Answer to a Writer's Prayer
by Spikesdeb
I recall
the first time I saw him, all garbed up in black and red, freshly bleached hair
and ridged forehead, sharp fangs. He
was so far and above the creature I had envisaged, striding around like he owned
the set, owned the lines.
The killer
was the accent – drawling, disrespectful, smug.
Right.
Then he
did that damn head-turn thing, cheek to cheek with the brunette, turning to face
the camera.
“Who do
we kill for fun around here?”
I had a
new villain; and this one was more than a one-shot. He was the answer to a writer’s prayer.