Arlene lies in the backseat of her own car, her head throbbing.  She hasn't fed in several days, and another sang vampire friend whose need is not as great as hers is driving her to a feeding circle half an hour further south than the gas station they currently inhabit.
   The friend has gone inside to pay, and Arlene waits, her arm over her eyes to keep out the light.
   A carhorn behind her honks.
   And honks again.
   "Fuck off," she mumbles.
   Louder this time, longer.
   Arlene sits up, and, through half-closed eyes, tries to discern which car the sound is coming from.  "You've got blood just like everyone else," she mumbles.
   And suddenly a man of frightening proportion is in the driver's seat, wrenching at the adjustment levers to try to make himself fit.
   Absurdly, Arlene's first thought is not theft, but /Fucker's gonna hurt my car./  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the blue-handled straight razor.
   She leans forward, and shoves the blade against the man's neck.  "Hi," she says.
   "WH'TH--"
   "Shut up," Arlene says groggily.  "I'm really hungry.  If you don't get out of my car right now, I'm gonna find out what your blood tastes like."
   The man holds up his hands, and burbles incoherently.
   Arlene presses the razor closer.  "Now.  Go.  Now."
   The man finds speech:  "You gotta take that away before I can move, lady."
   "No," Arlene says.  "Cut yourself.  Get out of my car or I'll cut you."
   "That's not much of a choice, lady."
   "Yes it is.  If I cut you, you're gonna lose as much blood as I can drink."
   "Crazy bitch," the man mumbles, and presses his head as far back into the seat as he can go, so he can try to slip out from under the blade.  He is successful, though not without injury, and he lurches away from the car, holding his hand to the slight cut on his neck.
   "Not gonna hurt my car," Arlene mumbles, and slides back to a prone position on the backseat.