It’s New Year’s Eve.
The vampire and I sit in a smoky bar overlooking the Himalayas.
It’s colder inside than it is outside.
The vampire’s wearing only combat boots, an undershirt, and tightie whities. He’s got a Welsh Dragon tattooed on his muscular right deltoid.
He says he’s 43, but in the right lighting he looks mid-30s, even though both his fangs are chipped and his hairline is receding.
The vampire says he’s traveled to 85 countries and that he once fingered a Korean chick on a flight to Seoul.
He goes on about how his worst travel experience was getting giardia in Egypt and that he loves Cricket but hates American Football.
The vampire leans in closer to me, getting only two or so inches from my ear, then whispers over warm, gin soaked breath:
“The things people say when they’re mad or drunk, those are the things they really think. If you ever want to know what a person truly thinks about you, just get them mad or drunk.”
Then the vampire slugs down the rest of his drink, smashes his glass on the counter, spins around and punches me in the face.
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