John Brennan Crutchley the Vampire Rapist

they said he drained them — not with charm but with a syringe. office door closed, fake smile, real bad smell. the papers called him a vampire. he was worse. blood dripping in tubes, dripping like old beer from busted taps in dead bars at 2 a.m. no bats, no castles, just a slob in a tie, a geek who found horror in a bored suburb. he worked next to you. smiled like you. laughed at the same bad jokes. but inside, a desert rat, a hunger with no god. they caught him, but there are others — thousands of others. the real monsters wear khakis.