The vampire owned a car, but he never drove it - or, he never drove it beyond this or that side of the street, to avoid it sitting in one place for longer than a day. Suspicious, you know. He'd learned in his time, for sure.
He was on a strict schedule, with precise feeding times. It was the only way he could deal with that hunger, those claws tearing his stomach to shreds - claws with cups on the end, brimming with blood. Oh how he loved and loathed it. That tearing apart at the seams. Every day, and forever.
It was based in bliss, that level of torture.
He slept beneath a house in the Southern California suburbs. If you found him under there, he'd be clinging to the ceiling almost perfectly flat, not asleep and not awake, doing what vampires do between wanderings and bloodlettings. You couldn't sneak up on him; "that's Hollywood bullshit at its finest, and cheap bullshit at that" (the vampire the other night, to a friend), so forget the stake, friend, he's on you before you get a chance to think. Right now, in fact, if someone were to "wake" him (stimulate him, more like) he'd have their eyes clawed out before (as mentioned) they could think. And their tongues carved out in even less time.
The vampire's mind was on something rather stange this day. In his half-sleep/no-sleep he saw the world in 10 years, and the vision (as his mind would put it) rather vexed him. The earth was no kind of vampiric hunting ground any longer. People were scarce. The motherfuckers at the helm were gonna fuck the vampire's world up. At least, that's what he saw and how his brain interpreted it.
The vampire had therefore decided that on this day it would speak to the few friends it had and "gain counsel" (the vampire to Clifford on the fourth) and find out if its fears were worth a shit.
He tilted the head back.
"Here's hoping," he said, biting deep.