In the dark of night, I threw my arms out, tossing and turning on the bed.  The Vampire’s kiss was a quad four and kinda wet.  Quad four.

That’s 16, right?  Redundant, but cool.

Okay, suddenly, it struck in a four-for-two combo.  Better?  At first, it felt good, pleasurable even.  For a moment, I felt like basking in its wet and warm (?) embrace.  Miss America, is that you?

Unfortunately, that dream state did not last as the reality of fangs sinking-in roused me straight-up.  No, this was more like getting shivved in Times Square.  Miss America was now largely out of the question.  Largely, because Wives with Knives is a thing.

I’m getting jumped by some saw-toothed, bail-jumping, border-jumper.  City life, not town and country.

I went to the sink and turned on the light.  There was a red gash on my arm.  Then another not quite as deep.  And another just enough to make a point.  And another, let’s call that a love tap.

For the coroner, one thing was clear:  This had been seen in the literature before.  Like, way before.  The cause of death was the vampire’s kiss.

That would have been good enough in Salem.

Quad four.

Je accuse le chat noir.