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Poison Rayne

They call this place The Bronze. The name is rubbish, of course – more evidence of the dearth of decadence in these ridiculous modern children – but here is where the action, such as it is, is. For here, after all, is where Rupert’s precious charge is likely to be found. And indeed, she has just walked in – hay in her hair – the farmer’s daughter. What a dear girl.

Oh Rupert. Whatever are you thinking? That you can forget who you are? Do you think you can garb yourself in tweed and drink endless cups of tea and spend the rest of your miserable life just watching? Not you, Ripper. You used to make the trouble you now send your twat of a Slayer out to fight.

And speaking of trouble… who is that young man the so-called Chosen One is making eyes at? Why it’s a vampire. But does the appropriate stake come out of some hidden compartment in her cheap and tartish ensemble? Dear me no. Instead, she’s making cow eyes at the creature. Move closer, Ethan, you must hear what she’s saying.

”Dates are things normal girls have. Girls who have time to think about nail polish and facials. You know what I think about? Ambush tactics. Beheading. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.”

Now she’s making her forlorn exit, the final act of some truly putrid operetta, casting one last look back – a second rate ingénue.

Oh my. So the dear little Slayer longs to be just a normal girl so she can be with her handsome swain, does she? Well, Ethan, old chap, you are just the man to make that happen, aren’t you?

Halloween seems right. A bit of a cliché, but you can never go wrong with the classics, now can you?

When it’s all over, when chaos wins the day and Rupert’s orderly charade of an existence lies in smoldering ruins, then he’ll come home, won’t he? Home where he belongs… back to your bed. Best to get out that fine whiskey. Oh yes, and the almond massage oil. Rupert always did like the smell of almonds.

Pick your poison. Ethan Rayne has come for what’s his.

The End.
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