Erica Squidmore lived in lavish but empty

middle toe of his right foot. Or was it left? All toes looked the same to Erica. Her late husband's toe would appear at midnight, eerily & sarcastically moaning about lavish luxury

& how back in his day there was no bread with seeds in it or proper gin. Erica ignored her late husband's ghostly muttering toe & snuggled up in her brand new lover's arms to sleep

in peace. But the disembodied digit would not back down! Its nail softly dragged across the exposed skin on Erica's arm, leaving a trail of other-worldly toe jam in its wake.

Erica screamed. And screamed, and screamed. She had never been so skeeved out. Not since the 2016 election, that is. She started bashing the ghost toe with a waffle iron, and that

left the old brown shoe alight. Badly infected with yellow matter custard, the ghost toe became fodder for breakfast bar aficionados. Erica’s screams soon turned to sighs and moans

that littered the fronds on the floor like so much repulsion. No biggie, Bradley thought to himself. He didn't need them all to bite. He only needed one. Erica wasn't worth biting.

Erica had over-dieted in order to look like a tiny Frenchwoman even though she had big Germanic genes, so she hardly had any blood in her on which Bradley could dine. Peg, however,

was as blood-filled as a plasmapheresis center. Bradley literally drooled at the thought of sinking his fangs into her. But Pam was cagey and not anxious to be sucked dry. So she

pulled Bradley's fangs out with a pair of pliers. Fangless and pulseless, Bradley later landed a middle management job in big tech. He found home. Thanks Pam.