Nosferatu has competition

Nosferatu woke up cranky in his dusty castle bed, looked in the mirror, saw no reflection, still scratched his head. He hissed, “What’s happening to me? Someone stole my pale eternal misery!” He searched “ugliest dudes alive,” gasped, “This Stephen Miller guy? How did HE survive?!” He shrieked, “His vibe is stealing my undead aesthetic! My whole identity just turned synthetic!”

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Nosferatu’s jealous of Stephen Miller, screaming at the moon like a B-movie thriller, pacing through his castle yelling, “This is absurd! How does that man look more vampire than me with one word?!” Nosferatu’s jealous — painfully true — because Stephen stole his spooky debut.

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But what truly broke him, absolutely unhinged, was stepping out at night and hearing whispers on the fringe. Villagers squinted and pointed like they solved some great case: “Hey look! It’s Stephen Miller — same ghostly face!” Nosferatu froze, insulted down to his core. “How dare you confuse ME with that political décor?! I’m a horror icon — he’s a walking draft of doom! How did he become the scariest in the room?”

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He tried capes, he tried boots, even coffin polishing routines, yet everywhere he lurked he heard, “Is that Miller in the jeans?”

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Nosferatu’s jealous of Stephen Miller and furious the villagers confuse him with that mood-killer. “Miller?! MILLER?! Do you see these claws? I built centuries of terror — not whatever that man does!” He cried in despair, “Confuse me with ANYONE but him, I swear!”

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He posed in perfect shadows, sharpened every line, but Stephen still out-paled him with that bleak, ghostly design. “I’ve hunted humans with elegance and grace — how does THAT guy look more undead in the face?!” He called Dracula sobbing, “Bro I’ve lost my spark!” Drac said, “Yeah… that dude looks like he sleeps in the dark.”

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He howled at the moon, “Must I endure this doom? Is it too much to ask to be the creepiest in the room?” But the universe stayed silent… except one whisper low: “Honestly… Miller kinda has the Nosferatu glow…” which sent him into melodramatic woe.

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“Who’s scarier?” — Not you. “Who’s paler?” — Miller too. “Who looks like they haunt a room?” — Stephen Miller, sorry dude. Nosferatu collapsed dramatically, face to the floor; bats handed him tissues as he yelled, “I can’t take this anymore!”

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Nosferatu’s jealous of Stephen Miller, haunted by comparisons to that accidental thriller, desperate to reclaim his legendary fright but cursed because people mistake him for Miller every night. “I’m the ORIGINAL nightmare — stop calling me his twin!” he wailed, then sighed, “Fine… let him look like me. At least no one thinks I blend in.”

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And so the tale continues… one vampire, one politician, and an identity crisis so spooky even the ghosts needed therapy.