Free Getting Even by Woody Allen

we agreed that she had an adverse effect on his work, reducing his output from one novel a year to an occasional seafood recipe and a series of commas.
       Finally, in 1929, we all went to Spain together, where Hemingway introduced me to Manolete who was sensitive almost to the point of being effeminate. He wore tight toreador pants or sometimes pedal pushers. Manolete was a great, great artist. Had he not become a bullfighter, his grace was such that he could have been a world-famous accountant.
       We had great fun in Spain that year and we travelled and wrote and Hemingway took me tuna fishing and I caught four cans and we laughed and Alice Toklas asked me if I was in love with Gertrude Stein because I had dedicated a book of poems to her even though they were T. S. Eliot’s and I said, yes, I loved her, but it could never work because she was far too intelligent for me and Alice Toklas agreed and then we put on some boxing gloves and Gertrude Stein broke my nose.

Count Dracula
       Somewhere in Transylvania, Dracula the monster lies sleeping in his coffin, waiting for night to fall. As exposure to the sun’s rays would surely cause him to perish, he stays protected in the satin-lined chamber bearing his family name in silver. Then the moment of darkness comes, and through some miraculous instinct the fiend emerges from the safety of his hiding place and, assuming the hideous forms of the bat or the wolf, he prowls the countryside, drinking the blood of his victims. Finally, before the first rays of his archenemy, the sun, announce a new day, he hurries back to the safety of his hidden coffin and sleeps, as the cycle begins anew.
       Now he starts to stir. The fluttering of his eyelids is a response to some age-old, unexplainable instinct that the sun is nearly down and his time is near. Tonight, he is particularly hungry and as he lies there, fully awake now, in red-lined Inverness cape and tails, waiting to feel with uncanny perception the precise moment of darkness before opening the lid and emerging, he decides who this evening’s victims will be. The baker and his wife, he thinks to himself. Succulent, available, and unsuspecting. The thought of the unwary couple whose trust he has carefully cultivated excites his blood lust to a fever pitch, and he can barely hold back these last seconds before climbing out of the coffin to seek his prey.
       Suddenly he knows the sun is down. Like an angel of hell, he rises swiftly, and changing into a bat, flies pell-mell to the cottage of his tantalizing victims.
       “Why, Count Dracula, what a nice surprise,” the baker’s wife says, opening the door to admit him. (He has once again assumed human form, as he enters their home, charmingly concealing his rapacious goal.)
       “What brings you here so early?” the baker asks.
       “Our dinner date,” the Count answers. “I hope I haven’t made an error. You did invite me for tonight, didn’t you?”
       “Yes, tonight, but that’s not for seven hours.”
       “Pardon me?” Dracula queries, looking around the room puzzled.
       “Or did you come by to watch the eclipse with us?”
       “Eclipse?”
       “Yes. Today’s the total eclipse.”
       “What?”
       “A few moments of darkness from noon until two minutes after. Look out the window.”
       “Uh-oh-I’m in big trouble.”
       “Eh?”
       “And now if you’ll excuse me…”
       “What, Count Dracula?”
       “Must be going-aha-oh, god…” Frantically he fumbles for the door knob.
       “Going? You just came.”
       “Yes-but-I think I blew it very badly…”
       “Count Dracula, you’re pale.”
       “Am I? I need a little fresh air. It was nice seeing you…”
       “Come. Sit down. We’ll have a drink.”
       “Drink? No, I must run. Er-you’re stepping on my cape.”
       “Sure. Relax. Some wine.”
       “Wine? Oh no, gave it up-liver and all that,