Mine, ... Mine Is What She Is.

“hey, Adam,” I Said. “i Thought You'd Want To Know That Warren And Darryl Made It Out Of The Vampire Den Alive.” I Sucked In My Breath. “you Didn't Actually Agree To Their Meeting On Marsilia's Grounds?” He Laughed. “no, It Just Sounded Better Than Saying They Made It Out Of Denny's Alive. It Might Not Be Romantic, But It's Open All Night And Set In The Middle Of A Brightly Lit Parking Lot With No Dark Places For Skulking Parties To Ambush From.”

What Would A Racist Call Werewolves? Wargs? She Kind Of Liked That One, But Suspected That Racist Bastards Didn't Read Tolkien.

Nothing Says You're Sorry Like A Dead Bunny.

I Am Not Attempting To Preserve Culture, Or Record Actual Events Or Stories. Instead I Bow My Head In Gratitude To Those Storytellers Who Have Gone Before And Paved A Way For Me Play In Their Stomping Grounds. Doubtless Those Who Want To Be Offended, Will - Allowing Me To Make Them Happy, Too, Which Pleases Me As Much As It Pleases Them.

There Is Something Incredibly Arousing About Being Wanted. I Pulled My Hand Back And Sucked In A Deep Breath. “adam,” I Said.