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...

Rain fell.
Actually, it descended at more of a 30-degree angle, catching on the wind and rising under the hats of anyone foolish enough to go out. But the figure I was watching was not wearing a hat.
A sad clown is a common, yet tragic, sight. This one was particularly troubling - his large green wig was weighed down with rainwater, and his make-up had run onto his purple suit.
"Why so sad?" I called out, safe in a phone-box.
"It's wet." He replied, simply and sadly.
"And ever since that Batman film, the kids are even more scared of me than usual."
I looked at him with a level of sadness suitable for this sad scene.
"Well, you do look kinda like the Joker - I mean, your costume is really very, very similar..."
He looked down sadly. Everything was very sad. A crow landed on top of my phone-box, and the clattering panicked me momentarily.
Another moment passed, and the clown looked back at me.
"Do you live in that phone-box?" He asked.
"No." I lied, "I have a mansion. I'm just selling shares on the Internet."
He looked puzzled for a moment - the third of our tale - but seemed to let it go. After a few moments, the rain started to ease up, and I left the phone-box. I think I'll go sleep in the haunted graveyard for a few days. It's unlikely any more bad things involving ghosts will happen to me.