thus the general public avoided and/or ignored the Abbey, which was just how the Abbey’s Sisters of the Undead wanted it.As was always the case, the moment the sun ducked under the horizon, the Abbey’s Mother Zombie let out a nausea-inducing moan that rattled the bottles in the underground “wine” collection. (Why is “wine” in quotation marks, one might ask? Well, one would have to figure it out for one’s self, but one shouldn’t have to think too hard, considering the presence of a Vampire in our story.) The remainder of the Abbey’s inhabitants followed suit, and the combined cacophony of their groans caused every dog within ten kilometers to howl as if their tails were being tied into knots … as was also always the case.The 173 Zombies who made up the Abbey’s population dressed identically—black robes, black shawls, black sandals, and black head-coverings—and as the Abbey was badly lit—and as all the inhabitants were unable to stand up straight—it was difficult for the untrained eye to tell the Zombie Sisters apart. The only way to discern one of the beings from another was by her shuffle: Zombie Sister Brandi, for instance, had her mortal life terminated in a terrible female deer accident—after she fell off of her gigantic doe, Golden Sun, the beast stepped on her left leg five, six, seven times, crushing Brandi’s poor bones into powder—so she moved with a disjointed, distinct limp that could belong to nobody but her. As a human, Zombie Sister Cinnamon, on the other hand, died during childbirth, thus when Mother Zombie sucked her brains from her skull, Cinnamon’s body was in pristine shape, so she was able to glide across the cobblestone floors with ease. (It should be noted that “glide” and “ease” are relative terms when it comes to Zombies, as an undead glide was far slower than that of a mortal glide, and in terms of ease, nothing comes easy for the brain-damaged undead.) And then there was Zombie Sister Chesty LaBumm, who was so emaciated at the time of her expiration—her family was impoverished, and she had passed away from starvation—that even with Mother Zombie’s reanimating kiss, the periodic infusion of mortal brain slime, and the weekly silicone injections in her bosom, she did not possess the strength to move faster than the slowest tortoise.While darkness enfolded the rancid Abbey, all 173 of the Zombie Sisters made their way toward the Auditorium of Worship. The Auditorium was, relatively speaking, an attractive room, replete with stained glass windows that were not all broken, rows of splinter-filled wooden benches that could more-or-less support the dead weight of the undead, and a workable altar that housed a mold-covered, nine-meter-high shale statue of The Being Whose Name Shall Not Be Uttered. With its palpable odor of burnt garlic, rotting raccoon carcass, and semi-fresh human feces, it was the ideal setting for a Zombie prayer gathering.As they approached the Auditorium, the Zombies picked up a unison chant: Mortales spumae, et ne ius nostrum spirare auram, mors est satis, mors est satis, the loose translation of which is, “Mortals are scum, they should not be allowed to breathe our air, death is not enough, death is not enough.” Once the Zombies were seated, the Mother Zombie took to the altar, and wordlessly approached the statue. With surprising reverence, she slowly caressed The Being Whose Name Shall Not Be Uttered with her right hand, beginning at his feet, working her way up to his nose. She then stood on her tiptoes and ran her acne-covered tongue over the top of The Being Whose Name Shall Not Be Uttered’s head, after which she licked every millimeter of the statue, from top to bottom, and every bit in between. Following Mother Zombie’s tongue bath, each Zombie approached the altar one at a time and licked only the statue’s feet. (For centuries, each Zombie licked the entire statue, but once the Abbey’s populace grew to 81 inhabitants fifteen years before, Mother Zombie decided it was prohibitively time-consuming to have each and every one slobber over the entire T.B.W.N.S.N.B.U. sculpture. Zombies had many tasks, and as they moved sluggishly from duty to duty, it wasn’t logical to spend five hours in the Auditorium of Worship, and Mother Zombie was nothing if not logical.)After the final Zombie Sister delivered the final Zombie lick, Mother Zombie gave her nightly benediction: Abite cretins terrae abi foetidus creaturis, abite sceleratos deformis, bathe secretion spiritalis entis cui nomen non dixisti, complectere foeditas, complectere foeditas, complectere foeditas, the loose translation of which is, “Be gone, cretins of the Earth, be gone, fetid creatures, be gone, hideous miscreants, bathe in the spiritual secretion of The Being Whose Name Shall Not Be Uttered, embrace the foulness, embrace the foulness, embrace the foulness.”In the fifth row, Zombie Sister Cinnamon turned to Zombie Sister Brandi and whispered, “When will Mother Zombie learn that not a single one of us understands Latin?”Unfortunately for Cinnamon, her whisper wasn’t whispery enough. “Do you have something to say, Zombie Sister?!” Mother Zombie roared.Cinnamon stammered, “I … I … I … I…”Mother Zombie said, “You … you … you … you must … you must … you must suffer.” And then she took a golden cleaver from under her robe and threw it at Zombie Sister Cinnamon’s neck.The Mother had brilliant aim.But Cinnamon ducked.And thus ended the life—or, more accurately, the undeath—of Zombie Sister Blaze Starr, the unfortunate creature seated in the sixth row.The Sister Zombies stared at Mother Zombie, and Mother Zombie stared right on back. As Blaze Starr’s decapitated head rolled down the aisle, one of the Zombies in the back of the room mumbled, “This again?”Mother roared, “Silence, you odious death mongers! One of you, feed Blaze Starr to the goats.”In unison, the Zombies chanted, “Lady, oh the lady, oh the lay hee hoo.”Mother Zombie nodded, the tiniest of smiles playing about her lips. “That’s correct, my beloved ones. Lady, oh the lady, oh the lay hee hoo.”After the goats were fed, and after the service was completed, Mother Zombie motioned Zombie Sister Brandi and Zombie Sister Cinnamon to join her in the courtyard. Brandi and Cinnamon both turned pale—or, more accurately, paler; most undead are already quite pale to begin with, especially those who spend nine-tenths of their lives in a dark, dank dump like the Abbey—because nothing good ever came of those meetings. For instance, earlier in the month, Zombie Sister Foxxxy was summoned to the courtyard to discuss her cleanliness, or lack thereof. “Foxxxy,” Mother Zombie had said with a quiet, albeit fearsome whisper, “we have discussed your fluid situation. Numerous times.”Foxxxy stared at the floor. “Yes, Mother,” she mumbled.“Your nightly discharge is completely covering the floor of the water closet.”“Yes, Mother.”“To clarify: I mean the nightly discharge.”“Yes, Mother.”“That’s the yellow discharge.”“Yes, Mother.”“Contrary to your daily discharge.”“Yes, Mother.”“That being the brown discharge.”“Yes, Mother.”“We must also discuss your brown discharge, however.”“Why is that, Mother?”“Because it’s covering the entire floor of your sleeping chambers.”Foxxxy mustered the strength to meet Mother Zombie’s eyes. “That brown discharge didn’t come from me, Mother.”“No? Who, then? Who did it come from? Who left brown discharge by your bed? Who in this Abbey would do such a thing?”“I, um, I believe it was Vampire Sister Maria, Mother.”Mother Zombie moaned, then spit a gob of green goo on the wall; the wall steamed where the goo stuck. “Foxxxy, I’m aware that we tend to blame most of our problems on Maria. And that’s certainly understandable, because Maria is a problem, and an unsolvable one at that. But the discharge by your bed isn’t Maria’s discharge. You see, it’s common knowledge that any and all discharge coming from Maria is red. Any discharge.”“What do you mean, any discharge, Mother? I thought the different types of discharge were limited,” Foxxxy asked.“When you’re a woman, there’s plenty of discharge, Foxxxy.”“What kind of discharge, Mother?”“You don’t know?”“I might have known at one time, but most of my mortal memories are a blur.”“It doesn’t matter.”“But I want to know!”“It doesn’t matter!”“But I want…”Interrupting, Mother Zombie roared, “Never contradict me, Foxxxy! Never!”“But I ...

About the Author

Alan Goldsher is the author of 11 books, including that acclaimed Beatles/horror/comedy mashup Paul Is Undead: The British Zombie Invasion. As a ghostwriter, he has collaborated with numerous celebrities and public figures. For more information, please visit AlanGoldsher.com.

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