The Hunt

As the sun goes down I wake.

And thirst.

The new tools of my hunt are simple, yet shockingly effective. Hair product, much, much more hair product than a sentient being ought ever to use, and silver glitter I bought from the makeup aisle of an all-night Wal-Mart.

That’s all it takes nowadays.

I never thought it’d come to this. When that damned movie was first released, I was offended by it’s portrayal of my kind. Profoundly so.

Since then, I admit, it’s grown on me.

Hunting has never in my exceedingly long life been easier than this. I play dress up, put on my best sulky face and women who think I’m brooding and romantic fall into my lap like ripe fruit. When I get them home they’re putty in my hands.

By the time they realize life isn’t like their story books, it’s long since too late.

It’s humiliating to be seen in public looking like this, but I’ve never eaten better. And a silly costume is a small price to pay for a good, hot meal.

I run my hands over my rock hard, overmoussed hair, run my tongue over my razor sharp fangs and smile, though I wouldn’t be able to see myself do so if a mirror were handy.

It’s about time I got some young blood around here.