057. It's a pretty obscure afterlife. You wouldn't have heard of it.

Just as he was about to bite her neck, she screamed. Not the good kind, either. He’d been hoping for fear – an “I should never have gone for a drink with this man whose face is the last thing I’ll ever see” scream. Instead, he got glee.

“That’s so cool,” she gushed, reaching up to touch a fang. “They’re so realistic. Oh my god, I can’t believe how real they feel.”

Edward sighed. “They are real.”

“And your name – it’s so funny you’re called Edward,” she continued. “I love Twilight.”

“Twilight,” he roared. “TWILIGHT?”

His pale skin turned red.

“DO I LOOK LIKE I SPARKLE?”

In a frenzy of blood-lust and anger, he drained what little life there was in her and left the empty shell on the pavement.  She was food – enough to keep him going for a few days. But without the fear, there wasn’t much joy in hunting.

Edward had become a vampire before it got cool.  Before Twilight, or True Blood, or even Buffy. They were the good days. People had known who you were. They hung garlic, and carried stakes. They didn’t just invite you inside.

Not until the hipsters came along, anyway.

It was bad enough they’d claimed the Smiths and Cather in the Rye – they’d ruined wayfarers and moustaches and having a pet cat. And now, here they were, creeping around the underworld in ironic Twilight t-shirts, pretending they only sucked the blood of organic-eating vegetarians.

How were people supposed to be afraid of that?

The hipsters had ruined everything. And now that they were undead, they were going to ruin that too.