Bright Young Fangirl with a Point of View

Imagine it's the 1700s it's the middle of the night in paris you see a weird blond guy in a cloak walk into a tavern, order a glass of wine, then sit still for half an hour without drinking it. Then he leaves and immediately starts laughing and leaping and doing this

“[…] he would appear sooner or later and tell us some fantastical yarn. It would be regular Lestat talk, for nobody aggrandizes as he does his preposterous adventures. This is not to say that he hasn’t [done the things he claims] I know that he did. […] But it’s the way he describes things that happen to him that maddens me, the way he connects one incident to another as though all these random and grisly occurrences were in fact links in some significant chain. They are not. They are capers. And he knows it. But he must make a gutter theatrical out of stubbing his toe.

The James Bond of the Vampires, the Sam Spade of his own pages! A rock singer wailing on a mortal stage for all of two hours […].