
Nicodemus sat on the Eastern side of the river bank, the moon dancing off of the rushing water. His Italian leather shoes were to his right, socks stuffed inside. Armani slacks were rolled carelessly up to his knees and his feet submerged themselves in the cool crisp water. Not long before Nic had taken his fill, once again living up to his nick name Dyval. Some poor farm girl fell victim to his charm and, ultimately, his fangs. She lay in the river now, up stream. He could smell her blood on the water and dismissed it as a necessary evil, choosing instead to relax in the soil. He knew the slacks would give him hell for this later but it was alright with him, as long as he got his moment of peace.
...Maybe you won't.