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.

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