Look, everybody's got their thing. Maybe it's feet, or stuffed animals, or hairy men in corsets. I'm a zombie who can only get finger-banged; who am I to judge?

"Oh, I don't think there's any mistaking who you are, Red," I reply with a soft snort. I take a slow sip from my glass, considering the vision in front of me, and then lean forward, licking the vodka from my lips as I sing, "Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good..."