Dearest Hormel Executives,
To whom it may concern, your pork steaks contain hidden bone and hidden gristle!
I nearly chipped a fang biting into one of your salty, over-processed meat patties. I would not feed such meat to my wolves. Yet you somehow expect me, an IMMORTAL, to call this a meal? I laugh in your face, EXECUTIVE!
You shall make this right, or I shall inflict an unfathomable agony of the soul upon the entire executive staff of Hormel. Already my voice calls out to your daughters as they slumber in the night, beckoning them to join me in my lair. Oh, how they fight and struggle and claw helplessly for the light, but it is for naught. No woman can resist me.
Perhaps in them I shall find a more suitable meat product for my late night burritos.
Get your act together... OR ELSE!
P.S. I expect recompense for my $3.59 purchase! I can provide the receipt if necessary.
Dearest West Virginia Arby's Franchise,
It is only thanks to the cool, refreshing Carpathian air that my anger does not overwhelm me. The treatment I received whilst visiting one of your establishments was most cruel indeed. Need I produce a litany of complaints and indictments against your foolish enterprise? I shall without hesitation.
IT WAS JUNE THE FIRST. It was a Tuesday, and I was very, very famished. I asked one of your employees to invite me in, and he refused! "We're closed," he remarked. Being a vampire, I cannot readily enter a building unless I have been expressly invited to do so. Your employee denied me, bidding me instead to visit his "drive-thru."
It was in this "drive-thru" that I was subjected to my second great indignity: the wretched boy-child manning the intercom refused to allow my horse-drawn carriage passage, citing "low clearance" issues.
I hungered gravely for the Big Beefy Cheddar and longed to experience the "5 for $5" deal you so proudly promote. Do you know of my victories? I am a descendant of Attila the Hun! I defeated the Turks! I have feasted on kings and notable celebrities and authors! Do you think you can truly defeat me?
I am already whispering terrible things to all the lesser beasts and sensitive mad men of this world. I am telling them of your wrongs and misdeeds, and asking them to seek out young Greg Pollock, the bull-headed employee responsible for my shaming. They will devour him limb from limb, leaving him as nothing more than fertilizer.
That is unless I receive a formal apology and a book of coupons to use during my next visit to the Americas. You have but thirty days before my plan takes form, and poor Greg loses his.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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