The guy at the meat counter was hassling some ghoul ahead of me. I tried not to look.
“Pleez… just hambone… for soup…”
“Yeah? You run out of corpses in the cemetery? My mom is buried there, you creep.”
I don’t get involved. I’m three, four generations back. Just a little pale, pronounced canines. I like steak tartare. I know some of the other thin-blood vamps play hardcore, all blinged out with capes and coffins. Not me.
The ghoul gave up after a while. They’ve got butcher shops in Bonetown.
I smile at the butcher. I don’t open my lips.
The Paradox Of Tarleton’s Pebble
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