The night is young
- too young for a murder.
Too young for a scream,
loud enough to wake the dead.
Too young for her to die,
by a creature undeserving of her touch.
The night is young
- too young for a vampire.
We don't call ourselves by such a name,
not anymore anyway.
Goth kids, wearing black clothes,
with black hair, and black make-up.
Chewing on the plastic fangs
they just bought from the store.
They call themselves vampires,
- so let them hold the title.
It's not important to us,
its lost all meaning.
Creatures of the night?
No... not anymore.
The media has robbed us,
taken our appearence and twisted it.
A vampire glitters in the sun,
and feeds on helpless animals.
A vampire has no idea...
not the slightest clue of pride.
Of honor!
You ask me...
what do we call ourselves?
We no longer have a name,
why should we?
It would be worthless to you.
You won't live long enough
to tell anyone you'd seen one.
Your blood would spill,
your life would drain,
before you could pronounce our name(s).
What do we look like?
Well, it's simple really...
Bram Stoker best envisioned our physique.
At least when it comes to our ancestors.
But don't worry, you'll die with your question
answered.
You'll gaze into the eyes, the dark,
horrorfying cornea of Earth's last monster.
And before you can ask my name
- you will be pulled through Hell's gates.
But don't bother asking Satan,
because he fears us too much to speak.
What is our name?
What does it matter?