“It was in Africa about seventy years ago, and his name was Herbie Miller. He didn't look much like a vampire, I suppose—walked around in khaki pants that he cut off above the knees, and his hair wasn't slicked down or nothing. I can't say he was real fond of crosses, but daylight didn't bother him none, and he had no problems walking over running water, except that he couldn't swim and narrow bridges scared the hell out of him. I don't know why he should have been so interested in me, especiall...y considering that I was a man of the cloth back then, but he was. When he wasn't trying to nab me in the neck, which was pretty difficult inasmuch as poor Herbie was barely five feet tall with his boots on, he kept coming up with crazy schemes about how I should go to the local hospital—not Schweitzer's, but one you've probably never heard of—and borrow some blood, for which he promised to pay me in pounds or dollars or rupees or whatever else he'd gotten off one of his more recent meals. You know, I think about Herbie and some of the others I met, and I'd have to say that even without the animals—and I never did see all that many of them anyway, except for the time I was an ivory poacher—Africa was a pretty interesting place to be back then.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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