Customer Profile: The Chupcacabra
Whatever you do, do not call this guy Chupa Chup. Not is error. Not in jest. Not as an insult. He will suck your blood.
He will, I repeat, suck your fucking blood.
You will die. Slowly. Did I mention the venom? There’s venom. And it burns. It burns like a supernova while the stuff that carries oxygen and other vital things to your heart, brain, lungs, and gallbladder leaks slowly from twin punctures on to his tongue. So slowly. He does it that way on purpose, you know. He enjoys every second.
You will die. And you will die with those creepy-ass goat eyes gazing deeply, and with grinning villainy into your own.
He doesn’t need the blood to live. Stay here long enough and you can watch him tear through a steak some terrified satyr sends over to keep him satiated. Mr. C can down a gallon of red wine with barely a stagger.
He hunts for fun. He sucks blood because he enjoys it. Goat is the favorite flavor, but he’s not all that discriminating. “Blood is blood, friend,” he’ll say as he cozies up to the bar, chin stained crimson. “And it tastes so much better in a rage.”