Downstairs, Eric reframes Bill's panicked call as an "admirable" admission that he can't protect his human. Logic and etiquette not permitting a retort, he changes the subject to how only a monster like Eric can possibly care about nobody but himself. "I care about others," Eric says, in a limpid tone that for him expresses both true hurt and true boredom. "You care about Godric," Bill says, and Eric stares at him because no you didn't. "You have no obligations to Dallas or Texas. This is personal for you. Why?" Please God let Eric give the big gay Pam-annoying speech about Godric's awesomeness one more time.

The waitress drops off a bottle of TruBlood, and Eric changes the subject. "I hope you'll enjoy your blood substitute, which is costing me $45." Bill admits he just wanted to see Eric pay for it, and Eric's like, "Good burn," but just calls Bill "so mature" instead. It's like a revenue stream, but more like being a werewolf. Bill redirects: "Why this allegiance to Godric?"

Oh, Godric, Edward Cullen of my heart, Eric says. When I look up at the sky on a clear, hot night, and see that moon shining down on myself and my undead brethren, my first thought will always be, "Godric, are you looking at that same moon?" And lo, when I smell the first morning's blood it is sour, for it was not kissed from Godric's sweet lips. I abjure the garish sun, not because it would fry my ass, but because it is not as bright as the lights deep in Godric's eyes. And when I sleep, it is Godric's arms that hold me, ever so tightly, as though to say that I am safe and that he will never ever let me go, not ever. He is the man all men should wish to be, and the man all women should wish to have, and also all the men on that one too. Starting with me. I wish I could invent something awesome and name it, like a beverage or a spacecraft, for I would name it a thousand times Godric, Godric, Godric. I would swim through the crests of a thousand garlic seas, would wear a suit of sterling, would lift my face up to the sun if only for a taste of his tender, cinnamon lips. One day he will take me for a ride in his automobile, and we will feel the wind of a thousand wild nights in our hair, and how we will laugh. At what? Nobody knows. Nobody but us. My heart has a name, Bill. Do you know what it is?

Bill's like, "Pssht. He's just a sheriff, dude." But oh no, he is so much more -- it is only that he chooses to be Sheriff. He could be so much more than that, Bill. He could be something vampire children dream about, lofting over the city in a cape. I am merely a Sheriff, Bill, and a fine one, and yet Godric, he is sheriffer. "Okay, but if he's so awesome how did those hillbillies get him?"