Edgar slowly placed the hefty book on the nightstand beside his bed. He had done it, after a long time of putting it off, he had finally achieved his goal.
He finished reading the Twilight series.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "Why would a five-hundred-year-old male vampire, official child of the night, be reading one of the crappiest portrayals of vampires ever known to man?"
Well, because he can. Also, because he wanted to see how vampires appeared to the public now. Not only did he finish it, he also wanted to gouge his eyes out from being soiled by that filth. He wanted to scream, he really did. He couldn't, however, because vampires don't scream. They also don't sparkle.
No, vampires won't refuse a good meal from a whiny, mouth-breathing, underage girl.
No, most vampires won't give up all their vampiric freedom (one of the only good things about living out eternity) for some girl they just met.
In fact, he wanted to march down to that author and set all the facts straight. It would compromise him and his identity, so he couldn't. All he could do is sit there, seething in rage at the interpretation of a centuries old species.
He buried his face in his hands for a moment, before getting up and out of bed to get ready to hunt. Yeah, he needed a good kill to get his mind off of all that. Edgar thought for a moment, if he could leave a kill out in the open, fang marks and all, then maybe he could change all this. He sighed, them shook off that thought. It was just too risky.
Oh well, what can you do? It was almost five in the morning, so he'd have to be quick if he meant to make it back to the hotel by sunrise. He smirked a little as an idea popped into his head. Edgar quickly ran outside to look for some prey, a new thought blooming in his head.
The next morning, the streets were buzzing as news of a strange murder was found on the fifth of Monroe. Police men were trying to hold off all the newscasters and the on-lookers, while also trying to examine the body.
It was of a young girl, no more than eighteen, lying with two large puncture wounds in her neck. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing to go on as evidence besides a strange message written on the ground beside her. Forensics found out that it was made using her blood, but it wasn't fresh. The killer was long gone. The note, not giving them any hints, was scrawled out in fancy lettering.
It read, "Vampires suck, not sparkle".
