So there we were, practicing our usual backstabbing table manners. If you turned your back, something tasty would disappear from your plate without warning for rapid consumption by your neighbour. It would have been a meal like any other, except for the small persistent cut on one of the knuckles of my left hand which had, unbeknowst to me, opened itself up and started steadily dripping. I was reaching for the bottle of ginger ale when my sister cried out beside me:

"What the HELL?"

I turned around to discover her with a fork in my tasty Yorkshire pudding, a piece from the centre of the pan, no less, but special in another way as well. As I ate, my finger had been bleeding over this delicious morsel, dousing it with my fresh, succulent blood. My sister threw the gory fork onto my plate and hurried away to get a fresh one.

Not about to waste such a fine discovery, I grabbed the pick of the contents of her plate and bled on that too.

My family looked on in horror as I carefully secured all my property. What was their problem? I already had a full complement of blood, perhaps they were disgusted at my greed in taking yet more when some were going without as we spoke. I offered the food around, and they shrank back from the nutritious platter I was waving at them.

I shrugged, and got back to eating. The blood didn't do much for the Yorkshire pudding, it was a little thin, but nobody even looked at my food for the rest of the meal.

I found out some time later that the anomaly on my finger was a haemangioma, and would require lots of excising. It was duly excised. I lived happily ever after.

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