Grabbing a blood bag from the fridge, George took a straw and plunged it in. He sipped on it like it was a tetra pack. He kicked the fridge door close, making the contents rattle inside.

Earlier that day, Ringo called him he wouldn't be able to meet up with him. George had frowned, already dressed up for the weather (not that it changed things, anyway).

George tossed the empty bag on the wastebasket. He grimaced. The blood didn't taste nice.

And this is why I go hunting. He thought as he went for another bag.