But, Max, no one is ever going to ask you to eat a bat. Five billion human beings, ten thousand languages, a hundred thousand plus dialects, but from the Arctic to the Amazon not a single recipe for bat. No bat gumbo, no bat souffle with truffles, no bat with rice and beans, no bat in aspic, no bat in wok with broccoli and snow peas. The French don't eat bat, neither do the Chinese. Spaniards arriving in Mexico named them vampire bats, a full 300 years before Bram Stoker wrote the book on vampires.
Vampires drink only blood.
Prefer chickens, cows, and pigs to humans, but mostly feed on sleeping birds. Sharp incisors make cuts so neat and shallow, there's rarely any pain, bat saliva makes blood flow freely, a long tongue curls into a tube and sucks the weeping wound, lapping tears of blood into a hungry mouth. Vampire bats drop near their prey, scuttle softly over on wing tips. What's a quiet anesthetized suck, less than a dozen human beings a year. What's that compared to the horror of facing a bowl of hot bat stew, bat leftovers and the rest.