A short short short story originally written circa 1993.
He didn't know which pain was worse, the usual hangover or the two small puncture wounds in his neck. Under the shower head he attempted to recall the wounds' source. It must have been the babe, the perfect brunette smiling at him through the haze of the club.
Damn, he was thirsty.
He offered her scotch when they left the dance floor, she offered him the ride of his life.
In the mirror, his pointy incisors reminded him again of his thirst.
Grabbing his sunglasses on the way out, he couldn't remember being this excited about going to work at the blood bank.