"Right, of course, because close combat with a vampire is always an awesome idea," he muttered. "Bullets will kill them, moron, they're immortal, not invulnerable."
Granted, you'd need about fifty of them, ideally tipped with iron. But still. The point remained.
Sort of.
"Jesus Christ," he half-sighed, half-snarled. "I'm not a fucking sheriff, and this ain't my first god-damned rodeo, now will you keep fucking moving, because if you get another person killed through your whining, I will put a bullet in your head, and leave you in the fucking dirt."
He shoved him roughly between the shoulder blades, and took his shield from the belt, murmuring a report back to the Bureau. Back up, obviously, was unavailable.
"What are you doing tangling with vampires, anyway?" He said, replacing the shield on his belt. "You're about 12."