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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.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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