A Bad Joke

The twilight was queer indeed; a blood red moon that seemed as if to bleed into the sky, leaving it congealed in the dusk. For a vampire hunter, this was expected. Whenever the sky was a blood-red, it meant trouble. Up the mountain he went, his face scarred and cracked, a peculiar saw-like weapon on his back. Wolves howled somewhere in the distance. A fine welcome this is, thought the hunter.