He wandered off again, returning a few times and not noticing that our glasses were empty, even though we were the only ones at the bar save for a friend of his at the other end, whom he had sat with and talked to nonstop.

"I've got it!" said Shannon. "This really isn't a bar, it's a nest of vampires!" Wow. Suddenly, it all made sense. The vial around the waitress' neck, the undead personality, the charismatic manager-slash-Count, the fact that none of the mirrors on the walls were at eye level, the soul-sucking ...

Once we saw the place through new eyes, it started to hold a certain charm. The lamer the bartender got, the better our fantasy. You see, they obviously keep the guy on a low diet of rat blood so that he will remain their slave. His lack of personality was due to his slowed response from malnutrition. He didn't know what an Ambassador fry was because he doesn't eat food. He hasn't invented his own drink because he only drinks blood.

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673 Geary St. 563-8192.

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"Later, Bram Stoker," said Shannon with a wave and a giggle on our way out. The bartender smiled boringly and waved. He didn't even catch the reference.

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