Unnamed Journal Volume 3, Issue 1 - Page 19

Drunk Vampire Hunter I had gotten lucky. I took full advantage of this and the adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body and swiftly replicated this process for the other two. I almost felt sorry for the last one - also a young woman, sleeping in perfect ignorance of how I’d just destroyed her fellows - but I didn’t. Does the sheepdog feel sorry for the wolf? When it was done, I sat down on the floor of the mausoleum and tried not to throw up. I was covered in blood - vamps suck it down, but they don’t absorb it or digest it or whatever they do very quickly. This is good because it means they don’t have to feed that often, and it’s bad because they burst like balloons when you kill them. It’s messy - so, so messy. So it’s usually a good idea to cover your mouth when you kill them. A bit going in won’t make a vamp of you, but it does, according to legend, make you want to taste more of it, which does make a vamp of you, pretty much by definition. There’s other stuff going on that’s about corruption of the spirit and dark compacts, but again, I never studied that. I don’t find it to be that useful. I only know two things: killing vamps and getting drunk. And I was all out of vamps. I found the dusky grey clay bottle in the coffin of the second vamp and knew it immediately for what it was, and knew just as fast that I was going to drink all of it, right then and there. It wasn’t even a question in my mind. I did not debate it. I just sat down, removed the leather bandana from my face, and, not even pausing to wipe the blood away, drank it down. It tasted like sweetest ambrosia mixed with the essence of despair. You might say “despair doesn’t have a taste; it’s an abstract concept,” to which I reply “I’ve just told you o