December 31st, 2008. 10:46pm:
“We are dangerously low on spirits and my boss just arrived,” Mr. Shepard told his wife, an empty wine glass shaking in his pale hand.
“Calm down,” she responded, “we have plenty more in the cellar.”
“Not that’s been aged!”
Mrs. Shepard sighed. “Go ahead and open the sixty-three then. We’ll just get something else for our anniversary.”
“You’re the best,” Mr. Shepard said, then strolled down to the cellar, past a couple children and an emaciated corpse, and shoved a spout into the chest of a forty-five year old man, then filled pitchers with blood.
Author’s Note: I sometimes wonder if blood enthusiasts would have a preference for blood type as well as year.
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