"Don't shoot," you say, lifting your hands as you slowly emerge from the darkened archway. "I didn't mean anything by it; I thought you were my buddy, guy." You can't think of a way to sound less threatening than a blunt Canadian stereotype. Slurring your words like a drunk probably helps too.
"Put your hands behind your back," the officer says. You can already tell that he's dismissed you through his tone. "You can't walk around in public, drunk, grabbing people. I'm taking you in—"
You lash out and grab his gun, throwing it into the water before he even knows what's happening. He fights back, and you take several punches to the gut before you manage to subdue him and drag him back into the shadows. Once your fangs prick through his skin, he finally relaxes and falls sedate into your arms.
You drink your fill, watching carefully for anyone who may have overheard the commotion. Thankfully, the tunnel is quiet, and you're able to finish your meal in peace.
You prop the officer up against the wall and scour the nearby trash cans for anything smelling of booze. You luck out and find a discarded beer bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. When you return to your dazed victim, you slosh the remainder of the container onto his uniform and leave the bottle at his feet. It's not a perfect frame, but if you're lucky, he'll only remember the last few minutes through a haze.
Your appetite largely sated for the moment, you decide to move on, always aware that there's a Hunger for more that you can never fully extinguish.
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