It's Time to Party like It's 1999 (Night 3)

[Thee Independent]

TI

Rumors abound in Hollywood like tabloid headlines. The Toreador back their Prince, worried as much about the sanctity of their city as the loss of their considerable political leverage throughout Los Angeles. The Ventrue remain united beneath Christian Sanders, watching the portentous signs unfold like rolling green stock tickers. The Tremere stay sequestered in their chantry, with only two known faces supporting the Prince, the Malkavians are all but useless, the Nosferatu have vanished in poor spirits, and the Gangrel have long since made their exodus from the Ivory Tower, now under assault. Trouble is afoot, some whisper in the shadows between the spotlights. War is imminent, others say, polishing their baubles as though it were the last time they might set on eyes on this priceless treasure called Hollywood.

“War is not imminent. The War has already begun.”

Black Jack has a point. And many of the Brujah Primogen’s constituency agree with him. Since the fall of the Anarch Free State that took California by storm, the Brujah of Los Angeles have staked their claim in the outlying Barrios, the South and Central, popularized in wealthy Hollywood films as the seediest den of poverty and bloody gang warfare in the country. The social and economic unrest of these areas fuels the Brujah’s internal desire to be in the company of struggle, to watch the unfolding tide of revolution and, sometimes, too usher it along with an incredible push. The Los Angeles Riots of 1992 and the resulting smeared image of the LAPD keeps the Brujah anxious for change. One ill-considered verdict ignited the flames so hot in the Barrios that the flames boiled over into Hollywood and burned even the city’s most elite. The Brujah saw the heart of LA in its underprivileged, its gangs and struggling single mothers and even the slum lords who make an effort to improve their community by whatever means necessary – whether by organizing community action to straighten out the streets or by selling drugs, buying guns, and cleaning house. The more they look, the more they see their Camarilla allies shutting themselves away in glitz and glamour, drawing an invisible line in the sand somewhere between Hollywood and its outlying Barrios.

“We’ve been left high and dry out here to deal with the problem. And deal with it, we will.”

It didn’t start with Romeo Valencio. For years, the Brujah have joked amongst their ranks, claiming that they are manning the Temple Gates to Hollywood. While they take upon themselves the responsibility of turning away the unsavory Sabbat elements, who also occupy the Barrios, creating a constant warzone, the Brujah grudgingly recognize that they are the Barbarians at the Gates, fighting to keep out the barbarians at the gates. They have voiced their concerns in the past, and still they shoulder the burden. Now, that shoulder has been wounded deeply by Romeo Valencio’s unexpected sucker punch. The known Sabbat enemy kidnapped Rex Harris, destroyed the influential Brujah’s King Street Pool Hall, a meeting place for many of their Clan, and is now hiding out, ready to strike out from the dark again for all they know.

“Romeo Valencio is but one man. We are many. Now is the time to act in our defense, not to wait for the next attack to take us off guard.”
Black Jack repeated these words in his call to arms. He began before the smoke cleared over King Street. His call was heard, and tonight, they are gathering. They will listen to him Rant, and in the nights to come, they will Rave.

Voices swell and echo in the long, open parking garage on the lower floors of a dilapidated building on Rick Drive. It started as a civil project in the surrounding projects, a multiplex intended for the ethnically diverse (read: embittered minorities) to make the American Dream come true by “movin’ on up.” It never happened. Constant drug problems turned the charity case into a crackhouse. Murders attracted the police, and the police warned the city officials, and the city officials condemned the building “for the safety of its residents”. Each resident was given $500 dollars from the city and told to find a new place to live. Some did. Others just hung around the block, sleeping in Alan Rick Park under moth-eaten blankets and eating the leftovers from the dumpster of Sammy’s Deli, or Chang’s Chinese Bistro if they wanted a taste of the orient. Now, these new visitors take up residence in the parking garage: leather-clad gang members, street walkers, sweater-wearing inner city school faculty members, social workers with unbuttoned collars and loosened ties, construction workers, union reps, drug pushers, street athletes and carousers all gather in the garage, standing amidst faded space markers and line dividers, sitting up on broken or bent concrete beams crumbling from the building’s supports, loitering around the inoperative elevator and inside the dark, littered stairwell, or standing just outside like sentries in the chilly wind, their breaths failing to mist in the air.

Though those gathered seem like a cross-section of the American ghettos, these are not people who have families or futures to consider, heavy weights to sink them down into inaction. They are the Brujah. And they have had enough.

A Ford Explorer with a black paint job glides through Alan Rick Park. Those gathered in the garage of this building on Rick Drive see it. The tension and excitement begins to mount, becoming palpable enough to make the ears burn. Heated, discordant notes rise from circular ensembles of eager people, working the tinder to a smoke.

A minute later, the voices clamor louder, signaling the arrival of the Explorer. It slides through what's left of the front entrance to this building and begins slowly circling both floors of the garage, stalling only briefly to let standers move aside. It is a strange procession: the vehicles tinted windows do not allow any of those gathered to see anything but two heads inside, one behind the wheel and another in shotgun. The Explorder rolls like a one man parade, but without the pomp. Instead, it feels more akin to a funeral procession, or more appropriately, a long military route, as when generals in jeeps circle the streets of a recently occupied city, surveying the surroundings and the condition of their men.

Black Jack has arrived. The disparate groups begin to merge, sacrificing their smaller identity to construct a growing mass, waiting and impatient.

Black Jack

Not long behind the Explorer, a smooth, alabaster Corolla pulls up to the front of the garage. The crowd converges on it, not having expected another formal visitor, and angry faces peer into the windows directly at Sloan and the driver. Fists pound on the car and it begins to rock back and forth on its wheels. Then, when it really begins to seem as though it was a really bad idea to come here and that the Prince really has set him up, they back off. Sloan watches the mob pull back and part to let someone pass through. The chauffer wheels an uneasy look back at Sloan and anxiously motions for the Ventrue to get out so that he can leave before they are attacked again.

Once Sloan has gotten out, the car peels away at break neck speed, cheered on its way by the cursing and howling of the Rabble. The man that is approaching seems to be accorded some respect by the group, as they back off and let him move forward. He stops in front of the Ventrue and stares hard at him. Sloan sees recognition in his eyes. This is Black Jack, the current Brujah Primogen, and he was an active part of Elyisum when Sloan was in LA years before. Back then, he was known as Jack Granger.

Sloan O’Riley

It was comforting in a way to see a familiar face. And in another very unsettling. However, his head was still on his shoulders, so that was a plus. The two of them had barely ever talked to eachother. But there seemed to be some understanding that without the cooperation of the man who was called Granger back then he could not have done his job - or at least that it would have gotten nearly unsolvable hard. Thus he tried to stay out of Granger's way and not give him too much trouble, at least when it could be avoided. On the other hand, with the prince of those times then it was hard sometimes to keep that trouble away.

Being of lesser status than Black Jack he bowed deeply, before straightening again and searching eye contact again. "It is good to see a familiar face, sir." He didn't have to fake respect. A man who had been in elysium back then and still was, on top of that with earned respect among his clan members truly seemed deserving enough.

--> From Camaroyalty

Black Jack

Black Jack's eyes scrutinize Sloan as the Ventrue bows to him. He does not afford the same respect, at least not in such a formal way. Instead, he offers a hardy handshake and the crowd begins to argue over who Sloan is as their Primogen breaks his seriousness, smiling languidly and saying, "I am relieved to see that there are others that made it through those troubled times." He does not have to say exactly what times he means. It is obvious to both of them and most likely to at least a few of his followers.

"You must be who Prince Le Croix was sending? I hope you can hold your own." Jack turns and throws his arms open to the crowd, yelling, "Because we've got some things that need to be said!"[/b] This really gets the Brujah going and they press in on each other, fists flying in noncommittal anger and spit hitting the ground. The Primogen turns to Sloan and his grin drops away. Behind his showy actions, the Ventrue perceives anger. Raw, Rabble-rising ire.

Sloan O’Riley

Yes, he had made it here as well, to the here and now. But at what cost? Could the primogen know? And if he did - would he care? He pushed those questions aside. He was feeling not any safer at all. But then, he had a duty to perform and he was not going to duck out of it just because the Brujah were - well, being themselves. Some things just never changed, only the tone things were held in.

Of course he accepted the other vampires gesture, shaking hands with him as well. It was just a different way of being formal, in this case abandonning the forms of etiquette from old and replacing them with new ones. They liked to call it freedom - but the truth was that usually when one chose to nonetheless go with what was tradition from old they had this tendancy to look down on you. Each to his own they said, but he wondered how many actually meant it.

Probably too few.

"For you, for those you represent and for the general good of all of us I will make sure that all of it will be heard.", he assured Black Jack that, indeed, the prince had sent him. Sometimes it seemed to him that the Brujah had their own way of thinking, that no matter what one said, they would think you never meant it - or only said it to make them feel more comfortable instead of sticking to your word. Ironically enough Sloan still thought his word had at least some worth, in spite of all that had happened.

His eyes scanned over the crowd, forcing himself to stay calm.

Ever since their invention he had hated explosives of all kinds, eventhough he had not been present yet when they first appeared in this, their first basic form: but people exploding with anger - that was something to fear...

TI

Black Jack's voice lights a fuse of gunpowder that spreads through the crowd, soliciting minor eruptions contributing to Sloan's apprehension.

"Damn right we do!" an older black man with a cannon voice and a Samuel L. Jackson stare holds up his arms, making himself seen as well as heard. "The longer we continue to do nothing, the more we let our future suffer! I've seen what's happening to the young people in this community. I've seen how they get into drugs, how it ruins their mind and spirit! They can't stand alone when gangland membership is a mandatory affiliation! These gangs are just an extension of the enemy, destroying youth's indepedence and raising shovelhead shock troops!"

The man adjusts his glasses to go on, obviously a teacher or a social worker or someone involved in community outreach. Before he can speak again, though, a rough set of hands grab him by the sleeves and pull him back into the crowd. Another voice replaces his, quickly.

"Only the Bloods! Ain't nothin' wrong wit' the Crips!"

A black youth retorts his elder, raising his fist in the air. "Gangs ain't the problem! We ain't no sheep! We don't follow along, blind, fallin' off a cliff or whatevah! We learn camaraderie!"

A cheer goes up.

"We learn to respect no one but ourselves, 'cause we ain't got no one else to rely on but each other!"

The cheer becomes a howl!

"You want to take down the enemy? Don't blame the gangs! Blame the Man, keepin' us down under an iron fist! We can't do nothin' 'til we fix our own problems!"

Somewhere in the crowd, glass breaks. The gang youth is pulled off of his platform abruptly and replaced by an older white woman with angry, shaking jowls. "You boneheads! Black Jack is here! Let him talk, he's the one what called it! Get up there! Get up there!" she shouts at Black Jack, pointing a finger at the upwards drive to the parking garage's second story. Some of the concrete has fallen out, collapsed, creating an unintentional but appropriate dais for someone to address the gathered crowd getting angry in the pit below.

Black Jack

Jack cuffs Sloan hard on the shoulder once, grinning eagerly as his people rally to him. The Ventrue is getting the feeling that this man treats everybody as though they are on equal ground with him, despite his position. That is what the friendly, but bruising slap communicates, as does the way he greets many people and shakes their hands heartily as he makes his way to his podium. Everybody knows him, everybody likes him, and they are ready to hear him. He commands some sort of respect amongst the Brujah that is raw and almost unbelievable. Sloan might have thought it was unattainable.

He bounds up onto the concrete effortlessly, his black duster wafting with the movement before settling back down about his powerful body. For an instant, Sloan saw an indigo button up shirt tucked into black, worn Wranglers™ and the flash of a large silver, western belt buckle as his heavy coat was thrown back. Like most Brujah, Black Jack has his own distinct style.

“My Brothers and Sisters,” he slowly crouches so that he is just above eye level with most of the crowd. He speaks softly, forcing them to settle and pay attention. Amazingly, it works. Jack’s voice is gravelly and deep; a warrior’s voice. “I hear your cries of anger and frustration!” He is seething, holding back strong emotions that could be released at any moment. His charisma is on par with the most famous of dictators, including Hitler. The Rabble listens.

“I know that you feel," he pauses just long enough to put emphasis on the word, using it as kindling to the fire, "Persecuted!” The crowd roars in agreement. “Used!” They press forward, forcing Sloan along with them. “For years, we have been the strong arm of the Prince and we have seen losses!” The mob is growing agitated again. “We have seen death and we have BROUGHT ON death!” His voice is rising in volume and conviction as he carefully allows his own passion to seep into his speech. “ We have stared our foes in the eye, and torn them down one! By! ONE!”

Black Jack lunges to his feet and throws his arms out to appeal to the masses, his coat flying crazily with the motion. “We cannot be stopped! We WILL not be threatened! We are the <Red>BRUJAH![/b]</Red>!” The crowd goes insane again, senseless pockets of violence breaking out all over as the gang explodes with pride and lust for who they are and what they have accomplished in the past.

The Primogen strategically allows them to vent some of their heat and then he reigns them in, his voice strong and powerful, but quieter again. “Something went down last night. One of our own was ripped from our grips by a Menace that we have known before. We know Him and we fight against His manipulations every, blessed, night!” It occurs to Sloan that this man has not cussed once. He speaks with a conviction and morality that is akin to the passions of the mighty Martin Luther King Jr., even without the use of the Good Book to back him up.

Not waiting for his Clan to get restless, he jumps into his battle cry, his arms swinging and entire body expressing his rage. “REX HARRIS[/I] has been TAKEN from us and <Red>WE WANT HIM BACK!!![/b]</Red>” His voice echoes off of the cracking garage walls, slamming into the crowd from all sides. The Rabble screams their resentment at Rex's abduction and they crunch forward once more.

Sloan O’Riley

Interesting. So the Prince's childe wasn't the only one who had gone missing. Sloan couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't any form of connection between the two cases. The Prince had mentioned nothing of it, so he either didn't know about it - probably the reason why he had sent Sloan here - or he didn't think it too important. Taking the anger of the Brujah gathered around him into consideration the second answer somehow didn't seem all that likely.

Yet O'Riley didn't have much time to think of such matters. He was busy not ending up in one of those tactical places where the Brujah were venting their anger. The younger ones probably would have loved seeing a Ventrue right in the middle of it. ... Maybe some of the older as well.

On the other hand he couldn't help but feel sympathy for this particular clan tonight. Or more precisely, he felt that Black Jack was right, knowing perfectly well that this was probably the exact intention behind all this. He had to respect him not only for trying to pretend that they were on equal grounds but more for the simple fact that he had not once used what others would call bad language once - something most people would probably either not notice or not care about.

For all that it mattered, he had gotten specific orders from the Prince tonight. And those were to report what was said at this rant. Black Jack knew of this. And Sloan inwardly made a note to himself to do just that - report in the primogen's best interest, or rather what he hoped would pass for that. He probably owed that to him.

Keeping silent and out of trouble, the latter being hard enough, Sloan listened at Black Jack went on.

Black Jack

“We have known our enemy for centuries and every time it manifests, it takes on a different face. This time, we know who we must look for. We know[/b] who has committed this…this CRIME!” The entire crowd is yelling, spitting out a hated name that is in the shadows between each of them, slipping under their feet, rebounding off of Sloan’s chest, and echoing in chaos off of the uncaring concrete walls.

“Who is the monster that we must bring to justice? What is his name!?” Jack spins, turning his back to the howling crowd and holding his arms out wide to either side, hands beckoning their hateful words and egging them on. “WHO?[/I]” The gang is screaming, crying for blood and vengeance and pain. “That’s RIGHT!” He twists back to face them, his coat flying and belt flashing and feral grin revealing sharp vampire’s teeth.

“<Red>RO-Me-O! ROMEO![/I]</Red> This is HIS Doing!”

The next thing Sloan realizes, an elbow is flying for his face as a burly brute forces his way forward in religious fervor.

Sloan O’Riley

Romeo? What kind of a name was that? Or rather, who was the poor guy who had to walk around with that name? He could only imagine the odd looks one would get for having such a name with too many women around.

His contemplations about the name of the man every Brujah present seemed to blame for the current absence of one of their clanmates had to be brought to a quick end when he found himself in the way of yet another Brujah who, in his own little quest for glory towards the stage, hadn't bothered to look out who was standing there and was therefor aiming his elbow just perfectly at Sloan's face. Luckily it could still be avoided, therefor the Ventrue ducked and eventually found himself unharmed, at least by that particular Brujah.

Black Jack was really delivering a perfect show. Part of him wondered whether he had learned this from one of those modern preachers that were on television nowadays or whether that was, quite literally, in his blood.

Something else bothered him... Black Jack certainly was getting the crowd all worked up. But what then? Would he direct their anger at anything in particular and have them strike out? Most likely, since he doubted that even this charismatic leader could take all the tension away again he had just created. And if they did - what about the prince, what about the laws all of them had to unconditionally adhere to?

Black Jack

Sloan dodges smoothly out of the way of the ignorant Brujah, avoiding a sore jaw or broken nose. The crowd has really truly gotten angry now, though, and his safety is close to being compromised. Somewhere behind the Ventrue and off to his right, he can clearly hear a fight between two combatants, but he can not spot it over the heads that are blocking his way. Neither can he hear what it is over, since it seems like every person in the building is screaming at the top of their lungs, but there is the static crack of glass, a brutal yell, and then someone not too far from Sloan cusses, "Shit! He's bleeding!" The Rabble are becoming a frenzying mass of sharks, hungry for a fight, for blood.

"BRUJAH[/I] of Los Angeles!" Black Jack ropes them back in one last time, long enough for his decree. "You know your <Red>ENEMY</Red>, now BRING HIM DOWN! Bring <Red>ROMEO[/I]</Red> to justice.....TONIGHT!" The blood hunt is announced and Jack stands before his people, arms up in the sky, head thrown back, fangs bared and an angry, gutteral roar bellowing from deep within his gullet.

TI

Fists and fangs fly! Objects are thrown into the air, be it in celebration over Black Jack's unoffical call for a "blood hunt" on Romeo Valencio or out of sheer wrath; hats, beer bottles, a brick, even a body or two sail around Sloan, reminding him that this is not the cool verbal battle of your average Camarilla gathering. In the Barrios, the Brujah have to make their own rules. They are the Defenders guarding the Throne; Gold Street can remain beautiful and pristine only through their sacrifice.

In the end, they have no one who will defend them in return except for themselves. To the Brujah of Los Angeles, who have suffered an excruciating loss to their Clan and a bitter slap in the face from an upstart Outsider named Romeo, the best defense is a good offense.

Bodies pound against Sloan from all sides, jostling him back and forth as though he were stick in the middle of a mosh pit. His only salvation comes when the bodies begin to still and a series of raised, balled fists becomes his anchor in the tempest of violence Black Jack is stirring.

"Bring him down!"

The chant grows and grows through the crowd, a mantra turning this school of frenzied sharks who would likely tear into one another into a school of Hammerheads, swimming en masse side by side, one giant but synchronized bulwark demanding vengeance!

"Bring him down!"

The connection has been made: Romeo. Enemy. Romeo is the Enemy.

<Red>"Romeo!"</Red>
"Bring him down!"
<Red>"Romeo!"</Red>
"Bring him down!"

The shouting become so loud that it threatens to deafen Sloan! Breaking glass accents the bloodthirsty outcry! Boots pounding against the splitting concrete overhead rumbles the foundation of the entire building! He can even swear he hears the echo of a gunshot in the distance, someone firing off a single round in murderous glee!

[Thee Independent]

Stunts Sproles

Outside the gathering rally , down the road, and under the poor illumination of a burnin gout lamp, a figure huddles in a phone booth, and begins dialing. The phone rings, each second seeming forever until the line picks up. As if on cue, the mout moves, and the voice of the man in the booth begins, and the play is in motion. "Hello?..Officer?

10:00

Down the road, Stunts Sproles relaxes, taking in the brilliance of the night. An astrovan hums, idles, whirs, and wheezes. Banging on the hood, Stunts yells, "Shut the fuck up! Jesus christ."

rumble, whir, click, ricketing, the vehicle almost struggles to maintian its life. Then a new sounds comes in, beeping. Lifting his motorola to his eyes, Stunts nods his head, closes his eyes, and forces himself to take a deep breath. He mutters silently, "It's show time."

08:00

Romero lumbers his way through the back alleys, dark roads, and eventually to the street, a short distance outside of the parking garage. There, alone, he surveys the landscape. He listens for the rumblings of the rally and then he turns back. He sees some headlight and in his van, Stunts pulls up and is sure to clear the specifics with the behemoth. Romeo flashes his childe a thumbs up and they wait for the right moment. Periodically Stunts begins looking at his watch, waiting for somehting to happen.

07:00
The sounds of the motorcycles rumble through the streets. 60 strong the young hoods begin gathering towards Romero, now standing atop the van. Asian in ehtnicity, they let their ninja bikes, choppers, and even their ric3d hondas roar in excitment. They cans ense the tension in the air as the monster before them opens his arms wide welcoming his brood.

06:19
Chevy novas pour into the street, mingling witht he Asian thugs, and then a few more comes from the alleyways and over the chain link fences. Leviere kept his word and brought his best vatos. The latino hoods whoop and holler, even a few brought their own weaponry, produly displaying it, their golden teeth flashing brightly in the night's sky. "Who said only the niggers like the gold. I say fuck that shit, ese. Oro is the only way to go, you know?"

Both groups mingle and Leviere moves to join up with Romeo at the van to get his orders.

04:13
Stunts grows tense and looks up. Romero just gave Leviere his orders and he's moved to tell the rest of the latinos. Now the mob stands at almost 100. Drunk, high, runnign on adrenaline, all await in anticipation as Romero throws his arms wide and lets out a beastly call. The group grows silent as he starts, "Alright, all a you, listen up!"

04:00
"Now we all know why we here, huh? They got some punks think they can muscle in on our turf and we're gonna show them what for. Who these bitches think they messin with? Takin' our turf and they don't expect us to smack their fucking heads! Fuck that shit! We got somethin fo them, y'all dig?!"

The cycles rumble in excitment and the novas roar in anticipation. The fists of the gangs begin pumping in the air and they begin chanting, "RO-ME-O! RO-ME-O!"

03:27
"This for all the OGs, the Vatos, and e'r'body else who got the balls to tell these hoe's that hey ain't welcome. The barrios be our, ya hear? We don't need no one. We beat out five-o! We can get these fools out! And all'a be left is us, hear?!"

In approval the nvas bounce up in the air, the honda systems start blaring, and ghetto woodstock is in full swing.

03:00
"This little hommie..." as Romeor points to Stunts, "He's gonna lead the charge. After he's done his job. I want everyone to bum rush those fools. They ain't gonna know what hit them."

Stuns smiles a sadistic grin. His blood is pumping and he's had his fix. He can feel the excitement course through his veins, a natural liquid high that his body can never produce again. Better than meth he's found dynamite, more than figuratively speaking.

00:45
With Romeo still standing atop the van, the gang inches closer, and then he throws his hand up to stop. Just no more than a block away from the garage, he hops down the moving van, his feet thundering against the concrete, as he slaps Stunt's van.

It revs up, and the rest follow, the final charge is about to be given and those caught inside the rally will be in for an astounding surprise.

00:30
Romero throws his hand forward as the Astrovan begins accelerating towards the garage. Gun shots form the LAtinos ring through the charge, as everyone hoots and hollers. A few even impatient vehicles begin edging forward.

00:25
Stunts remembers the conversation, "Come on Romero, you know this is gonna be the party of the century. Lets give it a little more bang

The monster raises his eyebrows and answers, "Whatcha' talkin' 'bout"

Stunts answers confidently, "I found some prim-o shit. TNT, man. I know some people, we can wire this van, and send it straight through the party"

20:00
Romero just snorts and retorts, I got all the hombres I need. Why you need to fuck up another car?

Stunts replies, a bt hesitant of what the next words may bring, "Romero, they comin from all over. Not just the Barrios, but all over LA. Dude, I'm tellin' you, the crips war was a set up. Someone had to know what you was doin'. You're outgunned"

Romeo yells at his childe, "Bullshit! They don't know jack shit! I got this covered!"

Stunts recoils and cowers a bit, before continuing, "But, man, those kids'll be slaughtered. You need insurance. Come on dog..."

15:00
The behemoth raises his hand to strike the boy down before he stops, and that smile crosses his face again, the smile that Romeo is about to do something devious. "Alright little nigger, you can do this shit, but I don't want you fucking this up. Get caught in that blast and I ain't gonna help you"

Stunts stands cautiosuly and says in appreciation for indulging in his little vices, "PLease, I know I can do this. You'll see man."

10:00
Leviere approaches Romero from the passenger seat of a Prowler, and says to him, "Hey homes, your boy is fucked up loco. What he doin'?"

Almost proud of the courageous youth Romeor turns to look down at Leviere and says, "He's gonna get us started with a bang. You'll know when to move."

00:005
The van approaches top speed, and stunts Sproles plows through the crowd. To and fro bodies fly, crashing into the windshield, and some even jump on top. The van takes a beating and Stunts stays behind the wheel.

Then it happens, he spins out, into the crowd, the van topples over, some brute just flipped it over, and he begins unbuckling his belt. Stunts takes out a small pistol and kicks open the driver's door. Shots bursting, bullets flying, he yells, "Fuck you you ivory pussies! This ain't how you do it! you gotta use your VOICE!"

00:04
Bang bang, shots ring closer to the rally. Lost in the center, Sloan and Blackjack are caught up in the ever agitated mass, unknowing as to the true horror about to unfold around them.

Stunts rolls on the ground and gets into a cat's crouch, ready to spring away, "Its about carnage! Death! Sex! Drugs! Highs!"

00:03
Sparks fly as the van slides on its side and to those that see the grinding vehicle passing, they notice the small watch on its underside, and the wiring from it to the dynamite to the gas tank.

00:02
Stunts springs backwards, trying to escape the impendign explosion. Some even follow suit, aware of what may happen in the next moments. "...And this fucker's going SKY-MOTHERFUCKIN'-HIGH!"

00:01

00:00

Boom

Romeo Valencio

The explosion rocks the surrounding neighborhood, as bits of fire belch form the garage. Teh crowd outside goes silent as they turn their gaze towards the mammoth at the front. Then he turns back, amazed at the stunned silence, and yells, "Well what'ch y'all fools waiting for! Go after them!"

And the mob surges forwads. Cycles in the front, cars behind, and the stragglers with no vehicles, just their sticks, stones, guns, and moltovs.

Leviere tries to tear his way to the front of the group, yelling all the way and coercing his driver forward. Uzi at the ready, he passesinto the uknown of the rally, guns blazing.

Romero watches as the rest of the group follows in, and smiles to himself. Stunt's plan worked. Maybe the bomb took out just enough to make this memorable. Whatever the outcome, though, the beast knows, the damage is done. It'll take the camarilla overtime to cover this mess up, even if they can succeed.

And he turns back to see the distant flashing of the police sirens.

TI

Crashing a party is not merely a skill, it takes talent; knowing just the right time and the right way to achieve your effect can be as challenging and as effective as provoking a crowd to organized madness. Black Jack had accomplished everything he came to do. The gathered Brujah from around Los Angeles had been notified of the disaster and properly motivated to handle it alone. They knew the name Romeo, and shouted it with bloodlust. All they needed was to find him somewhere out there in the shadows of the Barrios, where he must inevitably be hiding from their wrath.

How many expected him to serve his head up on a silver platter to an angry mob?

From the back of the halromaniacal throng, a cacophonous combination of painful shrieks and squealing tires interrupts the pounding mantra! Several bodies disappear beneath the rusty silver hood of an old van, while others are sent spinning from its side-view mirrors like ravenous dreidels. One of those caught in the initial impact, a woman in a tweed skirt and a button-up blouse, goes careening through the air and lands with a clattering of bodies in the ocean of bodies directly beneath Black Jack.

The scent of vitae begins filling the air, and the Brujah react with such concentrated force at this intrusion that they strike and struggle blindly against anything and everything, including the van! Slowed to a crawl by the throng, it is forced onto its side by hammering jackboots and meaty fists! Sparks fly up from the hunk of metal as it slides across the full parking garage, and the crowd surges backward like rippling water as it clears a bloody swathe through them. The shifting bodies go all the way back to Sloan, removed a good ways from the kamikaze Astro that had become the focus of everyone’s attention. Unbreakable backs slam into him from the front, forcing him to move with the crowd or fall over and be trampled beneath them.

A shout brings Sloan’s attention sharply into focus. “Look! The driver!”

The driver’s side door bursts open like the access port atop a submarine, squealing on its hinges as a wily street personality in leather and chains drags himself from the metal breadbox being hastily dismantled by the raging mass of Brujah all around him. Bloodstains streak down his clothing, stain his hands and plaster his grimy chin. Maddened eyes sparkle down on everyone; from this point atop the van, no matter how precarious it was, Stunts managed to gain a similar ground to Black Jack – an elevated position to address everyone and incite them to further action.

"Fuck you, you ivory pussies! This ain't how you do it! you gotta use your VOICE!"

In contrast to Black Jack, however, this interloper fails to keep the garish profanity of the street out of his speech. Pulling a .45 from his coat, Stunts begins indiscriminately blasting his way to his only salvation: getting out of the garage! A hail of bullets slam into the raging Brujah beneath him, the force of the close-range shots knocking them to the ground, and Stunts leaps from the top of the sliding vehicle onto the fallen bodies with feline grace. Then, putting on a less intimidating game face, he proceeds to make a break for the exit!

"Its about carnage! Death! Sex! Drugs! Highs!"

“Grab him!” several gangers shout, dog tags chiming against their bulging throats as they lunge after the sly yet suicidal maniac. One of them gets a hold of his coat, and the others move in to pin him to the ground when one shouted word grabs hold of their attention. More than Romeo. More than Enemy. More than Blood Hunt, Brujah, or Blood.

“Bomb!”

The hangs that had been reaching to snag Stunts suddenly go wild, covering heads and shielding eyes.

"...And this fucker's going SKY-MOTHERFUCKIN'-HIGH!"

Boom.

A halo of fire and smoke belches out of the van, the force of the contained explosion enough to send the Astro up into the air several feet before slamming back down onto the concrete with a splintering crash! A plume of flame and lung-choking black clouds towers to the roof of the parking garage’s first floor, instantly turning the concrete ceiling ebony with ash.

Carnage breaks out around the van as the bane of Kindred claims its victims, eating them alive with a sick, malodorous stench! Their unearthly howls of pain signal not only the end of their lives, but the sheer brutality of the strike that has been mounted against them. Those at the outermost reaches begin to twist their heads all about, watching for other signs of impending doom and collapse, their cornered Beasts roaring to be set free to save their lives!

Those closest to the explosion and not yet consumed succumb immediately to the Red Fear and began driving the crowd with crushing, desperate blows away from the gurgling inferno! Now the crowd fully surges upon Sloan, threatening to push him to the ground in their overwhelming need to reach safety!

The smoke hasn’t even begun to clear when a tumult of shouts and gunshot and roaring motor engines surround the parking garage from the outside! The Brujah are trapped, their enemies moving in from all around them! And somewhere behind them all, a dark hand is directing the carnage with a malicious mind.

Two Brujah leap onto concrete islands floating above the surging sea of panicked bodies, one appealing to Black Jack and the other screaming at the crowd. “That’s the one! The one who almost blew us up at Rex’s Pool Hall! We were there when he did it! He’s Romeo’s man!”

One of them bares his fangs and waves his balled fist, clinging to a twisted main beam with his other arm. ”Catch him!”

The other points decisively, his arm long, strong, and his clothing scarred by last night’s ashes and burn spots. ”Kill him!”

The many Brujah unaffected by the proximity of the fire turn their rage upon Stunts and heave their vicious mass upon him, screaming for his head on a pike!

Sloan O’Riley

The irony of the situation was overwhelming. Trapped in an inferno of body and flesh with the assembled bunch of Brujah - Brujah, of all Kindred! In a garage, a place he usually didn't frequent at all. Trapped in their frenzy and rage - someone who usually tried to pass as human as well as he could, careful to hide any trace of anything else. In L.A. no less. L.A., the city that had changed way too many things in his unlife. On order of the Prince. Yet more irony for the simple fact who that Prince was. How much worse could San Diego actually get, in spite of most likely costing his unlife?
Fortunatly for his own sanity Sloan didn't really have the time to think about all that. His ears were still ringing - and the shouting, trampling and god knew what else of the Brujah didn't really make things better at all.

Black Jack

Before Sloan even knows that the Brujah's rage is actually aimed at a solid target, he is trampled down to the ground. The crush of rushing bodies defeats him finally and he does not even have the chance to realize that they are moving in the opposite direction from before. A steel-toed boot cracks him hard in the ribs and if he does not get up quickly, he can expect much worse.

As the two Brujah scream their recognition of Stunts, who they believe will take them directly to Romeo, a guttural, feral war cry is sounded and it can be heard over most of the yelling now that the explosion has subsided. For any Brujah that has lived in LA for a year or more, they recognize the sound immediately and it reins them in hard. Black Jack is still in his place of advantage and the booming yell is coming from him. He had made the same cry for glory before rushing into every known American war, rallying soldiers and warriors of all types around him before leading them out to die in glory. The effect is no less impacting here; about half of his troops jump to his call as he vaults off of his perch into their midst and heads not for Stunts, but for the doorway where the gangs are rushing in. He can trust his men to secure or kill Stunts, either way it does not matter right now to him.

“Brujah! Fan out and trap the enemy within the building! Don’t let them escape!” His command is adhered to instantly by those Brujah that can hear him and that have control over themselves. Three men fall to Jack’s side, keeping pace with him and their faces grim. He is counting on the mayhem that his angry mob is creating, trusting that it will keep the gangs busy until his trap is laid. He speaks to the man to his right and that vampire takes off instantly, disappearing into the crowd. Further back and out of view of most, another vampire follows him.

In the next instant, Jack has reached the mortals and he tears into them effortlessly and savagely, using his bare fists to crack their skulls and break their backs. He is making a b-line for the entrance, it being the only way in or out. By the time he reaches it, his loyal forces should have successfully ringed the gangers that were foolish enough to enter.

TI

“Brujah! Fan out and trap the enemy within the building! Don’t let them escape!”

The mob roars in ire, their bloodthirsty thoughts and actions inflamed by this outright attack and tempered by Black Jack’s strong and aggressive leadership. His cry resounds through the parking garage like something out of Braveheart or history, inspiring not merely survival, but victory at any cost. The Brujah’s primogen may wonder, though, whether his livid constituency will sacrifice the Masquerade in order to achieve that vaunted triumph. With murder in his eyes, he splinters a path through the rallying gangers as though they were paper dolls.

Not all of the Kindred are having so easy a time, including Sloan O’Riley, the hapless spectator caught up in this sudden madness. Thrown to the ground and trampled by his allies in this conflict, the man feels a steel-toed boot jab its way into his ribcage, but steeling himself bravely he manages to absorb the shock on a washboard abdomen and maintain what little dignity he has left, knocked about and flattened beneath the Brujah. Somewhere out in the crowd, he can hear further mayhem; shrieking voices, screeching tires, breaking glass and the rippling patter of hard fist on soft flesh creates a cacophony that incites Sloan on a dark and primal level to get on his feet and get to higher ground: to stand and fight, or to get out of the way.

Now that Romeo’s inflammatory calling card has been delivered, Stunts Sproles finds himself in a very sour pickle; the entrance behind him, once open and free, is clogged with a titanic skirmish between red-jacketed Asians, gutsy brown Latinos and a menacing assortment of howling Brujah. The latter lash out brutally with bare fists and legs and heads; the gangers, culled from the barrios for their ethnic hostility towards the predominant and oppressive white culture, hold their own with savage efficiency, armed with bats, cudgels, knuckles, knives, chains, and as the sudden firecracker eruption signals, handguns as well. Behind him and to both sides, the Brujah are closing in rapidly, zeroing in on him more than anyone else thanks to those two Brujah who pegged him from the Pool Hall the night before.

Sloan O’Riley

That boot hurt well enough. But at least didn't seem to cause any serious damage, which surprised the Ventrue somewhat. In all this confusion and chaos it was hard to tell, even for him, how he finally managed to get back up to his feet.

And then there was the problem of what to do. Part of him wondered whether the Prince had set all this up, just to get him out of the way. And on first glance it was a tempting thought, an easy solution that surely would suffice to drive him into frenzy. But the Prince had also told him of his troubles. Of his lost childe and of the sabbat knocking at the door. And in that light it would have been foolish of the Prince to do such a thing. If not for his own sake then at least for the cost all this would take among the Brujah. The Prince couldn't afford the loss.

There were two options now. Join a fight in which he wasn't sure to make a good stand at all - or see to it that the Prince would hear of all this. To ensure that the report would be as truthful as could be and fulfil that single duty the Prince had given him for the night. Strangely enough it had turned out to be a very tough one.

If the attackers were any good they long since would have made sure that nobody would get out using one of the emergency exits. But walking right through the middle of the fighting crowd seemed even more hopeless. And there was the smallest chance that whoever the enemy was figured that the Brujah would be too strongheaded to just flee, that they would fight even if they knew they could not win.

There was a very tiny third option. That being to wait and see if the Brujah could handle the situation. But if they couldn't the plan was bound to fail.

In the end Sloan had only one option. And that was to try and find a way out of this mess, preferably somewhere unnoticed by the rest. Someone simply had to get through to the Prince...

Stunts Sproles

Deftly using his dexterity, ducking, dodging, and weaving, Guy Sproles attempts daring feats of acrobatic acumin that none should even dare try at home.

Shifting on his right foot to try and avoid and oncoming blow and using what balance he has left to side step another oncoming charge Stunts taunts his aggressors, striking a much needed sour chord amongst the rabble, "Fuckin' move! Out of the way! Coming through! Look out for fire!"

Another brute trying to grab ahold of the mocking youth misses as he rolls to safety, crawling momentarily on the ground, and rolling to avoid being stepped on by anyone and their size 10s. "Son of a bitch look out! Jesus Christ go the fuck away!"

Trying to climb out of a large group of would be aggressors and general nobodies, pausing to drop a clip and reload his gun, a heavy panting comes from the youth, all too lost in the surge of adrenaline, that substance that courses through his system with each victim he consumes. The stuff of action, the stuff survival, the haze that envelopes someone drunk on the natural high of the human body, Stunts Sproles feels the heat not just outside but within. Time slows down for him, his eyes twitching, searching, pusling as its is fed vitae, the timing of the action moving in the rhythm of his dead heart, pulsing harder, faster, longer, deeper, pushing boundries, and nearly about to explode within his own chest. He begins to laugh a maniacal, lost laugh. A laugh not attached to anythign in this world, a laugh that hints of madness, and the laugh of the very beast within Stunts Sproles being, that wild echo that calls to every fiber within him, that need to consumne all into a fiery haze of violence.

"hahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

[Thee Independent]

TI

Sloan has made his decision: somebody, somehow, has to get word to the Prince about all of this. If those two Brujah are correct about the madman daredevil who stormed this Camarilla rant with a van rigged to explode, causing considerable destruction and flaming death, being tied to Romeo Valencio, then this attack is more than a grievous Masquerade problem; if that notorious monster’s hand is behind the chaos, then this is an open attack orchestrated by the Sabbat. The war that in many cities lingers in the air and hides in the shadows is now coming out into the open in Los Angeles in the front wheel of a destructive time bomb on wheels.

The main entrance to the old, abandoned parking garage is no longer a viable exit for Sloan. From what he can see through the thickening, petrol black smoke that writes against the ceiling like storm clouds, the entryway is clogged with a pitched battle between a horde of street gangers and the Brujah. Trying to break through that wall would be too dangerous, and would take entirely too long.

Below and to Sloan’s right, Black Jack is cutting a brutal swathe through a flanking division of red-jacketed Japenese boys. Their television-taught Bruce Lee kicks and punches fail to measure up to the Primogen’s raw, brute strength and martial prowess; they tumble like wooden soldiers, some of them even knocked off of their feet by a raging open-palmed strike to the solar plexus. There is a trail behind Black Jack filling slowly with Brujah lining up behind him and cleaning up the mess of bewildered mortals he leaves behind, a train of quarrelsome bodies leading slowly away from the fray.

Just up to Sloan’s right , a rusted set of iron crossbars snakes out of a broken section of concrete. They extend deep into the foundation of the parking garage’s second level, and slowly twist and coil their way up to a broken divide in the runway. Painted yellow lines trail down to the edge and then stop abruptly where the concrete splintered and this portion of the second story collapsed downwards. The damage may have been sustained during one of LA’s earthquakes, and since the man holding the purse isn’t willing to renovate, the damage was never corrected. It looks like it might just be sturdy enough to get a good handle on and climb up with only minimal swaying. Once a climber reached the collapsed portion of the driveway upstairs, he could crawl up the incline and find himself on the stable portion of the second floor. From up there, he could find a way out of this garage…or he could just find himself trapped, with the smoke and flames from the burning van on the first floor made the place a veritable maze of acidic fumes and embers.

Seeking nothing but his own survival, Stunts plunges into the fracas with teeth bared! The Brujah, thirsty for his blood, pound the concrete like a huge team of NBA players or a stampede of bulls, grasping unsuccessfully for the tails of his dusty, singed clothing. Moving and darting like an animal, they see him scurrying between the raised fists and gleaming knives faster than they can catch up.

“Get him! God damnit, don’t let him get away again!”

Roaring, the mass of Brujah begin muscling their way through the melee with slow, sweeping arms, brushing everyone aside! But they are too slow for the wily Stunts, who weaves and wiggles his way to freedom amidst the rushing gangers. Directly in front of him, a swarthy Hispanic kid with large ears and a larger baseball bat swings the wooden piece violently against the bare white back of an enemy. To his shock and surprise, the wood shatters, sending splinters bursting out in a spray; Stunts whirls by, shielding his face from the shrapnel and rushing around behind the Brujah who turns to tower over his assailant. For a moment, it seems that Stunts is headed for a massive roadblock of bodies, until a pair of mall-bought sneakers rise up past his face and a path to the onrushing gang is clear. The one ganger that had been blocking his way is suddenly hoisted off of his feet and flung screaming into the parking garage.

When Stunts breaks free on the opposite side and pauses to reload his clip, the tingling sensation of survival, mayhem, and a little fear intoxicate him. His fanatical laughter rattles both the Brujah nearest to him and even his allied gangers, who are only just beginning to get the impression that what they are dealing with is not the “soft whitey” Romeo had promised, but a tirade of contestants in the UFC. Responding to their growing dread, the Latinos outside the conflict pick up their green beer bottles, full of regular unleaded and stuffed with white garage rags. As if on cue, their mousy brown faces, haunted and sweaty in the sudden flare-up from touching their Zippos to the cocktails, grimace with effort as they simultaneously fling the molotovs through the unprotected ports in the garage wall.

hahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

Napalm-like liquid death splatters in orange-hot goblets all across the parking garage floor, underneath the feet of Brujah and ganger alike. The intruders stomp the flames out of their jeans and continue fighting. Some of the Brujah ignite like dry tinder, or fling themselves out of harm’s way in desperation, or worse, turn a suddenly bloody, ravenous eye upon their enemy, reacting like a caged beast fighting for its life.

A feral howl erupts from the mass of Brujah caught in the Molotov cocktail nightmare, echoing the Beast’s rage throughout the parking garage. Blood sprays up into the air and gushes onto the floor, and Stunts just keeps laughing.


“Yeah, the Captain said we got a call at the precinct that there would be some kind of gang war at that old Alan Rick building. We get bullshit calls like this all the time, and some of the boys rush out to the scene only to have a piddling liquor store knocked up around the corner. So I just gotta check this out, then I can swing by your place, babe. It’s a Wednesday night. Nothing happens on Wednesdays.”

Officer Brad Nesbitt rolled down Tamarine avenue in his LAPD squad car, breaking department policy by talking on a personal cell phone to his girlfriend on shift. It was not as if anyone monitored the night traffic beat’s operations, anyway. “If you’re lucky, I can break in and pretend to catch you in bed with a robber. You know. Your night in blue armor. Uniform, yeah. Whatever, baby.”

Brad pulled onto Rick Drive and started headed down towards the run-down old building nestled in the shadows of the Park’s large oaks. To his surprise, the street was crowded with cars, and he could make out kids – gang kids – darting through the shadows in the Park, headed for the old building. “What the hell? Baby, lemme call you back. Something’s going down here for real. Holy crap.”

Tossing the cell into the passenger seat, Brad gunned the squad car up closer to the Alan Rick building, and his eyes went wide with astonishment as he peered through the removed window-holes and saw a literal gang war with bodies struggling back and forth. Smoke was pouring out of the ports, and the glow of a fire illuminated the building and even some of its courtyard.

“Mother Mary and Joseph, would you look at that?” he muses, sitting slack-jawed in his squad car as the bedlam continued. When the initial allure wears off, Officer Brad picks up his radio and calls back to the precinct. “This is Nesbitt out at Alan Rick Park. I need backup. Now.” He let the confirmation come through, then sent his own message. “Whoever called in about the gang war shit wasn’t lying this time. It’s going down right now!”

Brad grabbed for his holstered pistol and went to open the door, but realized the foolishness of the act, and instead killed the car’s engine and turned the lights off, ready to wait for the backup to arrive before charging in to break this up. It looked like some of them were carrying guns!

As an afterthought, Brad ducks back into the car and flips up the little red dial on his dashboard camera. “Holy crap, this is going right to SpikeTV!”

Sloan O’Riley

Jumping down and staying behind Black Jack and his men seemed tempting with insecure safety. But on second glance it was better to try and make his own way out. Sure, maybe if he chose the way climbing up that half collapsed level he might end up trapped. But maybe not.

Sloan knew that muscle-wise he´d be more in the way of the Brujah primogen than anything else. Perhaps Black Jack would make it through that way - good, then he could inform the Prince personally. But if he wasn´t successful then Sloan needed to take all the chances he could get to get out of this mess alive. Staying behind Black Jack would only lower their chances of getting anyt ing through to the Prince.

Not liking it much he started climbing.

He vaguely remembered having had a cell phone with him before. But he might as well have lost it. He would check as soon as he reached a spot that would support him long enough.

Only moments ago he had t ought hell had broke lose - but now, as he glanced below, he realized the inferno had just started...

TI

The metal support creaks and groans, and once or twice threatens to swing about and fling Sloan like a puppet with its strings cut down into the morass of bodies and blood and fire and fists and screaming below! Luckily, he managed to get a handhold on the concrete edge at the end of the makeshift ladder, something firm and gritty to hold onto.

Just as Sloan is pulling himself up, something whooshes! underneath him and impacts against one of the concrete pilings with a sick crunch. A Japanese boy, no older than eighteen, with his face bloodied, smacks against the concrete wall, splintering the back of his skull before falling lifeless several feet down onto a yellow railing. A sweet-smelling blotch remains on the piling like a red paintball shot.

On the second story of the parking garage, the mania below sounds less pronounced, though the danger of another explosion or something equally unpleasant still remains. The smoke from the demolished van swirls up to the second story ceiling, and bears down upon Sloan threateningly as if it could choke the air out of his airless lungs. Only the large, open windows - once covered with glass that has since been removed - give any release to the smoke, which whirls out into the night air. Around the corner to the left, there is an elevator shaft. Up the driving lane to what would technically be the 2 1/2 story, there are only empty parking spaces and a locked metal door leading to a stairwell that only goes up further up into the abandoned building.

From where Sloan is standing, there is one large concrete pillar near the elevator that has a cut of black duct tape on two of its visible corners, both leading around to the side of the pillar Sloan cannot see.

Sloan O’Riley

Duct tape? Considering the inferno below he thought to have a good guess of what was attached to that concrete pillar by it. Had he been any good about demolitions or the like he would have had a look, maybe disarm what he thought to be a bomb - or toss it below at the agressors. Sadly he had no such knowledge. He was way too old for that. And guessing anyway.

And he was running out of time. He had to get out of here. Somehow.

Since the stairs didn't seem to be available the only alternative presenting itself would be elevator shaft. In hopes that there was a ladder or something they used in emergencies inside. And if this wasn't one he didn't know what ever would qualify as one.

The situation as such was terrible. He wasn't in control. He didn't even know about all the circumstances that lead to it - nor what would be expecting him outside.

But there was no choice. He had to go on. So as carefully as he could he tried to reach the elevator...

Black Jack

As a true general of the streets, Black Jack has seen urban empires rise and fall all around him; these gangs, the Traviesos boys and one of the numerous Asian gangs out of west LA could not hold a candle to the classics. Those original bad asses had been the ones to inspire rage-filled movies that both glorified and gorified the Barrio life. The Primogen’s fist and feet fly out in a furious flurry, and the boys are all like matches: one flick and they light up with a burst of blood and then snuff out with nothing but the faint, sulferic afterscent. The gangs are not Jack's concern. All he cares about now are his own people, his Brujah.

"Out of my way," Black Jack commands, raising one blood-soaked fist to a quivering Asian's chin as he burns a trail through the crowd and reaches a side window - outside the building was only a stretch of side parking lot and then the black, shady Alan Rick Park. Significantly cowed, the gang kid drops his switchblade and dives out the window with Black Jack right behind him. The limber man stopped upon the concrete sill and turned about to survey the scene inside the parking garage.

Already the flames from both the van and the cocktails were turning this combat into what would ultimately amount to a phyrric victory for the Brujah. Fangs were bared, and the tide of powerful Disciplines were beginning to overwhelm the gangers, who fell easily before a dread gaze, a thousand blows, or the crushing weight of raw strength. It would also not be long before mortal authorities, the LAPD, arrived. Something would have to be done to preserve not only the Brujah, but the Masquerade, as well.

Black Jack sets his jaw and narrows his eyes. At least he had planned in advance for this. One might even say he set that Romeo Valencio up for it by sending his own loyalist Crip gangs to begin surprise gang warfare with rival Bloods he knew to be held in that Sabbat's pocket. He had known that the "Freak of LA" would either run to save his own gangs or make a suicide mission to follow the verbal trail he'd laid out that would lead him to this rant. Jack was glad Romeo chose to make this strike; the Primogen had seen his style, his strategy, first hand. But in another way, he wished the Freak had run to his gangs instead; how many Brujah might have been saved?

It is of no matter. They were born to fight, and Embraced to finally live...and die.

Filling his lungs, Black Jack puffs out his chest and roars once more across the parking garage, the last signal he has to give. The Brujah have died to defend the Camarilla and the Masquerade tonight. Now they have placed all of their trust in Jack to ensure that he sees this through to the end. All of their bloodshed will not be in vain.

The trap is slowly springing into motion, and Black Jack jumps out the window, feet landing squarely on the gravel outside. He crunches around the corner, his footsteps muted by the terrible sounds of slaughter and gunfire inside the building. Almost all of the gang members are inside now engaged in a struggle for their lives against monsters that they did not even know existed before tonight. Any minute now, their exit will disappear.

He heads quickly in the direction that they came from, headed for the back of the pack where he is guessing correctly that their leader must be. Whether it is a gang-head or Romeo himself, Jack knows he absolutely must cut this off at the head. One Jap turns to attack him as he passes by, recognizing him as one of the “whiteys” that he has been sent to kill. Without even looking at the boy, the Primogen shoots out a blood-pumped hand and hits the ganger so hard in the jaw that his head snaps backwards and he crashes to the ground, dead upon impact with a broken spine.

Black Jack is counting on the leader not recognizing him, even if it is Romeo. He knows he has never seen the Barrio terror in person. He is also counting on them recognizing him as one of the Brujah and hopefully stepping forward to prevent his “escape”.

TI

Up on the second floor, Sloan stands in front of the elevator doors. Pressing the button does nothing. The abandoned building no longer has the power needed to operate the elevators! The next best thing he can do is pry them open with brute force and see whether there's an emergency ladder leading up or down out of the building, but before Sloan can get his fingers wedged between the doors, he realizes that he is no longer alone. Over the shouts, painful screams, the roaring fire and gunshots below, he can hear the clomp clomp of running footsteps headed along the upstairs pathway.

One of the Brujah who initially took off at Black Jack's signal when the raid began charges around the corner, sprinting directly up the central yellow line with a small metal box in his right hand. When he comes about twenty feet away from Sloan, he stops and reacts with noticeable surprise! "You! Get out! You have to - "

"Have to what, ducky?" the old bag lady who commanded Black Jack to speak earlier steps out from behind a piling directly behind him. Her gray hair blooms out in ragged waves, drifting in the air like the smoke itself. Shocked again, the Brujah spins around on his heel, but as he does so, the old woman leaps upon him with fangs bared! The two of them topple backwards and to the ground, tussling and rolling in a scrambling battle for survival! Her eyes are red with blood and hunger, and her wretched hands begin crushing his throat! "You'll do nothing but die, pawn!"

Pawn. The insult hits Sloan's ears with a wrenching ring of familiarity. She is Sabbat. An insider, pretending to belong and waiting for the right moment to strike!

As they struggle, a terrifying roar fills the air from somewhere below! Panicked but caught in the struggle, the Brujah pushes the old woman back with one hand while fumbling with the box in the other. Savvy, she swipes at his forearm, knocking the device from his fingers before pressing down with incredible force and smashing his head into the concrete! A vertebrae snaps in his neck while she claws at his jugular, but with panicked eyes and a still-moving arm, he picks up the box and flops over onto his belly like a flounder, flinging it with a clatter across the floor towards Sloan. It comes to rest five feet away.

"Use it! Use gack!"

Two oversized fangs sink into his neck as the vicious Sabbat woman begins to drain his body of its precious vitae.

Behind Sloan, the smoke continues to pour out of the second story opening into the sky.

Sloan O’Riley

Pawn.

Sabbat right before his eyes and he hadn't noticed, not even guessed it. Becomming a blind fool after all.

Brujah had died bellow. Some still were to. One was doing so right in front of him.

Pawn.

The situation still had changed little. He still had barely any knowledge of explosives, nor did he know how to get out of here. He did know however where the enemy was, at least for the moment, and circumstance had it that he was also given a weapon, somehow. If he could reach it.

Since the old, hopefully non-elder Sabbat vampire was busy drinking the Brujah dry he seized the chance to get a hold of that small box-like thing the Brujah had been forced to let go of.

Pawn.

Maybe. Rather a pawn than deluding yourself not to be one. Assuming they were right, which they were not. Things had to have structure. What happened when they didn't - well, the Sabbat was living dead example for it.

There had to be a button or switch, which Sloan tried to find ad push. Choosing the way the Brujah had gone for, thinking that he likely knew where to go he sought his salvation there.

Whether it worked our not. It was checkmate for at least one party now.

TI

The device that the Brujah had been carrying has a coiled wire in a glass tube just inside the uppermost end of the flat metal handheld box. An extendable antenna nub rests next to the open window looking down on the tiny coil. On the front of the device is a dial with numbers on yellow laminate strips attached to four different dial positions. They are numbered easily: 1, 2, 3, and 4.

When Sloan reaches the end of the parking garage road, leaving the grim sucking sound behind him, he knows that only the elevator is to his left, the open window in front of him, and that large concrete post to his right, the one with duct tape on it. Inspecting it with a quick glance, he sees that his suspicions were confirmed – while there is no old school red dynamite or visible C4 block strapped to the pillar, there does appear to be a silvery metal rod poking out of a hole in the duct. The rod extends into the pillar itself, as though a hole had been drilled into the center of it.

Just above the duct tape, a large faded yellow 2 is still painted, indicating the building’s garage level.

“They may be escaping their death below, puppet, but you have nowhere to go,” the Sabbat woman taunts, lurching up the concrete street towards Sloan, a vicious and bloody smile on her face. “Where are your elders now? Not here to protect you.” She draws ever closer to Sloan, shifting slowly from left to right and making it difficult for him to bolt past her and back downstairs into the melee if he wanted to.

Sloan O’Riley

The 2 on the device is the only lead he has, though he would have thought that this was way too easy. On the other hand - it wasn't meant to be complicated, was it. He pulled the antenna out by the nub, at least as far as it would go without obviously breaking the thing.

Elders? Stereotypical, for a Sabbat. On the other hand, wasn't he very stereotypical for the Camarilla as well?

Nowhere to go? True. But he was closer to the window. "Neither do you."

With that he set the device's dial to 2. Hopefully this would take care of at least the elder woman. Probably cause the building to collapse. As for his own fate? This might very well get him killed as well, at least from what he could tell. The flames from below, the sound from the elderly woman drinking that Brujah dry - and every single word she had spoken - made it very well worth it.

TI

The dial clicks into place on 2, and a tiny red light glows on the bottom of the front panel, illuminating Sloan's wrist and a small, thumbprint sized black button directly beneath the red light.

"Then if I'm going to burn in hell," she retorts, ripping the cap from her head and revealing a long razorburned bald spot through the center of her head, a brand given to her by the Sabbat before her embrace, "I'll take you with me!"

Shrieking, the Sabbat woman lurches forward, consumed with bloodlust!

[Thee Independent]

Romeo Valencio

Watching the wandering Black Jack as he emerges form the firefight brewing in the garage, Roero does that predatory growl he loves so much, his eyes following the Brujah leader as he look about, trying to find the man-beast that stalks the camarilla.

Powering up as best as he can, ROomeo's body pulses and vitae pumps and strains his veins. Spider webbings of flesh flow about his face as the vitae empowers him for his next battle. He almost dares is beast to let itself loose, pushing himself almost to the brink of frenzy as the essence courses through his body.

The cascading flow of the viscous liquid pushes his dead veins, as he pushes the muscles in his body, straining them to push to their limit. Red hot fuel behind a steaming charred locamotive, the rushing of the wind and the creation of a vaccuum of space are all that's evident of the dark beast's attack.

Colored against the night sky, the flames in the background, the glinting of his teeth as he lets out his battle whail, the swirling of his jacket, and that ham sized fist baring down on Blackjack as the giant rains down upon him like a panther upon a gazelle.

The explosion is loud and concrete jumps into the air. A hole forms into the sidewalk as dust circle soin the atmosphere and pieces of stone scatter every which way from the center of impact.

TI

Without a second to spare, Sloan O'Riley jams his finger into the glossy black button.

<Red>THWOMB!</Red>

It only takes milliseconds for the tiny electrical current fired off from the remote detonator to activate the tube of C4 resting in the center of the parking garage pillar marked 2. At Sloan's intervention, the Brujah's plan is coming to fruition - and unfortunately for Sloan, he is caught right in the middle of the trap!

A powerful explosion of crackling air and bullet-like concrete erupts from the pillar, shattering the building's large and sturdy support like a high-calibre bullet through an apple. The raw explosive power behind the demolition placement hurls a mastiff-sized chunk of concrete into the head of the leaping Sabbat soldier! The hideous old bag woman has no time to scream before the heavy piece of debris impacts with her head, snatching up her rag-clothed body in the wave of kinetic force and slamming it against the concrete wall surrounding the elevator. Her body stops against the wall; the chunk of concrete does not, cracking the solid wall and crushing her skull like an aluminum can.

Sloan, on the other hand, feels the jagged shards of concrete penetrate his suit and dig painfully into his skin! Dust, smoke, and scathingly hot air blind his eyes, and the ground seems to lurch like an earthquake that sickens his stomache just before the force of the blast lifts his feet from the ground and sends him hurtling backwards, proving that explosives can make even a powerful vampire into a fragile porcelain doll. Sloan's limbs twist and curl in mid-air, thrown all about by the invisible wall that slams into him several times in one second, reverberating off of the crumbling parking garage walls! Everything moves in slow motion, any pain he might feel dulled by the resulting shock of what happened just by pressing a single button!

Cooler air quickly envelops Sloan's body...along with gravity. Though he cannot open his eyes, he can feel his head angling downwards; when no ground rushes up to catch him immediately, he realizes he has been flung out of the second story window by the blast, and is falling at breakneck speed towards the street below!

The building groans loudly in the explosion's aftermath. The shuddering moan echoes out over Alan Rick Park and for a few blocks.

With their respective leaders indisposed, the combatants in the parking garage are left to lead only themselves, adapting to the strategy that has been left for them.

For the gangs that have been brought here under Romeo's request, incited by his fiery tongue and street demon attitude, the gameplan is simple: beat the crap out of and/or kill any Jap or Latino that isn't wearing a red jacket or a black Traviesos tattoo. They came prepared for the battle, with sawed-off pool cues, brass knuckles, pocket/butterfly/combat knives aplenty, and even hot handguns taken from the household, lifted from a gunshop, or pawned off a slum lord's lackeys. At Stunts' direction, some of them even prepared molotov cocktails, which provided a major strategic advantage to the gangers as the white folk looking to cause their families trouble reacted with unexpected horror at the sight of those oily Greek fires.

However, they were not prepared for the violent reaction to the fire. They had not been expecting to feel a 5'6" man grab at them as if he were strong as a grizzly bear, or to chase him down in the crowd like he were an Olympic track runner. A handful of them were terrified when they saw the fangs; those handful did not survive long enough to tell anyone about them, let alone scream before their throats were torn out with a single bite. Those few gangers outside the garage with Stunts cannot see a thing through the thick black smoke billowing out of the building - they hear angry shouts, the screams of their comrades, and within thirty seconds, after a second volley of cocktails, their eyes are on Stunts, their resolve slowly crushing as they see not a single one of their ganger comrades exit the wall of smoke.

Laid to coughing, gagging, and swinging uselessly in the harsh, petrolic cloud, Romeo's gangers suddenly find themselves in a precarious situation. Clutching at their throat and wiping at their stinging eyes, they stumble through the smoke which glows orange still from the flaming van, tripping over bodies and slipping in pools of blood. Those who reach the windowless ports on the sides of the parking garage feel rough arms grab them, punch them, twist or break their limbs and then, strangely, thrust them back into the burning building! Those who follow the way the smoke is moving out the front encounter a wall of bodies too thick to penetrate, and are turned away by a harsh volley of kicks.

They are further taken by surprise when the entire building suffers a seizure following what sounds like a ten car pile-up with an exploding oil tanker on the floor above them. Many of them are thrown to the ground. Gagging or asphyxiating in the lack of air, the remaining gangers intentionally trapped inside the parking garage feel the concrete splitting beneath their fingers, beneath their flopping fish-like bodies.

Outside, Stunts and the few gang members there witness first a massive explosion that seems to completely demolish the side of the building facing the dark and shadowed park. Less than five seconds later, a second explosion rips through the opposite end of the building. They watch all ten stories rumble in and out of focus like a bad special effect in a made-for-TV earthquake drama.

But when a man-sized heap of bricks lands with a crash just ten feet away from them, and only a few away from Stunts, they suddenly realize that the entire building is collapsing!

No sooner do they realize the catastrophe about to topple around their ears than a contingency of their enemies come streaming out of the parking garage like a hoarde of mutant rats and cockroaches evacuating a building that has been standing long past its eviction date! The Brujah do not stop to fight; with the roving blue and red police lights filling up the end of the block, they are splitting up, breaking into trios, duets, or running solo in several different directions. Some weave their way into the concrete jungle, taking to the alleys. Others seek shelter in the shadows of the dense trees in Alan Rick Park.

No one exits the building behind them. Why?

Because no one was supposed to.

The Masquerade must be protected at all costs. If Romeo Valencio brings any forces to bear against us, they must not be left alive, no matter the death scale. They'll blame gang warfare. He took out Rex Harris. Now we're going to make him pay for it in spades. Black Jack did not have to speak those words: the agents he had contacting everyone for the rally did that for him.

Sloan O’Riley

It was odd how the impact of concrete with the head of the outwardly old Sabbati filled him with an odd sense of - satisfaction, even as his own body was hurled off his feet and tossed out as if it had no weight at all. Somehow it made the impact he would soon be fortunate enough to experience himself less scary than it was. He felt an odd sense of accomplishment. The question was - would he get to enjoy it?

Already being dead helped. But then, that had not helped the old lady much, had it. On the other hand the laws of physics were working against him. And though he had involuntarily cheated death for quite a stretch of time now this didn't look all too good for him.

Black Jack

Romeo’s staged appearance scatters debris and dust everywhere! A seemingly hapless Black Jack lifts leaps from the park’s sidewalk and onto the soft, wet grass, pivoting on his heel to face the hulking brute that seems to have leapt from the depth of space or the darkness of hell itself. Defensively, he puts his arms up over his face, in parallel horizontal lines. Through the tiny slot between his sinewy, rippling forearms, Romeo can see the glistening white of Black Jack’s eyes – not blocked from a hideous sight, but skillfully shielded from being blinded by the shower of shattered concrete.

“Lick,” Black Jack scowls darkly. In one swift whoosh of air, he drops his hands balled fists to his sides with a vampire’s unnatural speed. They settle into their war positions, one angled low and just to the right of his hip, poised to make a quick jab to the kidney or a fierce uppercut, while the other sits solidly in front of his chest like a shield. The hairs on that arm bristle with brute strength and resilience, ready to shield him from any blow Romeo could throw at him or to do any number of grappling maneuvers upon the headstrong Sabbat. “Rex Harris did not deserve to fall in combat to you. You are what Hollywood calls a one-hit wonder. Will you surrender now to the Prince’s justice, or do I have to prove to you just how worthless you are?”

Suspended in a state of sheer violence, Black Jack manages to keep it all in, ready to react to Romeo’s belligerency in the only way this affair can be settled. Speaking about the Prince’s justice brings a mordant, callous smirk to Black Jack’s lips. In truth, he would like nothing more than to tear Romeo’s head from his body for what he must have done to Rex after kidnapping him, but the Primogen is bound by the Traditions. But instead of letting them hamper him as a weight upon his back, he channels that frustration as a weight behind his murderous fists and his indomitable will, prepared to give this flavor of the night a true taste of what Kindred are capable of.

Romeo Valencio

With a ominous deviosu laugh, romeo replies, "HA-HA-HA-HA! That midget thought he could walk shoulder to shoulder with me, though he had some catching up to do. If you like my first smash hit, wait'll you get a load of the next one!"

And with that Ronmeo lunges towards the camarilla leader, looking to deal a decisive blow.

Sloan O’Riley

Having no clue what exactly happened to Black Jack or the others and feeling pain that did a good job at reminding him what happened inside Sloan got up to his feet as quickly as he could. Surprisingly enough he had survived. Bleeding, hurt - but still able to walk.

Luckily he knew most of the town, which would hopefully make it easier to get back to the prince without getting himself into much more trouble.

Trying to avoid everyone and everything in his way he started making his way back 'home'... So wound up in getting the news to the prince that he totally forgot about healing those wounds, for the moment.


--> To A Little Glass and a Touch of Class

Black Jack

Romeo Valencio is a madman and a deviant, Black Jack realizes, and when the massive black man charges him it is like a rhino galloping towards him on the veldt. Unlike a rhino, however, Romeo has two legs instead of four, and though they are thick as telephone poles, its his momentum that will bring him down.

And then I'll bring him down, Black Jack growls, rushing directly towards the Sabbat steamroller. When Romeo's giant hamfist rears back over his shoulder to deliver a jawbreaking haymaker, Black Jack squats low with his fingers gripping the grass and fires his right foot out in a sweeping arc!

Romeo wisely hops over Black Jack's arcing leg, avoiding being knocked to the ground by the Primogen's swift movement. If he cannot sweep Romeo off of his feet, Black Jack thinks, then he will give him a reason to submit to his superior combatant. Even if the Lick has to take his licks on the chin, from Black Jack's hard boot.

Continuing his Capoeira-like movement, he lets go off the grass, continuing and increasing the momentum with a pedal push of his foot; immediately afterwards, he hops up onto one foot and then into the air, bringing the same foot at Romeo again from the same direction - only this time, squarely on the jaw.

Romeo Valencio

Black Jakcs leg whirls around and the monster cannot, or doesnot dodge. Romeo knows what needs to happen. Too much blood, too little planned, the whole night is falling apart befor ehis eyes as that iron boot falls towards his face.

His pupils moves slightly, dilating, and he braces for the impact. This is the moment. Take the hit, then grab the louse.

WHAM

And the hit cascades over his head, down his body and the pain reverbertaes through his giant bones. The silence is as defening as the blow as Romeo utters a breif gasp frm the pain, his skull almost fracturing from the blow

Almost, as the pain subsides and the bruising sets in

Only bruising, but the silence, the pause after the blow, lasts forever

And the storm chuns inside Romeo, as the howling, that faint growl, and that hunger gnawing on his bones tries to fight its way through his body. Like a torrential tidal wave of destruction, it fights past the giant structure, and in a brief flash he remembers.

The boot knocked some sense and somehting oels eout of ROmeo Valencio that day, but it was only fleeting, the image of the carefully, though trietely, orchestrated carnage. Stunts, the gangs, the meeting, this was all it wa smeant to rise up for.

Then, the pressure collapsed. The fight that he may not win, the plan that is quickly falling apart, lack of planing and lack of execution, it was all to much for the great reach of the behemoth, and the only thing to do was lash out.

And there are no more words, only the muffled screams of those runnign for shelter and the hideous moan and yell and howl of the beast. Romeo has no pithy phrases, no more tauts, only blind rage in his reddening eyes.

And then those arms, like tree trunk, reach out to grab its nearest target, something full of blood or vitae or just plain something with a creamed filling.

Then sinews are twisted, puled, and tugged as Black Jack is caught in the grip of madness, and fear, and anxiety, and the pure embodiment of rage and a force of nature. Being tugged by a tornado of emotion and embraced in the deadening grip of a membe rof the damned hell bent on his pure destruction.

But Black Jack continues to struggle. He tries to rail and pull away from the storm. BUt then the gaping maw of madness descneds onto him. The fangs of Romeo plunging into his flesh.

And then, the fangs pull back, and rend Black Jack from arm to sternum, whol echucks flyinto the air, and blood flies around, and Black Jack's body is torn nearly in twain.

Time and space could have been rippe dopen by the steel trap jaws of life-ending that were Romeo's mad motions of acquiring sustinence. Precious blood everywhere and precious goods to not be wasted. He begins drinking deeply as Black Jack tries to fight in vain, even with his injuries, as Romeo's arms almost constrict tighte ron his target, and the embrace of black leather and furious force of nature smothers him even more.

Black Jack

Everything happened so fast.

No sooner is Black Jack reeling from the spinning kick that sent a shock up his leg as though his heel had connected with a brick wall than Romeo has his tree trunk arms around him. This is exactly how he took down Rex! is all the Primogen can think as he struggles to free himself, squirming against inhuman muscles that refuse to buckle and yield, even against his seasoned body. What could I have done? I had to get -

"Augh!" Black Jack howls as Romeo's grip tightens on him, making it nearly impossible for him to even struggle.

- I had to get close enough to subdue him, but he's just too strong! Too large. I can't break free!

Suddenly, Black Jack finds himself staring into the eyes of the Beast, and that sight is the only thing tonight that has called to his inner fear, both of the monster he has lurking inside of him and the one that has been called out to face him. These Sabbat, they never try to subdue their baser natures; they succumb and then destroy, to hell with the Masquerade.

Yes. To hell with the Masquerade. If it weren't for that and the rest of the Camarilla's laws, I would have killed this thing before he could even get his hands on me. Curse this bloody Kindred society! It doomed me and all the other Brujah to this inevitable end, and where is our help? Where is my aid when I need it most?

Black Jack shuts his eyes tight as he sees the bright whiteness of Romeo's fangs descending upon his throat. His mouth opens in a single silent scream, his own fangs bared: Hollywood!

The pain is more intense than Black Jack has ever felt as those penetrating ivory stakes pierce his throat and rip down to his shoulder, carving deep into his flesh as if it were a warm Christmas ham. Thick, pulpy blood wells to the surface and spills down his chest, all over the pavement, and literally coats Romeo's black face, making it seem somehow even darker. Somewhere after that, he feels it gushing out of his veins and into Romeo's voracious gullet, and the pain begins to subside into that dangerous lull he knows as the Kiss.

No, not like this. It wasn't supposed to go down this way, he thinks, just like Romeo.

"S...suck me," he manages to insult his captor through his paralyzing pleasure, unable to keep the soliptic happiness out of that damning imperative.

TI

Officer Brad Nesbitt tries to explain the situation to the senior officer on his shift after an army of squad cars come skidding down Rick Drive; policemen scatter into a scene that Brad can only describe as "pandemonium", one of those million dollar words that won his wife a Scrabble game the night before. In seconds, they've isolated what gangs were responsible for this tirade - the Traviesos and an Asian "blood" gang - but when Brad mentions that he saw older people, guys that looked like they were in the fifties and were dressed like small claims court lawyers or social workers and construction crewmen, the senior officer is at a loss for an explanation.

While he radios the strange conditions in, the rest of the squad fans out, heavy pistols in hand, chasing down the last fleeing refugees of this all-out battle that they can see. Smoke billows out of the side of the building, and the roar of flames can still be heard somewhere in the parking garage, now blocked out entirely by thick smoke.

The building issues one final, dying groan, and the police officers shout in terror! "She's coming down! Holy shit, get out of the way!"

Those few officers lucky enough to dive into their squad cars are peeling out of the way of the ten story building just as its major supports finally lose their ability to support its weight: there is a noticeable snap in the air, like that of a belt buckle breaking or the twine on a homemade swing set coming free of its column. Thousands of tons of old brick and plaster and glass and metal plumbing collapse inwards towards the center, an initial structural implosion before the whole mass crumbles into a black mound, a deafening thooom! and a cloud of dust, chalk, and hot ash-smoke sweeps over the block like a tsunami of sheer blindness!

The wave roils into the trees around Alan Rick Park, heading straight for the momentous battle between Black Jack and Romeo.

As Romeo is beginning to drink the lifeblood from Black Jack, he barely manages to hear something through his red haze; the taste of this elder primogen's vitae is so strong, so healthy, and so potent that it is all he can do to even make out the words.

"Let the hostage go or we'll shoot!"

Ever since the North Hollywood shootout, the LAPD has been a no-nonsense organization, responding to threat situations like this one with extreme prejudice - a prejudice that has, in fact, gotten them all into trouble before. Although Romeo is twice as big as Rodney King, he is just as black, and that means a possible PR mess for the police.

Six of them stand at the edge of the sidewalk, no less than ten feet behind Romeo and his captive, Black Jack. They cannot see what he is doing, but they know he has a hold of someone. Six heavy pistols are aimed at his back, each one manned by a sureshot police officer and an itchy trigger finger.

"Last warning! Let the hostage go or we'll shoot!" one of them barks, and the rest take aim squarely for Romeo's back.

Were it not for his frenzied state, Romeo might appreciate the irony of this predicament. After all, it was he who had called the police here in the first place...

The only reaction Romeo has is to hunch his shoulders and dig deeper into his prey, continuing to drink and sate his ravenous hunger. The police officers are like flies buzzing around his carrion supper, deserving little more than a swat with his tail if they get to close, while he gorges himself on the blood of his prey.

The Beast did not consider the flies' bite, though.

<Red>Blam-am-am-am-blam!</Red>

A volley of red hot slugs fly through the air at close range, piercing the flesh in Romeo's back and eating through his chest cavity just like he seems to be eating through Black Jack's throat!

The semi-automatic pistols click, ready for a second volley if this madman doesn't go down.

[Thee Independent]

Black Jack

But Romeo does go down. Black Jack, even in his overwhelmed state of pleasure, can feel the sudden burst of surprise and heat through Romeo's body as the LAPD guns fire, riddling the monster's back with pistol-calibre bullets.

Like the building, Romeo collapses inwardly; the drinking stops, and Black slides from his loosened grip like a rag doll. The Sabbat's back arches and then he falls to the concrete as well, leaving an earth-shattering boom that rivals the recent collapse of the building at the edge of the Park.

Black Jack can hear the officers shouting at him, yelling, "Are you alive?"

The Primogen doesn't lift a finger. He lays there like the corpse he is, feeling violated. Feeling beaten, bested and nearly killed by this monster lying no more than two feet from him. Right now, his own survival is paramount, and what little blood is left in his body is willed to subdue the wrenching pain throat his throat and down his shoulder. He wants to heal it up, but the damage is too deep, too unnatural.

"Call the paramedics!" another officers shouts, before he is cut off by a collective gasp of surprise from them all. "Cover, cover, cover!"

A delayed shockwave rumbles the ground as another section of the decimated building falls over. That noxious cloud of sawdust and brick chalk and poisonous smoke whisks over Black Jack's back like a hot gale, and as he tries to separate his senses from the lingering comfort of being in Romeo's arms, with his porcine hunger lapping up his lifeblood, he hears the officers choking and gagging on the cloud.

The Masquerade. I have to go. And I have to take Romeo with me...but in this crippled state, how can I find him, or hope to carry him out?

Completely blinded by the smoke, which refuses to settle even after half a minute, Black Jack stumbles around in the relative dark, grasping at the concrete, the grass, and the trees, kicking his feet around in the hopes that he can find Romeo's prone body and at last bring him in to the justice he deserves.

Though he doesn't deserve to be brought in by me, Black Jack thinks. He would have killed me if not for those mortals. Never thought I'd be cheering on the LAPD...

This is useless.

The Brujah's primogen collapses at the foot of a tree; he can hear the sound of police office radios and coughing off in one direction, the roar of a fire far behind him at the blast site, but his ears are numb and ringing with pain. The gaping hole in his neck and his should do not throb like that of nerve endings irritated by flowing blood, but instead it sizzles in the smoke, firing medusa tentacles of aggravating pain down his spinal cord.

And I'm running out of time.

Though the cloud was showing no signs of clearing, he knew that it would not take long for the police to find Romeo's body. And if that were brought in for examinations, the Prince would have Black Jack's hide in an instant.

"Jack...Jack, is that you?"

The bark is rough against his back; the Primogen slumps against the base of the trunk and stares out into the smoke to find the source of the voice. A person comes into view: curly head of hair, muscular shoulders, squat legs. He recognizes one of the senior Brujah at the rant, come charging into the smoke to find him.

"You're alive! Holy shit...what happened to you?"

Black Jack holds up his arm, setting his jaw against all of his pain and the onset of humiliation at his defeat. He still has the responsibility to lead, after all. "No time to explain," he mutters, his windpipe crackling. Splatters of blood dot his lips as he forces air up through his throat to speak. "Find Romeo before the police. Bring him."

"But what about you?"

"Leave me! You can't carry us both!" Black Jack orders, and the Brujah's shadow disappears into the smoke.

I had better get out, too. If they find me, that could be just as bad.

Lurching forward, Black Jack drags himself up to his feet and stalks across the grass.

Stunts Sproles

As the blinding smoke and debris rises over the entirety of the Park, Stunts Sproles jets in, hoping to find his Sire somewhere. Goddamn this is so fucked. Shit. Me and my crazy ideas. Fuck this shit. I should go home. Maybe. Damn that was cool.

Watchiggn the flashlights and the yells of the police, Stunts knows just where to step and how to avoid them. Shit damn the fucking cops are everywhere. You'd think they'd be at the wreck, but nooooooo. Lazy fuckers afraid to put their necks on the line.

Just then, wandering aimlesly, Stunts hits upon it. His foot connects with something big, like a giant stone, except this one is...
Hmmm.. *kick kick kick* Kinda squishy...

Bending down to get an idea of what he just hit, his eye slightly widen as he realizes the massive large potato sack in his way is actually...Romeo's body!

Trying to grab ahold of what he can, he begins riding his sire, "You know, you got a way with worrying us, man. Jesus, thought you'd flake on us..."

No response coming from his brutish Sire, he begins inquiring, If you're alive better stop playing games. I'll fuck your sister if you're not. Seriously, guy, come on, man....what'd happen to you?"

And thus Stunts Sproles begins his struggle of pulling the massive carcass to safety, "You know, most people are small and compact and can fit in the trunks of cars. You had to be all fucking big. Goddamn you. Come on, lets get you to someplace safe."

The sight is halfway comical, the caucasian youth dragging what seems to be a giant black trashbag. He struggles to get it to move. The body slides over the concrete, rubbing and scrapping away bits of flesh, the friction of the surface doing more damage almsot to Romeo's complexion than Black Jack did to him.

"I gotta find a car, then we'll be good to go. Where do you live, boy? You got a home? I'll show you my place, but it's full of pokemon and shit. Maybe I got a number somewhere, some guys to call..." the boy speaks to himself, trying his best to protect this only defender.

Muse

"Hey! He's over here!" A shout rises just over the raucous fire that is still rampaging amidst the ruins of the parking garage and soon two more Brujah rush to the struggling Primogen’s side. They exchange concerned looks as they see the gaping slash in Jack’s neck, but they also know better than to ask. Whatever went down is Black Jack’s business. One of them slides an arm under their leader’s armpit and supports him as the other looks around carefully for whoever might have done this to the Primogen. Unable to spot anybody through the angry smoke, he gives up and they help Jack vacate the area before the police spot them. Meanwhile, startled voices can be heard behind them as their other accomplice finds the police lost in the haze. There are a couple of gun shots, the sounds of struggling, then an entire round of gunfire and then the sound of running feet- one set.

By the time they reach the back of the park, their third member catches up to them, sporting a bullet wound in his calf, but still running well enough. “Move your asses!” He barks, commanding them not to wait for him as he sees the poor shape that Black Jack is still in, and then he turns right back the way he had come and tracks down a fresh body for their leader. He’ll need the blood tonight. By the time back-up arrives for the police, the only bodies left in the area are dead ones, including their own men that seem to have shot one another in the confusion and smoke. There are no white men left as proof that this was anything, but a gang war and Nesbitt is no longer around to testify to the oddity.

TI

Most of the debris smoke surrounding Alan Rick Park obscures Stunts as he drags his sire, the Freak of LA, over the sidewalks and along the street, searching desparately for some means of quick and easy escape.

Soon the smoke begins to glow blue and red. A swath of it clears briefly, giving Stunts a glimpse of an abandoned police car, emergency lights still rolling on the hood, with the driver's side door wipe open.

Stunts Sproles

Still pulling his fallen Sire, the childe of Romeo acts qucikly.

Well, as quickly as it would take nayone to drag about 300 lbs of dead weight with them. "Goddamn! You're a hevay bitch. Dad always liked fat chicks. I tell you that? Do you, like, eat your weight in cheetos everyday?"

Pulling and strainging to get the body to the driver's side of the vehicle, Stunts drops the hulking carcass outside the back seat door and checks to see if it is locked.

TI

The back door of the LAPD squad car pops open readily; the mechanism to lock it tight for a captive in the back is on the dash. The interior of the squad car smells musty, reeking from the number of winos, druggies, go-gangers and general nuisances that have been shoved sweaty and bleeding into the back of the car.

Radio chatter offers a distraction from the distant sounds out in the Park: short bursts of gunfire, then stillness, then an explosion from the crumbling building and the wail of faraway fire sirens.

"486...486...tag number Y102L7S. Pursue with caution..."
"Possible gang war and terrorist activity, Alan Rick Park. Feds contacted. All available dispatches to Rick Drive."

Stunts Sproles

Stunts just mutters a bit more quietly to himself as he tries to pull ROmeo's giant body into the backseat, "yeah, no shit. that's my work, thank you. fucking pigs. I swear *argh!* you gotta lose some weight big guy."

when he loads Romero's body finally into the car, Stunts searches for a way to start the car, thinking to himself, Of course I won't find the key. I gotta start hotwiring I guess...

TI

Unfortunately for Stunts, the squad car was not left running after the officer left the vehicle. There was a time when LA gang bangers used to rely on that carelessness to help them break from the scene of a crime that's been busted, but the LAPD's gotten smarter since the North Hollywood shootout and much more careful about more than just racial matters in the wake of Rodney King.

"You knew this is what you were getting into when you passed the tests, rookie," Senior Officer Marshall Grad tells his green shadow officer, a college drop-out looking to do something noble with his life. The cops and the firemen of New York City got a lot of recognition during 9/11, but in LA, equally terrible things seemed to happen and the police never came out looking like heroes. "But honestly, we ain't seen nothin' like this in fifteen years. I'll tell you now before the Commish tells you - no press talks. If anyone sticks a camera or a mic in your face, you got nothin' to say, hear? Just doing your job. Let our PR bastards handle it."

Grady stops short on heading to his vehicle when he notices the shadow of someone in the driver's seat and the sound of the engine running! "What the hell...?"

Stunts Sproles

The first things Stunts is sure to do is smash the GPS system. As the dcop notices the shadowry figur einto the driver's seat, the green shovel-head curses to himself, "Don't want no special guests, though I'd sure as hell miss the chase. Sorry pigs, I got important shit to do."

The GPS breaks easily under the Brujah's grasp and he begins getting into the wiring of the vehicle. The casing underneath the wheel rips just as easily as the system broke, allowing Stunts Sprles easy access to tearing and wiring anything he needs. Making light of the situation, he adsently says, "I bet Leiver would love for me to wire his shit up so his hydrolics would bounce his happy ass ATLEAST 5 feet. Now that'd be fucking cool, huh, man?"

The car rubmles to life as the wiring takes effect, and STunts lets out a relieved cry of euphoria, "Well hot DAMN!", befor ehe closes the driver side door and hits the gas making his escape nearly flawless, if not for the cops trying to chase after him. Yet, unable to resist even his actions from his youth, he smashes the driver side window to stick his hand outside and gives the two cops a brief show of "the bird".

TI

"He's getting away! Stop him!"

Officer Grad draws his police-issue pistol and takes aim at the wheels of his own squad car! He fires off two shots, but both erupt into black dust against the asphalt! His trainee jumps to and removes his own gun afterwards, firing a single shot which tags the license plate with a shower of sparks. But the squad car squeals down Rick Drive, headed for the main thoroughfare.

"Son of a bitch," Grad curses, watching the driver's side window explode and a hand extend giving them the middle finger. "Wouldja lookit that?"

"Central," he says into his radio. "Code Blue Nineteen. Number One Four Two. Repeat. Number One Four Two!"

The typical Los Angeles traffic admits Stunts to drive twenty miles over the speed limit without a fuss, a modern-day Moses parting the sea of red sportscars. Romeo's body is motionless and silent in the backseat. There was hardly enough blood in his body to cause him to leak like a sieve from the multiple gunshots wounds to the back; when Stunts cuts a sharp corner, Romeo's thick head collides with one of the rear doors.

Code Blue Nineteen. Patrol Car One Four Two reported stolen. Car One Four –

Just as the police radio starts to transmit a message from the Dispatch Office, it abruptly collapses into hissing dead air. They've pulled the car's radio frequency off the broadcast, leaving Stunts completely cut off from the words of his pursuers.

Wisely, Stunts maneuvers the squad car easily off the speedy freeway and enters the outskirts of Central Hollywood; after sitting traffic for a minute or two at the off-ramp light, he's able to turn down to the left and cruise beneath the shadows of the highrise interstate, its large concrete legs sweeping by intermittently. Down here, he just appears to be one more pig on patrol in the dark, making sure there's no gang activity going on too close to the tourist areas.

Eventually the makeshift alley dumps him onto a street near a valet parking lot for a major hotel, the Ramada. Young, smartly dressed valets rush back and forth through the parking lot, plucking trusted keys out of their pockets to park and return the guests' cars.

Stunts Sproles

Stunts mind reels a second as he thinks, "Okay, cop car, valets. Valets have car keys...Valets don't usually let punks with dead black men in their back seat park cars, or give away free ones. Alright...how to move this carcass, get a car, and generally get away scott free. Kipnapping? Nah, but maybe beating some keys out of one of those kids like a pinata..."

Stunts sproles parks the car int eh alley, hoping to keep it hidden form the kids. As moves around the the passenger door, though, and tries to pry the limp body of the massive Romeo outof the vehicle, and tries to find a way to keep it hidden, easily accessible, and quite moveable as he prepares for his next daring act of vandalism.

TI

The alley behind the hotel is littered with empty or shattered pocket bottles of liquor that can be bought for a couple of bucks at just about any LA convenience store. The vague, warm-oregano smell of marijuana still lingers in the air, evidence that the alley is a popular "breakroom" for overworked and underpaid valets. There is a large green dumpster, surrounded by bundles of stacked black trash bags loaded with garbage that has yet to be hauled away.

Out in the parking lot, the valets continue to run back and forth. One of them is driving an uncovered pickup truck slowly through the lot, trying to hunt down a free parking spot before having to drive it up into the nearby storied parking garage.

Stunts Sproles

Stunts just looks slightly exasperated as he thinks of what to do. Great. Dumpster.

He keeps a wary eye on the pick up truck, or even anything allowing a quick ditching of this fat giant's carcass into the backseat of something, anything. Goddammit, if only I could jimmy rig a trap door or something. Catapult. Catapults work. Launch this fat ass all the way across town with this.

So, Stunts Sproles parks his car and quickly gets out to move the body of Romeo into the dumpster.

TI

With insufficient materials to build a catapult in the alleyway behind the hotel, Stunts is forced to consider cannier solutions to his problem. After waiting a few minutes in the alley while Romeo's body gathers the stench of discarded Chinese takeout and office White-out, a valet pulls into the lot with a sporty green convertible. The vehicle crawls down the lots towards the alley, as the young valet with an unimpressive bowl cut tries to find a place to put the vehicle.

Stunts Sproles

Stunts Sproles eyes catch the vehicle as he internally oohs over the green exterior, with much sarcasm dripping from his thoughts. Green...jesus

TI

A sudden corona of elevated bass bursts out of the green convertible, shaking the rotten butterflies in Stunts' dead stomach.

Shake dat ass!

No longer quite as concerned with finding an immediate parking space and instead enjoying the owner's sound system and slightly outdated taste in music, the valet lifts his hand in the South Central greeting style and bobs his head.

"Watch yoself!" he sings along with the music, unable to hear anything other than the music.

Stunts Sproles

"Watch yoself!" he sings...

The speed which stunts sproles rushes into the vehicle is break neck for a huamn being, and eough to shatter the glass of the vehicles window. Just emerging from the alley way, he easily catches the slow moving vehicle on foot, and raises his hand in anger towards the metal carriage. His teeth clench and his hair lies back as he approaches his target, and readies for a single motion.

The sound of the glass is not just a fracturing, crunch, or the sick sound of meat against a solid object, but a full blown ear piercing shattering. As the glass of the driver's window explodess against the kid's face, some shards of the fracturing pane also stick themselves in Stunts Sproles now razor cut forearm.

The bass echoes annoyingly through Stunt's ears as he stomachs the sound, tyring to wrap his hand around the man's collar, yelling callously towards the kid, his face just inches from his ear, "Back that ass up!"

TI

"Ha...ha...ha, shit!"

The canvassed roof of the convertible rips as Stunts grabs the kid by the collar of his dress shirt and jerks the skinny lad straight out through the window of the car!

Wham! His back collides with a nearby car, putting a nasty dent in the unprotected door, and he slides to the ground, grimacing in pain and waving his hands in front of his face as he tries to scramble to his feet. "God, no! Take the car, whatever! Don't kill me!"

The valet doesn't get paid enough to risk his neck for doing what most people are too lazy or too important to do themselves.

Stunts Sproles

Flippantly dismissing the kid, Stunts sproles springs into the vehicle and replies, "That's exactly what I'm going to do." before speeding off in the vehicle...and stopping a shrt distance away.

Humming the star spangled banner to himself, because he just needs to ease his nerves, he begins digging through the trash container, trying to find the limp corpse of Romeo Valencio. "Okay chief, where are ya? I got us a sweet ride, and then we can visit a bud of mine. You'll love him. He has soft cushions for beds. It'll be great."

TI

Romeo might agree that he coulds use a few soft cushions to make the discomfort of several metal slugs in his back go away, but he's quiet as a corpse - a state of being Stunts isn't used to him being in.

As soon as the car takes off into the alley, the valet is on his feet and running.

Minutes later, the valet runs back into the back parking lot with his supervisor and a contingent of other rubber-necking valets. "He...he jumped out of that alleyway and then takes the guy's car! It wasn't my fault."

The supervisor checks the alley and sees the abandoned police car. "Hmmm...well, the cops are on their way and they can sort it out. Guess I'm gonna have to break the news to the owner, though. Shit."

[Thee Independent]

Dietrich Wallace

West Compton Mobile Home Park

The green convertible's wheels grind when they leave the clean asphalt turf of the suburban road and bump onto the beer can-littered dirt road that circles the West Compton Mobile Home Park.

The nomad life is the best life, Stunts can remember Dietrich Wallace quoting to him once before while he and a mutual companion, a shovelhead from the East Side, went for a joyride down to San Diego. The shovelhead knew Dietrich from a territorial dispute over this very Mobile Home Park, a dispute that ended when Dietrich agreed to "eat out" down the block, in the poor neighborhood, rather than right in his backyard, as long as he could remain in his comfortable mobile home.

He has since gone back to feeding from his beer-sotted neighbors due to the fact that the shovelhead, their mutual acquaintance, met a nasty end after running afould of the previous Camarilla Sheriff.

Stunts pulls up in front and notices the blinds on the mobile home window snap closed. Shortly afterwards, the mobile home door slides open, but the bug screen on the outside stays in place.

"Hey...is that you, Guy?" Dietrich's voice calls out from behind the screen trepidaciously. "Nice new wheels..."

Stunts Sproles

Stunts gets out and slams the door, turning to Dietrich and responds, "You should see the leather interior."

He walks up to give the guy a shake as he says, "Got some holes in it, and a few cigarette burns. Been shot up a bit, and there's a leak I think. Wouldn't be a problem if the dog'd stop shedding on the cushions. I need some help carrying it in. It broke out of its cage."

When he gets around to the passenge rsid eof the back door, Stunts drops his act and says, "Dietrich, I ain't shitting you, I got a problem."

Dietrich Wallace

"That's what dogs do," Dietrich offers, taking a swig from a bottle wrapped in brown paper sack. He makes a sour beer face and licks his lips unpleasantly afterwards. "Big dog, too. God damn, what is it, a mastiff?" he tries to peer through the window before Stunts drops the act and puts it to him straight.

Immediately, Dietrich nods and leans down to peer fully in through the window. After getting an eyefull of Romeo sprawled on the backseat, he steps away and scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, yeah, I see what you mean. Uh...pull around back," he gestures towards the side of the mobile home facing the crumbling wooden fence. "When we're all inside, you can tell just what the hell's going on, but..."

Dietrich stops and looks around the trailer park nervously. He starts as though he spies the movement of a shadow in the distance, and then shakes his head, brushing it off. "Never mind, I'll tell you later."

*******

"Whattya know? The Freak of LA, right here in my house. Passed out on my living room couch," Dietrich observes, hands on his hips as he stands next to Guy in the sitting room of the mobile home, the ceiling less than a foot from the top of their heads. "What the hell happened to him? He looks like shit."

Since the Freak is out of earshot, relatively speaking, Dietrich bravely adds, "More than usual, I mean."

Stunts Sproles

Slightly relieved that the situation is quietly being brought to a close, Stunts laughs, cautiously, and deliberately, as he says, "You should see the other guy. Really. I didn't get a good look at him."

Then he begins recounting for Deitrich, or as far as Dietrich should be concerned, "You heard about the riot, huh, the little gang war 'tween the B's and C's? Well, The big Dog was trying to work his trade, whatever something that big wants to do, when those bluebirds came flying in and started wrecking shit. I tell you man, t'was a war zone out there. He got his black ass shot straight to shit."

Pausing suddenly, Stunts' voice drops to dire seriousness as he asks, "We gonna keep this 'tween us right man? You know this guy, he's my daddy. No shittin'. I ain't be here if not for that big mother fucker. I'm playing you straight on that one. S'why I can trust you, man."

Dietrich Wallace

"Yeah, I heard something about it. Heard it spilled over real bad in Alan Rick Park, where the two of 'em knocked down that old eyesore apartment building. Kids'll have more sunshine in the park now, I guess," Dietrich grimaces, pacing into the kitchen of the mobile home, just a few steps away from Stunts. He stops in front of the window over the kithchen sink and wriggles his finger in between the closed blinds, pulling them down and peeking through to the outside, suspiciously.

"Oh, it'd be between us, Guy," Dietrich says absently, closing the blinds and lingering on the dirty linoleum, stained with what looks spilled Merlot. "But...aw, hell, man, you've got shit for timing, you know that?"

Stunts Sproles

Having a seat on a ratty looking chair that maybe could be misconstrued as being leather, or perhaps more appropriately a highly degradable non-leather substitue, stunts cups his hands, laying his elbows on his knees, making sure to keep his eyes following on Dietrich's movements as the man wanders around the trailer. "Whassup wit'chu, now?"

Dietrich Wallace

Two children in ratty PJs run shrieking from a trailer across the cul-de-sac from Dietrich's, up well past their bedtime. Their cries cause him to jump and peek out the window again before he shakes his head and answers Stunts.

"Bad stuff. Very, very bad. O Neg has flipped his lid, I swear to God," the Anarch admits, knowing that he can speak very freely with Stunts. "A month ago, some hardcase walked into the junkyard and wanted to talk privately to O Neg. Next thing I know, he's organizing a fucking raid party, and I get pulled into the whole mess. I'm terrible with guns, and I hate military bullshit, so I got stuck holding a radio last night while this asshole and these Anarchs, Anarchs who used to be sensible people, fucking..."

Dietrich pauses and glances around the room.

"...Guy, we kidnapped the Prince's childe, Veronica Mayfield. You know the one I'm talking about? Nice ass, pretty face, real model material? We snatched her right out of the train she was coming back from Phoenix on, during that storm. You heard about it, right? Shit's been on the news all day."

Dietrich gets up and starts pacing around the trailer. "But I screwed up, man! I...I knew what we were doing wasn't safe. I didn't trust the circumstances, I didn't trust that, that guy! Stefan. Yes, that's his name. I didn't trust him at all, and I just know he's found out I desserted his team by now. I don't know if he knows where I live, but I know he's going to come after me. That's just how he is. Always has that look in his eyes like he's going to rip your guts out with his fucking tongue..."

Stunts Sproles

Stunts rolls his eyes, a tone of exasperation escapes his mouth, and he tilts his head back in frustration, knowing his night just got considerably worse. "Fuuuuuuuuuuck."

Pointing towards Dietric, Stunts Sproles says accusatorially, "You, my friend, are a shit magnet."

Stting down in the chair, he tries to help Dietrich come to grips with the impossability of his situation by saying, "Look at me. I mean, damn, I figured I had it rough. That giant sack of rotting meat is my daddy, cammies hanging over my head, Sabbat three steps near me thanks to my association with The Freak, and now i hear O Neg is pulling this crap with some boy toy named Stefan. I can't catch a fucking break. Know what I did when I was a kid and the shit hit the fan? I played with fire. Sucks to be a vampire, now.

Point being made, since when have any of us anarchs been a team? Shit we're all just hanging out cause we don't wanna join either fucking side. Doesn't mean we can't do our own shit. Not as if O Neg is the guy that sets which way my sails are pointed. Get what I'm saying? S'no different than when you came into this world, man. This shit's between O Neg, Stefan, and the Cams. Ain't nothing to do with you anymore, and if this bastards got such a hard on for you, then he's really got his priorities messed the fuck up if he thinks some anarch's gonna be a monkey wrench in his grand designs. He'll get his ass smoked soon enough when the Prince-cess knows he's got his daughter."

Looking up to Deitrich, Stunts inquires after his momentary tirade, "Who is this fucker anyway?"

Dietrich Wallace

"We'll all have our asses smoked when the Prince finds out about this," Dietrich corrects Stunts quickly. "This was like his favorite bitch, I swear to God, and this just gives him the excuse he's been looking for to burn down the city and finally be rid of us. God damn modern day Nero!"

Realizing the reference is probably lost on Guy, Dietrich answers. "I don't know who Stefan is. One night, everything's going like it always did, and the next night, this creep walks into our garage yard like he owns the place. How he even knew we were there, I don't know. He asks to see O Neg, and then I see him steppin' up into the guy's trailer to talk. And then I'm on the team to kidnap this Veronica Mayfield chick, Stefan's training Navy SEALs here, and we're just turning up the heat on the whole pressure cooker!"

Dietrich continues pacing up and down in his mobile home. "The guy knows so much about what the Cammies are doing and where they're going that I think he must be one of them. Or was one of them. I'd have asked him straight up, but...he gives off a vibe, man. Like he could stop your heart with a thought. I see him watching the skies all the time, even when its cloudy, like he's waiting for something bad to happen. Like he knows its going to happen."

Stunts Sproles

Stunts tries to reassure his friend as he says, "Look, okay its fucked up, but how is Stefan going to find you anyway? And, if this shit gets turned up as hot as you say its going to be, how's Nero supposed to turn the heat up on us. Who knows how much of anarch nation will fall on his head. I keep telling you, you're small fry. Ain't nothing gonna happen."

Dietrich Wallace

"Let's just hope you're right."

A silverware drawer rattles as Dietrich pulls it out by the handle, dumping the contents onto the kitchen counter. Various kitchen knives scatter across the tabletop, and he begins sorting them out by size and sharpness, dumping the lame butter knives directly back into the drawer. The largest and the sharpest blades take up a special spot to his right, on the edge of the counter, where afterwards he picks them up and begins walking around the mobile home, stuffing them under cushions, behind the ironing board, and in the dry soil of a dead potted plant.

"Stefan's gotten the hearts and minds of a few loyal Anarchs, and they might turn me over. So I'm being smart and getting things prepared until I find a convenient way to get the hell out of LA before the shit storm really picks up. So you and the..."

Dietrich hovers over Romeo and waves his hand over the brute's face. He gets no reaction, and continues speaking, albeit softer.

"...the Freak need a place to crash for the day? This place is good as any. I got some good cardboard to put over the windows out here. He can stay there. I ain't keen on movin' him," he points to Romeo. "And you can have the tub, if you want it, or the floor in my room."

Stunts Sproles

"Let's just hope you're right."

A silverware drawer rattles as Dietrich pulls it out by the handle, dumping the contents onto the kitchen counter. Various kitchen knives scatter across the tabletop, and he begins sorting them out by size and sharpness, dumping the lame butter knives directly back into the drawer. The largest and the sharpest blades take up a special spot to his right, on the edge of the counter, where afterwards he picks them up and begins walking around the mobile home, stuffing them under cushions, behind the ironing board, and in the dry soil of a dead potted plant.

"Stefan's gotten the hearts and minds of a few loyal Anarchs, and they might turn me over. So I'm being smart and getting things prepared until I find a convenient way to get the hell out of LA before the shit storm really picks up. So you and the..."

Dietrich hovers over Romeo and waves his hand over the brute's face. He gets no reaction, and continues speaking, albeit softer.

"...the Freak need a place to crash for the day? This place is good as any. I got some good cardboard to put over the windows out here. He can stay there. I ain't keen on movin' him," he points to Romeo. "And you can have the tub, if you want it, or the floor in my room."

Dietrich Wallace

"Sounds like a plan. I'll make myself scarce as early as possible. Maybe I'll go get a motel room tonight. And if anyone shows up here looking for me..."

Dietrich thinks about it for a moment, and then pulls a .45 out of the plastic garbage can beneath his kitchen sink. "I don't live here anymore. I skipped town. That sound good?"

Stunts Sproles

Stunts grabs the little gun, checks it out before he shuffles it into his own pants and replies, as calmly as he try, "Cool, thanks man. I won't forget this."

TI

++++++++Night 4 - Thursday++++++++

Romeo Valencio

The images of the night prey on him, needle him in the cold darkness of his skull, can almost mock him, too, if not for certain facts.

And the scenes of mayhem and carnage replay, ever so sightly, as if it were a continuous loop rattling his brain. There's the fires, the gangs, the shootings, the people as they melt away into the background in either a haze or a liquidy plop against the stone wall of his cold dead heart. And there's that one scene, over and over, the screeching, yelling, and howling of a mad man, lost in his rage, arms wrapped tight, squeezing the life from its vitim. The wild eyes that cast an ominous shade of red within the black sunken sockets of his head, and the limp body of Blackjack in the middle of his vice like grip. His fangs bear down and the space tears asunder, revealing the oblivion left in his wake, and the scenes replay over and over, and the heart of blackjack beats silently in his head and he knows he didn't finish the job.

Still faint, he hears its thunderous pulse. Romeo's mind, animalistic, knows when fear is in the air, and the terror he transmitted to the camarilla fires his synapses into the coming evening. His eyes blink and he adjusts to the new surroundings.

Stunts Sproles wakes up soon as well, hiding in the bathromm lest he be hit with a refirgerator or some other large appliance. Strangely, he awakens to silence. As he counts the seconds briefly, he begins walking slowly out of the bathroom, to check his sire this eveing. And he sees the behemoth, sitting up in the couch, the furniture bending under his weight, and the monster spots his protege, and with a simple word, inquires as to the events after he blacked out last night, "Talk"

Where to begin? His voice seems even more tuderous than bfore, and Stunts Sproles reflexively swallows, alowing himself a brief moment of silence befor ehe begins, "We had to lie low for the rest of the evening, the pigs gunned you down, and I had to drag you across town to here"

And Romeo's massive brow arches, as he asks, deliebrately, and mencingly, "Is Blackjack dead?"

And the only way the neonate knows to reply is, "I don't know...we lost you two in the fog. Then, I found you lying on the ground..."

And the rage almost takes him over as the massive frame juts up, and standing in his all his intimidating glory he responds, "I fucking WASTED him, and you don't even have a damn body! Little wigger this isn't a time to mess with my head, answer me IS...BLACKJACK...DEAD?

Outside, the trailer park is semi serene, for whatever the confines of such structures of decay can convey as serenity, though the peace is broken, as a couch flies throught he wall of one trailer in particular, and a blast of air gushes into the night scene. Romeo howls with righteous fury as he jumps out of the trailer, and begins ranting into the night, "I'LL KILL HIM! YOU HEAR ME! AIN'T A MOTHERFUCKER INNA WORLD'S GONNA SAVE YOUR ASS LITTLE MAN! I'MMA GONNA BANG YOUR HEAD INTO A WALL AND AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN! I'LL SHOW ALL A YALL WHO'S THE MEANEST FUCKER OF THEM ALL!"

Stunts tries running outside, covering his head for anything flying near him as he yells, "Shit! Shit! Boss! Calm down! You're gonna wake the neighbors!"

The hysterical giant begin pacing back and forth, over the grund,a nd h waks, circling the trailer he just erupted from, yelling, GONNA BEAT YO ASS OVER THE HEAD WITH THIS PIECE OF GARBAGE RIGHT HERE! I'LL GO WALKING DOWN HOLY AND VINE, THIS BIG PIECE A METAL IN MY ARMS, AND I'M GONNA SWING IT AGAINST THE FIRST SONNABITCH COMES IN MY WAY! SEND HIS ASS ALL OVER INTO THAT FUCKIN SIGN! YOU HEAR ME YOU LITTLE TROLL! I'M COMING FOR YOU WITH SOME HARDWARE!

Stunts tries to inteject himself, doing anything to stop the raging storm whirling its way through the park, "Boss, we believe you, really, but we gotta get to SD tonight!"

Then his eyes settle on his only hilde, as his rage builds more and he swings and flails wildly, "OOOOOOOOOOH LITTLE WIGGA! YOU GONNA TELL ME WHAT TO DO! FUCK THEM! FUCK THEM RUNNING! I'M DOING THEIR DAMN JOB! THEY WANNA SPEAK TO ME, THEYLL HAVE TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF BODIES! THOSE NIGGAS CAN KISS MY BLACK ASS 'FORE I STOMP A BOOT STRAIGHT DOWN THEIR JAW! THEY'RE NEXT TOO!"

Romeo's meaty hands find their way to a piece of metal debris on the grund, and he picks it up. Still lost in his tirade he flings the piece straight at his childe's head, only Stunts has enough time to duck, and turn to see the piece blast its ways through the next trailer. In fear and shock Stunts utters, "SON OF A BITCH! Romeo, calm the fuck down!

He can't hear the pleadings of Guy Sproles, his screeds and rages drowning out all within earshot as more debris flies in the air, and the thunderous yelling continues, "I'LL CALM THE FUCK DOWN WHEN WE GRAB THOSE TWO FUCKERS I WASTED AND SEND THEIR BODIES STRAIGHT TO THE SD! GET A FUCKING CAR BITCH! WE'LL GO DOWN THERE SO I CAN PERSONALLY SHIT ON THOSE HUSKS RIGHT IN FRONTA THOSE DAMN SABBIT WHORES! SHIT SO NASTY FLIES STEEER CLEAR OF IT! NOW! CAN YOU DIG THAT LITTLE WIGGA OR DO I GOTTA SPELL IT OUT FOR YA!"

Sabbit? Atleast he's getting on the same page...

Stunts tries to reason with his sire, "Alright, no problem, lets get those two bodies and we can get on the way to SD. I'll drive...okay?"

Calming slightly, Romeo replies in the affirmative, "Thas fine little man. You can steer. I'll ride gun"

Dietrich Wallace

A few hours later...

Dietrich Wallace, after putting himself up for the day at the Holiday Inn down the street, walks casually through the trailer park from the street sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his jeans and bushy brown hair disheveled from sleeping comfortably on hotel pillows in the bath tub. A single squad car is parked at the end of his row, causing the Anarch to grimace.

Another domestic disturbance call, no doubt, he muses, swiveling his eyes around the corner before turning it, a nervous habit he'd developed since long before his involvement in a dirty crime against the Camarilla's Prince. Probably came home from security detail early again to find his honey getting macked by that kid across the lot. I wonder if he actually broke her face in this time, or just roughed her up, per usual?

But the crowd down the dirty walkway looks too large to be a simple battery or noise violation call. Residents that he recognizes as his neighbors have set up lawn chairs and beer coolers, talking to a single officer who is taking statements from witnesses. Hoping to slip by largely unnoticed, Dietrich begins to head towards his mobile home...

...until he realizes his home is the focal point of everyone's excitement.

Dread congeals into a liquid ice in his guts, staring at the gaping hole in the side of his vehicle, the corrugated metal looking completely thrashed. Tufts of stuffing and vinyl litter the walkway, and he gasps at the sight of his couch lying upside down against the adjacent trailer's front door.

"Oh my God oh my God!" he whispers, pulling at the loose tee, ratty tee shirt. One of his fingers rips a new hole in the seam around his armpit. "Holy shit!"

Everything is destroyed. His safety and privacy were compromised. Panicking on the spot, Dietrich's mind races to the only conclusion he can find in the midst of his fear and confusion.

Stefan! He...he found me, came for me...blew my place apart with explosives! I have to go! He's still here somewhere, I know it! Aaaah!

"Hey! Hey, you there! I need to talk to you!"

The voice drags Dietrich out of his frozen state to look at the uniformed police officer, pointing a pen in his direction and waving him over. "Is this your RV?"

Everyone's eyes are on Dietrich, swivelling in their folding chairs to look at him from a distance.

"Hey! Just come here, I want to talk you!" the officer calls again, turning his pace into a steady trot towards Dietrich.

"No," Dietrich shakes his head. "No!"

A ghoul? Of Stefan's? A loyalist? Where are they? Jesus, maybe they're watching me right now!

Forcing his dead muscles into phenomenal action and speed, the Anarch bounds from his sessile spot at the end of the dirt road and sprints for the edge of the RV Park, his eyes on the copse of shadowy trees over the wooden fence. The officer shouts and gives chase, but he can't keep up with one of the undead. By the time the policeman rounds the corner, he sees the tail end of Dietrich's flapping shirt tail vaulting over the fence and into the thick underbrush outside the park. He radio's backup for pursuit, knowing that the trail will probably be cold by the time anyone shows up.