Fresh Veins for a Chameleon

The con man wears a greasy, porcelain grin trumpets like a swan but the soul of a raven. From paper mâché pulpit. he'll surely sling thrice tainted blood drops passed off as gems. His compliments are marbled with plastic spray painted over in fool's gold from your bones he whittles drumsticks his words are Luke-warm but the heart rattles cold. Simply, he's flaccid and just fancies attention a little imp tugging at the locks of his fantasy. Wait long enough and the porcelain cracks leaking out a blackness and horrible stench. When exposed he'll suddenly slink away but rest assured this vampish chameleon will re-emerge and sniff out a fresh vein.