The older you get, the harder it is to get friends to carve time out of their schedule to hang out the way you used to: with no real conception of time's passing. Eating, drinking and chatting, hiding yawns, unmoored from daily routine.

Perhaps, then, what is needed is the ultimate excuse: Dracula, dead at your feet, and in need of monitoring. The ultimate party centerpiece. The totemic anchor.  After all, who's gonna say "Okay, folks, this has been fun, but I've gotta  jet" when there's a danger this pale fiend is faking it? 

This game-slash-ritual is a gift for the right group.