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God, he hated these hillbilly dives. You always had to worry about pet gators in the sink when you went to piss.
"Yeah, yeah." He got a beer and a shot of Jack, though, and the glasses were clean enough. He shot the Jack before he left the bar, the burn easing him off enough to let him wander back into the shadows with his beer. Hunting.
Here, kitty, kitty.
The place was ripe for it. Girls with cotton candy lipstick and boys that smelled like weed were fucking everywhere. All that fodder. He glared at a couple of little rednecks, staring without a word until they gave up their table.
He didn't have to stay long enough to make friends.
He'd been sucking on that damned piss of a beer maybe twenty minutes when the door opened, a good looking guy in his late twenties staggering in, almost looking drunk already, but ... not. No, this guy was pale, shaky and hollow eyed, but not drunk. Score.
Ah, that must be an appetizer. Sorta like chips and salsa, but less spicy. Bloodsucker had decent taste, though. Vance sighed and watched the guy, the door.
The walking hors d'oeuvre went to the bar, leaned across to talk to the bartender, and passed over a fifty. He got a bottle in a bag in return and headed back out the door.