Vlad admired the paintings in the waiting room. One portrait depicted Genghis Khan playing hopscotch with some children, while in another Mussolini sat near the ruins of the Parthenon petting a cat.  

Before Vlad had time enough to imagine his own mirthful tableau, the receptionist  beckoned him to enter the office.  

“Ah, Prince Țepeș!” Mr. Apate smiled, shaking his hand. “It is so good to meet you,” 

“Good day Mr. Apate.”  

“Please, call me Dolus. All my friends do.”  

“Then you must call me Vlad,” the prince replied.  

Dolus motioned Vlad to sit on a leather chair in front of a mahogany desk, as he seated himself on the other side.  

“So Prince Țepeș…I mean Vlad, how can I be of service?”  

“I want to change my image. When people think of me they see a bloodthirsty monster.  It’s not helpful for my day-to-day transactions.”  

Dolus grinned.  

“You’ve come to the right place. Here at Mirage Media we specialize in…how shall I put  it? Image softening.”  

“I don’t want to seem soft,” Vlad explained. 

“Of course not!” Dolus replied. “You will still be you. Powerful in every way. Just kinder, gentler.”  

“But I fear it’s too late.”  

“Nonsense! At Mirage Media time is a malleable concept. Tell me Vlad, who has been tarnishing your reputation?”  

“Don’t you first need to know what’s being said?” Vlad asked.  

Dolus chuckled.  

“Not at all. To dismiss an accusation, you must first discredit the accuser.” 

“Sensible,” Vlad nodded in agreement. “There is a man. An Irishman by the name of  Stoker who writes monstrous things about me.”  

Dolus took notes.  

“Tell me everything you know about this Stoker.”  

“I don’t know much. We’ve never met.”  

“No?” Dolus asked. “Then how does he write about you?”  

“He reads reports about me and speaks with my Translyanian compatriots, peasants really.”  

“So his accusations are based on rumors,” Dolus noted. “Does he claim any facts?” 

“How could he? He’s never even visited my country.”  

“Fake news!” Dolus exclaimed. “It will be an easy thing to dismiss this gossip monger.” 

“But what of the reports? Can you dismiss these as well?”  

“Ah, yes,” Dolus cleared his throat. “Here we will require some details. Tell me what are the accusations against you.” 

“Well first, there’s my nickname,” Vlad suggested bashfully. “You know — Țepeș —  meaning the Impaler.”  

With his right hand, Vlad mimed holding a stick and thrusting it upward. 

Continuing to explain, he added, “I know it sounds bad but it wasn’t just me, everyone was impaling. Honestly, we were at war with the Ottomans and they did it too.” 

Dolus waved his hand in the kind of motion you might use to stop a small child’s whining.  

“Vlad there is no need for justifications. Mirage Media is a judgment free zone. Tell me about these Ottomans.”  

“Yes, they were bad ones. They came from Turkey. They attacked us!”  

Dolus’s face lit up.  

“These Ottomans, are they by chance Muslim?”  

“Yes.”  

“Terrific! That’s the angle we’ll play. You were merely defending against Al Qaeda agents. Going tit for tat or…as the case may be, spike for spike with these terrorists to defend your homeland. You’re a hero, not a monster!”  

Vlad smiled.  

“So Vlad is that all the dirt or is there anything else?” Dolus asked.  

“Well…” Vlad cast his eyes downward.  

“Tell me Vlad. We can’t have any secrets.” 

“There were some bad people in my country, a nasty lot. I found out they betrayed me, so I got a little angry. I wanted to teach them a lesson. Not slaughter them mind you, but just make sure they’d be too afraid to ever defy me again.”  

Dolus impatiently tapped his fingers on his desk.  

“And?” he coaxed.  

“Well, I kind of roasted their children and fed them to these people for supper.” 

Dolus made no sound. He propped his elbows on the desk, closed his eyes and placed both hands under his chin.  

“I didn’t kill all the children, just a few,” Vlad clarified.  

For one minute and twelve seconds Dolus remained in complete motionless silence. Then he opened his eyes.  

“How were there reports of this? Did you make any announcement?”  

“Not at all. I suppose the story was spread by servants. They really are a chatty group, my servants.”  

“So these reports were based only on what they saw?”  

“I suppose so,” Vlad replied.  

“And what they saw were a bunch of roasted babies?”  

“Not a bunch, just a few.”  

“Wonderful!” Dolus proclaimed. “They only have the proof that their eyes have shown them and that is no proof at all.”  

“But the babies looked like babies. It was cute. My cooks placed little apples in their mouths—” 

“Listen,” Dolus interrupted. “Have you tasted those “Inconceivable Burgers”? They’re amazing! No one could distinguish them from real beef. They look and taste just like a  hamburger. Now they’re making the Inconceivable Chicken. It’ll be exactly like the roast bird itself.”  

“What does this have to do with me?” Vlad asked.  

“We’ll just run a story that you were testing out a new vegan product. It’s 100% soy based and flavored to taste like human flesh for vegetarians who want to indulge in the cannibal experience.”  

Vlad felt giddy.  

“These ideas are fabulous…but…”  

Vlad’s expression began to sour.  

“As I tried to explain earlier, it’s too late.”  

“It’s never too late.” Dolus declared. “Mirage Media has worked throughout the ages,  supporting nobles, presidents, and celebrities of all sorts. We provide our clients with insurance  that the masses will have the correct interpretation of history.”  

“But I’m dead!” Vlad exclaimed. “I don’t exist. There is no substance to me, I’m merely an apparition.”  

Dolus Apate smiled.  

“That’s not a problem. All of our clients could say the same.”