Contemplating the Unlikely

It seems today that vampire stories revolve around the "good" vampire: the one that feeds on animals or bags they took from a hospital. What about these so-called "bad" vampires? They deserve to have their side of the story told.

Running through the night, I track my prey.  She is heading east on the highway at around sixty-five miles per hour.  Easy.  Her little hybrid is no match for my strenghth or speed.  The B-positive blood coursing through her veins is like a fine wine to me.  Though I only appear about twenty years old, I've been around for much longer.  I smell another body in the car; male, probably her boyfriend or husband.  Looks like I'm having a two-course meal tonight.  I hear her mention that they'll have to stop at the next gas station.  They'll never make it that far.  I dart out, weaving to avoid the other cars.  The cars would wind up more damaged than me, but I don't want to be all over the local news.  Besides, my focus is on the little hybrid.  I hit it, pushing it into the woods next to the road.  A cliche, I know, but it works.  I rip the door off like it's a piece of paper and lunge on the frightened couple.

After draining the humans, I take their wallets and go into the nearest diner.  Blood, while important, isn't all we vampires need.  I sit at the counter and order a steak, medium-rare, with a Coca-Cola.  I remember back to when the popular soda was invented in the late 1800's as a medicine.  A wealthy entrepeneur bought it out and transformed it into a soft drink.  I eat quickly, eager to get back to my "family", which is really just a couple of other vampires that serve as my parents for all legal and social purposes.  The man posing as my father actually starred in an original production of Hamlet, making him a perfect choice.  Right now, I am Michael Cordien, living in Paris, Texas. 

I see someone else in the diner, a woman, eyeing me suspiciously.  Pretending I have an itch on my face, I check to make sure I don't have any blood left around my mouth.  Though I don't care much what others think, I do care if some lunatic vampire hunter comes at me with a flamethrower.  The woman has the good sense to look away.  I leave the diner, ready to run back home.

The End

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