It was cat's blood, used in a variety of rituals. Once a week, always at a different pet store or animal pound, he bought or adopted a cat, brought it home, killed it, and drained it to maintain a fresh supply of blood.
Too many years of watching old Warner Bros. cartoons by Chuck Jones can instill in you a silliness gene by proxy.
What year these events transpired is of no consequence. Where they occured is not important. The time is always, and the place is everywhere.
Please, don't torture me with cliches. If you're going to try to intimidate me, have the courtesy to go away for a while, acquire a better education, improve your vocabulary, and come back with some fresh metaphors.
Only the moonlit mind allows wonder, and it is in the thrall of wonder that you can see the intricate weave of the world of which you are but one thread, one fantastic and essential thread.
The only reason I would write a sequel is if I were struck by an idea that I felt to be equal to the original. Too many sequels diminish the original.