Whenever I find a woman whose blood I desire to drink, I invite her to my lair, smooth back her tresses, and bite her on the neck. Then I try to finish sipping before the sun rises.
My lair has an elegant atmosphere. It’s illuminated by candles, and all the furniture is antique. My victims love it: They recline on my couch and often initiate the first kiss. I then move in for the jugular; and, whatever color your blouse was before, it’s burgundy now.
Yes, the place is lit like a romantic table at an upscale restaurant. All the walls are covered with paintings: mostly landscapes, of the style that my friend John Ruskin calls “modern.” All the architecture is, of course, gothic. It’s essentially a cave that I revamped; so the locale is secluded.
In the late 1980s, I threw a low-key dinner party. Among the guests in attendance were Michael Keaton and Kim Basinger.
And a freshwater spring runs through the center of my living room.
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