Bloody Red Wine. It’s what I serve with meals. I had a visitor today. Someone I felt like toying with for a while before I devoured their soul. They were a so called self-proclaimed wine connoisseur. I challenged them to guess the year and what type of wood it was aged in. He was certainly very cocky. I grinned thinking his torture was going to taste ever so delicious oh so very soon. He sipped the wine delicately. Dropping his nose in for a sniff and sampled it several more times, his confusion mounting on his face. I just love it when my victims look so confused. Like some stupid mutt with it’s head cocked to the side, a dim-witted gesture of complete stupidity. As he floundered for words I closed in behind him, the razor tucked under my dress sleeve. I whispered in his ear. “Have you figured it out yet?” Clearly from his befuddled look he had not. I grabbed the back of his head, bringing the razor to his neck and told him that the wine was mixed with the blood of my victims, barreled in fear. I drained him of every last drop. He was so full of fear, this batch is going to be EXTRA tasty.
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