Jared gnawed at his fingers mercilessly. What was it, nine hours? Ten? Nearly half a day since his insides had filled with the fluid elixir that intoxicated him and left him clamoring for more. His friends continually harped on him about how it would be the death of him, how he would end up dead in some gutter somewhere with nobody but the rats to mark his passing. He knew it all and yet he could not quit.

Years ago, he had tried twelve step groups, but the results were always the same. A few weeks of abstinence, then he was back to his old habits, his old haunts of smoke filled rooms and pool tables and girls with their shirts cut too low and their skirts cut too high. It simply did not, would not work, and so he decided if he was going to make it, he was goint to go cold turkey.

He had planned well, isolating himself in a barren apartment far away from any stores or bars, and thinking about anything but the madness that consumed him. At four hours, his body began to shake. At six hours, he was haunted by visions, by hallucinations that left him screaming in madness. His claw marks on the window left telltale evidence of the depth to which it had consumed him.

Eleven hours? Twelve? The ticking of the clock played out in a maddening rhythm as he slowly came to awareness that he could not, would not win this fight. But where? How could he feed this maddening addiction thet he now knew he could not cure?

A slight movement across the street caught his eye. Movement that should not been there, but was. He focused on the bum and the brown sack he carried in his hand. He knew that he must get his fix, and he must get it now. In a flash the windowsill opened and he lept onto the unsuspecting vagrant. Fangs bared, and his need was satisfied with the warm, intoxicating blood of another victim.

It was a bad habit. But it felt so GOOD!