Out for the Count

Some quirk of biology had made his blood extremely dilatant, like cornflour in water; it became thicker the more force you applied to it. He ran down the corridor with rapidly decreasing speed until he was reduced to cartoonish slow-motion. He would, if able, have laughed when the Count appeared at the end of the corridor, backlit by candlelight, for not only was his slow mime of running actually rather funny but the reality of a living breathing vampire was ridiculous. The fangs in his neck sent him unconscious but the Count soon grew bored of the work, sucking at him like milkshake through a thin straw, and left him on the floor. Had he been awake, the panic may have quickened his heart rate sufficiently to dam the punctured holes. Alas, in peaceful slumber, he oozed to death on the cold stone. Some time later, the body long removed, a maid would find the half-dry crimson stain surprisingly difficult to remove.