The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem - Episode 7: Part 2 - Vlad’s Estate

 

The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem - Episode 7: Part 2 - Vlad’s Estate

The limousine delivers Mean Jack and Polly Mason to Count Vlad’s legendary estate — a gothic fortress where power drips from every stone.
Inside, Vlad welcomes Jack like a long-awaited prize, while the Dominion eyes him with envy and suspicion.
But when Jack stares into the mirror of his lavish chamber, it’s not Mean Jack who looks back… it’s the sorrowful ghost of Madman Mason.

The limousine rolls to a slow, deliberate stop. Beyond its tinted windows looms Count Vladislav Dragomir’s estate, whispered about in legend but rarely seen by mortal eyes. Even in the dead of night, the mansion glows with a pale, unholy grandeur.

The sprawling gothic fortress rises out of a mist-draped forest, its black spires stabbing into the sky like obsidian fangs. Gargoyles leer from parapets, each seemingly alive, their eyes following every movement. A wrought-iron gate, taller than a man and tipped with cruel spikes, swings open without a sound, as if the estate itself recognizes who approaches. The cobblestone drive curves toward an ornate fountain where stone wolves drink from crimson water.

For all the stories whispered about Vlad’s mansion, the truth is far more overwhelming.

Mean Jack Mason, North Pole Championship slung over his shoulder, steps onto the marble walkway. He inhales sharply, the smug grin tugging his lips betraying just the faintest awe. Beside him, his sister Polly twirls barefoot across the polished stone, her laughter ringing unnervingly sweet against the ominous stillness.

“Wait until you see the inside,” she chirps, her eyes wide with glee. “It’s fantastic.”

Jack raises a brow. He remembers the Dominion well, remembers how Count Vlad’s estate was spoken of as sacred ground. “You’ve been here before?” he mutters, suspicion curling his voice.

“Oh yes,” Polly beams, skipping ahead like a child with a secret. “Many times. Yeti and I used to come here… to plan.”

Jack smirks, shaking his head, but doesn’t press further. They reach the towering double doors, carved with scenes of hunters impaled by bats, saints clawed apart by beasts. Without so much as a knock, the doors creak open, revealing a pale, black-suited manservant with a face like a mask.

“Ms. Mason. Mr. Mason,” the servant intones, bowing deeply. “The Count awaits you in the master parlor. This way, if you please.”

Polly skips along happily, clearly at home. Jack lingers, soaking in every chandelier dripping with blood-red crystal, every oil painting of Transylvanian nobility feeding wolves at their feet, every candle that seems to burn a little too blue. The mansion is a cathedral to excess and predation.

At last, they reach a pair of towering doors banded in iron. The servant pushes them open, revealing the Master Parlor.

It is not a room. It is a throne hall.

At the far end, beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with night skies and angels falling into fire, sits Count Vlad himself. Draped in a black-and-crimson suit, a crystal goblet of wine in hand, he leans back in a throne carved of bone and iron. His eyes glitter like embers.

On his right hand stands his blood-brother Beastfang, a feral titan barely contained in human form. To his left is Korbi Kong, his self-proclaimed Empress, radiating dangerous beauty.

Towering near the corner is The Yeti, a white-furred mountain of menace—though his beastly glare softens the instant Polly throws her arms around him, giggling as she clings to him like he’s her oversized teddy bear. Beside him lurks Feral, the savage, scarred sibling of Jax Brenner, growling under her breath like a predator ready to pounce.

And in the shadows, half-shrouded but unmistakable, stands Vlad’s newest recruit: Mina Harker, her eyes glowing with the tragic fire of a woman who has turned from the Hunters Enclave to embrace the night.

Vlad spreads his arms like a gracious king.
“Mean Jack Mason,” he purrs, his tone dripping with aristocratic delight. “At last… a pleasure to meet you in the flesh.”

Jack saunters forward, smug smirk fixed in place. “And good to meet the man who secured my freedom.”

Vlad chuckles, a sound both charming and unsettling. He lifts his glass in toast.
“Freedom, my dear boy, is only the beginning. What you have now… is power.”

With deliberate arrogance, Jack lifts the North Pole Championship belt from his shoulder, holds it up for all to see, and then places it at Vlad’s feet.

“A gift,” Jack declares, his voice echoing through the chamber. “In thanks for bringing me back.”

The Count’s grin spreads wide as he bends to stroke the golden plate. The crimson gems catch the candlelight, reflecting like drops of blood. The Yeti’s eyes flicker—jealous, hungry.

“Another fine trophy for the Dominion,” Vlad says, admiring the belt like a relic.

Polly beams with pride, Jack smirks with satisfaction.

But then Vlad leans back in his throne, his voice suddenly more commanding.
“Rooms have been prepared for you both. Tonight, we celebrate. A gala begins in one hour. You will be dressed… as befits family.”

The manservant bows again, gesturing Jack and Polly toward the sweeping staircase.

When the siblings vanish up the corridor, Vlad sets the title on the throne’s armrest. He turns to Yeti, clapping the giant’s shoulder.
“Do not worry, my friend. The jewel you yearn for”—his hand caresses the championship gold—“will be yours in time. Mean Jack is but a placeholder… until you return north.”

The Yeti exhales, beastly lips curling into a satisfied smile.

---

Upstairs

Polly’s chamber is draped in silks and decadence, an elegant gown awaiting her like a lover’s embrace. She squeals with delight, stroking the fabric before disappearing behind a dressing screen.

Jack’s chamber is darker, more masculine—polished oak, deep velvet, and an immaculate tuxedo laid out on the bed. He studies it, amused, a wicked grin tugging at his face.

“Guess they finally think I belong,” he mutters.

From his pocket, Jack pulls out his phone. The camera lingers as he scrolls, thumbs tapping quickly, before he slips it away—whatever he wrote hidden from the audience.

He pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter and steps to the mirror.

The reflection that greets him is not the slick-haired, smirking Mean Jack Mason.

It is Madman Mason—eyes tired, face softened, the weight of sorrow written across his features.

“Oh Jackie boy,” he whispers bitterly, lifting his glass in a mock toast to himself. “We’ve certainly hit the big time.”

He downs the drink, slams the glass on the dresser, and stares into his fractured reflection as the camera fades to black.

END PART TWO