Counting down the days...

I took another sip from the drink. Blood didn't agree with me, but it had seemed rude to complain. The sad figure hunched opposite me tipped up his hipflask, more whisky flooded into his sanguine, and he drank.
 "And, boyo, you'd never catch me sparkling like that in the sunlight!"
 It had shocked me a little to find out The Count was secretly Welsh. I mean, his apparent alcoholism wasn't that surprising. The whole number thing had suggested an addictive personality to me anyway. But this was a new low. Why did he have to be like this every time he didn't get a part in a film?
 "3 movies now! 1! 2! 3! AH AH AH AH AH!"
I'd pointed out that I could count to 3 easily. At least 3 times. 1! 2! 3! But the evening had continued well into the night. My once well-stocked alcohol cabinet had not, however, lasted that long.
 "And water! I melt in water! Count that!"
I declined to count the world's water supply. It was a stupid idea. The Count, drunkenly, had began to stagger around my house, singing Land of My Fathers badly and poking my possessions in a misjudged attempt to count. This was ridiculous. At least this time, the count was clearly more suited for the role he'd missed out on - he'd visited a few years ago, complaining Christian Bale had stolen the role of Batman from him. I'd tried to explain that the role had not been available only to Welshmen. The Count, arguing it was, tried to claim argue Bale had dressed as a vampire to imitate him, and thus steal the role. I didn't even bother to argue with that point any more. But now, this was different. The count was ideal to be in the Twilight sage. His repeat visits to me had certainly proved he was annoying enough.
 In the distance, I could hear the count attempting to count the tiles in my kitchen. Breaking a chair-leg over my knee, I headed for the kitchen myself.
Good thing I stocked up on feather dusters recently...