My fingers slowly circled the sweating, stout glass that sat before me on the weathered bar; my boredom had drawn the attention of a few newcomers, but they were quickly advised by the bartender that I was extremely selective when it came to the company I kept. Patrick had known me for a great many years and although he is not of my pedigree, he is supportive. He understands my habits and my need to feed on the souls of humans, allowing me to peruse his establishment for suitable nourishment. In return, I encourage business his way and occasionally tend to the unpleasant aspects of his back room gaming franchise. And, of course, I remove troublemakers from the property. It is an excellent arrangement and I am extremely careful to protect his business from suspicion when it is necessary for me to consume a soul. My being only requires a few ethereal meals a year and those unfortunate bodies are always found far away from my favorite haunt. The local law enforcement community never fails to be baffled by the discovery of an unmarked, but quite dead body. Each time I feed, the news channels flood the airwaves with useless information that was obviously leaked by the frustrated detectives. Their futile efforts always amuse me greatly.

I suppose proper etiquette requires that I explain how I became, well, a spiritual vampire. Many times I have delved into that topic myself and each time I find no rational answer. My creator chose me and, through carelessness or inexperience, died as he revitalized my weakened body with his own energy. I never even knew his name. I spent months alone, afraid, and starving. I lived a hollow existence, filled with a dreadful hunger that no meal ever satiated. My mind began to crack as my body weakened with each horrid day. Twice I attempted to end my suffering, but neither pills nor a gun could bring about my death. I was terrified and utterly alone in the world. One fateful and fortunate day, I happened upon to wander aimlessly into a bar. The empty room was occupied by Patrick and no one else, so naturally he focused all of his attentions on me. It was the first time that anyone had gifted me with the opportunity to vocalize my plight. He listened intently for hours, at one point locking the door so that we would not be interrupted. Wise beyond any normal man, Patrick offered his assistance and his advice as if I was his daughter. He escorted me to a nearby shop, one of those places that seemed to materialize straight out of a campy voodoo horror movie. Initially, I balked at the concept of seeking help from such a bizarre source, but desperation pushed me through the doors. I still have no idea what I expected to find within those walls; I guess I expected a tattooed man wearing nothing but a loincloth dancing around a slaughtered animal. However, I was welcomed by a petite vigorous woman with shining eyes and a beaming smile. She bid me to sit down and did nothing more then stare at my entire form for what seemed like hours. In a quiet voice, she explained what I had become and what I had to do in order to survive. Terrified, I refused to accept her explanation. I could not bear the thought of killing in order to survive myself. I begged her to tell me how to end it all, a request that she politely dismissed. She offered me shelter and education, which