The Exterminator

"Another day, another dollar," Miles Branson sighs while taking another slug of his cup of coffee from within his black Pest-Con van.

Gliding into the client's driveway, the large new home looms over him as he reviews his work order. Miles almost laughs when he remembers what he told them was the probable cause of their current woes: raccoons or possums in their root cellar. He shrugs, since it's easier for people to accept the lie when the truth is impossible to swallow.

The work order and initial consultation with the client, to the trained eye, tell a different story. Raccoons or possums don't leave 2-foot wide waste trails that light up neon blue under a luma-wand. Neither species could be responsible for the disappearance of large household pets, livestock or children. Of course, the old abandoned graveyard less than a mile away didn't help matters.

Hence the need for the lie. It was easy for the client to blame raccoons and possums since the majority of the loud noises reported occuredat night. Also, easy to have the client leave their new home for several days under the guise of a rabies scare. It might take awhile for Miles to eliminate the true pest if they had set up a nest in the residence, but it could also get real ugly.

Unlike their portrayal in modern entertainment, the real animal in question wasn't handsome or beautiful. They weren't hopeless romantics who sparkle in the sunlight or misguided souls worthy of redemption. The true beast reeks of earth and centuries-old decay from the life essence stolen from many over the decades. Under his breath, Miles curses both Anne Rice and Stephenie Meyer for humanizing these demons made flesh.

Retrieving from the back of his van a flamethrower, crossbow with silver bolts and an axe; Miles hopes this doesn't sour his new client's taste for the town.

Berkeley Springs is a nice place to live If it weren't for all the vampires.