Johnny B. Truant is the bestselling author of Fat Vampire, adapted by SyFy as "Reginald the Vampire" starring Spider-Man's Jacob Batalon. His other books include Pretty Killer, Pattern Black, Invasion, The Beam, Dead City, and over 100 other titles across many genres.

Originally from Ohio, Johnny and his family now live in Austin, Texas, where he's finally surrounded by creative types as weird as he is. His website at features his Creator Diary, additional works, fan extras, behind-the-scenes peeks, early access, and a whole lot more.

Fat Vampire by Johnny B. Truant

Death Has a Brand New Appetite…

When overweight treadmill salesman Reginald Baskin finally meets a co-worker who doesn't make fun of him, it's his own bad luck that tech guy Maurice turns out to be a two-thousand-year-old vampire.

And when Maurice turns Reginald to save his life, it's just Reginald's further bad luck that he wakes to discover he's become the slowest, weakest, most out-of-shape vampire ever created … doomed to "heal" to his corpulent self for all of eternity.

But as Reginald struggles with the downsides of being a fat vampire (too slow to catch people to feed on, mocked by those he tries to glamour, assaulted by his intended prey, and left for undead), he discovers rare powers in himself that few vampires have … and just in time, because the Vampire Council wants him destroyed as an inferior representative of their race.



  • "Laugh out loud funny and the laughs just keep coming. I am in for the whole series because I need to know what happens next to Reginald, the Fat Vampire. It is absurd, and yet oddly comforting and believable that even the Vampire world has out of shape and awkward individuals."

    – AJ
  • "I love a good vampire novel and Johnny B. Truant delivers on all levels. Humorous, suspense, action, gore, love story... it has all of these and excels at them. Twists and turns near the end of the story had me shouting out loud in my head towards certain characters and cheering Reginald, Maurice, and Nikki on! Looking for a new vampire story to sink your fangs into... buy this book!"

    – Christian Burch
  • "Just when you think you'll never find a vampire novel again that doesn't involve bloodsuckers that look like they moonlight at American Apparel, here comes Reginald, 350-lb. office worker who, because he's in the wrong place at the wrong time, is turned into a vampire; now he's destined to be the out of shape, fat slob he's been all his life... forever. What, you thought he'd suddenly turn into Edward Cullen?"

    – Phoenix59



Reginald Baskin, not remotely a religious man, closed his eyes in his small cubicle and asked God for his money back.

"Whatever I paid before I was a sperm, Lord," he said under his breath, "I want it back. Every cent, or I'm reporting your ass to the Better Business Bureau. I was promised much that I did not receive. The marketing was deceptive. I am not completely satisfied. I would like a full refund and a personal apology from the maitre d'. And a free calendar. Not a shitty one. One with naked girls on it."

Reginald was many things. He'd been the fat kid in high school. He'd been the fat kid who didn't fit into the small lecture hall seats and had to sit in the aisle in college. He was now the fat guy who worked for a fitness equipment manufacturer, which had its own unique breed of irony. He was also, on occasion, the fat guy on the bus and the fat guy who wouldn't take his shirt off at the beach.

And he was, lastly, the kind of person who prayed out loud to a god he didn't believe in when nobody could hear him but himself, just to prove a point.

Reginald stood up, leaning heavily on the corner of his desk to do so. He looked down at his wheeled chair, grabbed the small pink set of rubber lips that was protruding from under his seat cushion, and pulled.

A Whoopee Cushion. Awesome.

He dropped the thing into the trash can, then sat back down and tried to ignore the snickers coming from the other side of the cubicle wall.

Fucking Todd Walker.

He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of replying, of rebutting, or of responding. He'd just act as if nothing had happened. There had been no farting noise and no unceremonious disposal into the trash can. Screw you, Walker. I didn't even notice your prank.

Walker had never grown up; that was the problem. Neither had Simmons or Yancy or McGuinness or Graham or Nichols or any of the rest of the sales team. Almost the entire company was male, in its 20s, and in great shape as befitted a proper fitness company. The only exceptions were those who worked behind the scenes: Reginald, Sarah Kopke, Noel Leonard, Scott Valentine, and the new kid who worked overnight and dressed all in black. Everyone else looked alike and was more or less ready for a magazine cover shoot on a moment's notice, should the need arise.

Reginald was fat. Sarah and Noel weren't terribly attractive and were the wrong gender. Scott was in his sixties. The new kid looked nineteen if he were a day, and dressed like a goth. He wore a sword on his belt, for God's sake. Nobody wanted to talk to him.

But everyone else looked alike, as if they'd been cast from the same mold. Reginald, Sarah, Noel, Scott, and the new kid couldn't've stood out more if they'd tried, and just like in high school, standing out meant Whoopee Cushions on your chair or dentures and adult diapers on your desk. Or, if you were especially lucky, tampons in your coffee.

It was enough to make you ask for your money back.

Reginald had always held onto hope. He'd taken the abuse all through high school with as much aplomb as he could because it was always only a few more years, months, and days until he was out of school, into college, and into the real world where people understood that appearances only ran skin deep. But that's not what had happened. Instead of landing in a nonjudgmental utopia, he'd landed in a frat house.

He wondered if it would always be like this. He wondered if people ever changed. He wondered if he could ever be just "Reginald" instead of "Reginald the fat guy."

Across the cubicle wall came a farting noise. Then another. Then another and another and another in rapid succession, counterpointed with the guffaws and chortling of two deep male voices. Apparently the Whoopee Cushions had been a two-for-one deal.

This wasn't supposed to be the deal. This wasn't what he'd signed up for.