Quirky, funny, happy-go-lucky dead inside Dexter. No longer Dexter with the knife, Dexter the Avenger. Not until next time.

So I stared, and Samantha looked back at me, and there we were: a perfectly normal married man with three kids and a promising career who just happened to enjoy killing people, staring at a perfectly normal eighteen-year-old girl who went to a good school and liked Twilight and who wanted to be eaten, sitting next to each other in a walk-in refrigerator at a vampire club in South Beach.

It made me feel almost giddy, like a high-school girl watching the captain of the football team worked up his nerve to ask for a date. You mean me? Little old me? Oh my stars, really? Pardon me while I flutter my eyelashes.

... Dexter the sofa spud ...