Richmond, it ought to be obvious to all by now, has always been a city of great diversity.  Yes people of many races, religions, and preferred steak preparation methods have long called Richmond home.  Richmond also happens to be home to a thriving vampire community, assuming that one vampire counts as a community.  The vampire in question is reputed to be none other than WW Poole, and this is his tale: (then again, maybe it isn’t and I’m getting him mixed up with a couple of Richmond’s other vampires, of which there are presently reputed to be several, though lest you worry, they prey mostly upon the emo)

 

            WW Poole, who’s first and middle names we shall henceforth assume to be Wedginald Weaseltrousers, was some mildly wealthy guy who lived in Richmond back in the late 19th century, having been chased out of England under suspicion of being a vampire and dodging his income taxes.  As so many freaks and weirdoes eventually do, his path led him eventually to Richmond, and there he set up shop.

 

            Now, Mr. Poole was not fantabulously wealthy, rather, he was that kind of wealthy that people are in Victorian romance novels, you know, where even though they’re always talking about how money is tight and someone has to go ahead and marry Heathcliff, nobody in the family seems to have a job and all the servants keep showing up for work anyhow.  And what should a man of such modestly impressive means do upon finding himself here in town?  Why build a castle out of sheet metal, of course (unbeknownst to many, there is traditionally no better way to make a splash in Richmond society than by being demonstrably undead and building a castle out of modern industrial materials, just in case you were looking to impress anybody).

 

            Richmond, lest any try to tell you otherwise, is a city of very industrious folk, and if you happen to be appropriately weird, then you may rest assured that in short order all manner of rumors shall spring up in connection to your person.  Mr. Poole proved to be no exception and before long it was noised about that he had beneath his castle a dungeon lair where he did all sorts of crazy vampire stuff, like sleep in a coffin shaped like a racecar, turn into a bat and fly around shrieking, and counting stuff in a jovial and educational manner.  It was also said that he built his castle deliberately near to the Richmond city prison and via a system of underground tunnels, did his own part to, shall we say, render parole a moot issue for the more succulent inmates within.  And of course after the castle was destroyed in the 40s, there were just enough rumors that such things were found to keep the legend alive.

 

            But I digress.  Mr. Poole has the misfortune to die in 1922, and for three years, did very little other than lie in his tomb in Hollywood Cemetery and occasionally go “Bleugh!” at passing youngsters.  In 1925, however, there was a collapse in the Church Hill railroad tunnel, and though no definitive evidence was ever found to pin the disaster on mole people, one can only infer from what happened next that they were working in collusion with our dear friend, Wedginald Weaseltrousers Poole, Esquire.  For immediately after the collapse, from the mouth of the tunnel emerged a creature whose flesh hung about him like ribbons and whose teeth were uncommonly pointy.  Far from being the least bit disturbed by recent events, this singular individual was observed to quiver, as if with unholy glee, and immediately flee on foot.  Those who dared to follow chased him to the tomb of Mr. Poole, where they are said to have found the door locked from within.  Needless to say, to this very day at midnight on some of your more spookier of holidays (Halloween, Boxing Day, Samhain)  all the goth kids hang out there, paint them selves up with pentagrams graven in Heinz 57 Sauce, and read bad poetry about Darkness, Satan, and Not Being Familiar With The Concept of Shampoo.

 

            And, just to make everything all uber symbolic and whatnot, the tomb of WW Poole just so happens to be adorned without with a statue of a lamb, this being said to signify a charming twist on the biblical verse about mutton and the king of the jungle, that mostly Mr. Poole is just a’lion in the mausoleum, but when he escapes, he’s on the lamb.  And with that horribly bit of punnery, I wish you good night, and sweet dreams.