Jasons' Notes on New Orleans

Jason's Statistics

(Notes: First person account of Jasons' nights in New Orleans)

Mardi Gras 2001:

Arrival

Son. Of. A. Bitch. I got a wickedass hangover, bear with me.

So it starts with an 8 hour flight from Rio. Okay, fine. Then, the "Your luggage has been diverted to terminal" schtick, which really didn't set off any alarms until I was about to walk into it. Brenda felt it too, which is good. Confirmation of "Oh Shit." Then Amateur Hour breaks out as 4 people with crossbows and silenced submachine guns come out of the maintenance doors. Their plan was apparently trademarked by Rambo, as they went full auto instantly.

Kids these days, I swear. That said, even though their fire discipline was nonexistent, they did have the tactical advantage in that they were wearing body armor and some other swift gear. More importantly, they had guns and we didn't.

Acquiring luggage became less important then acquiring a gun, and so I did posthaste. The armed rentacop (!) was polite enough to buy my story, and handed me his hand cannon, along with 6 extra rounds. Haul ass back, and Brenda's in trouble. (Last sentence for the sake of completeness, and not due to this being something new that's never happened before.) So, a little celerity, a little blood, and 2 rounds later, two of the four assailants are having a Very Bad Day. That's what fire discipline does for you, boys and girls. Maybe I should have aimed for a less vascular area. Knee cap or something like that. They died, and that's...yeah. Can't let that happen again.

Regrettably, in the midst of all this, I forgot not one but two cardinal rules. Rule 1: Do not admire your shooting accuracy until there's no more shooting. Rule 2: All Incoming Fire Has The Right Of Way. Having forgotten those two rules, my world went lights out.

Second verse, not the quite same as the first

I wake up, we're in our hotel. Brenda was smart enough to collect their weapons, though given a second chance, I would have definitely preferred to have looted their bodies a bit more. Body armor would have been nice. And again...going down a path I don't want to go. This isn't D&D, this is real life. I am still a man (albeit supernatural), with regard for another man and his right to live. Sure there's times when you have to kill. I'm not comfortable with thinking otherwise.

That said, I'm digressing a bit. Dim thinking needs to be set aside. Turns out I'm wearing new clothes, and under then is a suit with 6 bullet holes in it. 500 bucks down the drain. See, here's the problem with being short - I can't just waltz into the damn haberdashery and ask where the Hobbit Formalwear is. They gotta measure, take it in, all that junk. I heal, but my suits...not so much. Thankfully, I have spares. Wash the combat out, heal a few wounds and wait for Brenda to wake up. Meanwhile, close examination of the weapons used leads me to a bar and someone named Ray making arrangements for the ambush 2 days ago. This is an interesting fact to me because we didn't get that much lead time. So someone knew we were coming before we did. Conclusion One: We've been profiled from a psych standpoint. Someone knows what buttons to push to get us here. Conclusion Two: We're either being targeted or tested. I lean toward tested; there were multiple opportunities to simply eliminate us - the crossbows courtesy of the Marx Brothers Machine Gun Funtime Bunch indicate orders for a nonlethal takedown. Possibility: The art bait that got us here is simply bait. Someone else wants us here for another purpose. Said purpose must encompass either our skills or our past. Hopefully I haven't pissed anyone off. Well, excessively.

A bar in the less awesome part of town. Still, looking good is first on the list, so a second suit comes out. We head for the bar, minimal grumbling. Just in case there is a gunfight, I bring a gun. Mama Maier drowned the stupid ones. Ask the bartender where Ray is, and it's like people want to fight right away. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Two days in town, two fights - this town is doing very little to endear itself to me. They have pool cues, I have a hand cannon. One "This is my boomstick" moment and suddenly the primitive screwheads want to fight me far less. A little beer and a little talking, sounds like Ray's from up north. In the midst of this the electricity goes out. Fuck me gently yet again. I dive under the pool table. The Redneck Pool Table. The Redneck Pool Table with sawdust, beer, ancient chewing tobacco spit, and other things that make me ill. Suit #2 trashed. I shoulda asked for a bigger per diem, my dry-cleaning bill is going to be astro-fucking-nomical. I'm ducking, burning through a little more blood, and the bar lights up with Molotov goodness. Brenda's outta there like her ass is on fire - literally, I think it was on fire. Me, I'm away from the flaming spirits, so I take the opportunity to maybe grab a bite. That went over about as well as Betamax, as the guy didn't wanna get bit. Fancy that. Still, I managed to chase him down and get enough to take the worst of the edge off. And following Brenda. I find her clothes, and an hour later I find her. Back to the hotel to clean up yet again, and this time the suits are staying in the suitcase. Dressing down, and we're on a blood-crawl.

Maybe this town isn't so bad after all, at least during this time of year. It's easier then fishing with dynamite. I managed to heal all the damage, get some extracurricular activity in, and we closed down the bar with my new best friend...whatever his name was. He could chug like Prohibition was coming back tomorrow. Then we went to the hotel so I could sleep this off, and we're being followed. Seriously, we cannot be that goddamn important. Empirical evidence, however, suggests that we are that goddamn important. We go to a diner to lose the tail. Brenda is like a 5 year old sometimes with her desire to gross me out. Eating raw bacon? When does that get fun? I almost lost it, but the guy behind me wasn't as lucky. I don't think we're going to be served at that diner again this decade. That said, the airposrt didn't make the news, but the bar did.

So, final tallies; Dead people: 3. Suits trashed: 2. Movement toward actually finding the paintings requested: minimal. What the fuck moments: Multiple.

Postulations: The paintings are a ruse, however we still have to attempt to find the artist and acquire the collection. That's the theoretical purpose. So, we have to move toward the goal, meanwhile trying to figure out who wants us and what they want from us, and how it ties back to Rio.

Question One: Who in New Orleans knows we even exist? Question Two: How does this person know us well enough to get us to New Orleans? Question Three: Why would they try to stake us to get us to where they want to go? Maybe there's a hole in the profile. Question Four: What do these people want from us that we couldn't have done in our very secure, very safe, very expensive villa in Rio? Hopefully, updates will occur when I have more time to think. Question Last: When Lord of the Rings comes out in 10 months, are the nerds finally going to quit freaking out about what millennium it is?

Note to self: Upon return to Rio, research and invest in low-profile protective formalwear, advertise toward protective details and other special-needs clients. Possible specific focus in sternum protection.

The night of marginal progress

It's said that New Orleans' Mardi Gras is like Carnival for North America. I agree, however like all things, something gets lost in the translation. A certain je ne sais quos if you will. Although to be honest, I can tell you exactly what's lost. It's the spirit that flows through it all. The Carnival of Rio is the adults celebrating themselves and their freedoms, and collectively enjoying each others clothing-optional company. The Mardi Gras of New Orleans is a 16-year old who found mom and dads' stash of dirty movies and the keys to the liquor cabinet while said parents are away for a long weekend.

That said, I find myself drawn toward suits when I'm traveling. I think it's a psychological thing, much like some soldiers being conspicuously clean and well-groomed. Dirt and grime are associated with war and more negative things, and so cleanliness is distancing oneself from such dirty acts. Interesting how the mind works. All I really know is that I sure as hell don't dress like this at home.

Well, one of my postulations was incorrect. The paintings are legit. The one I saw was very - unsettling. But that's a little further along. Waking up and taking care of business first. Low-profile body armor, two sets; purchased and shipped to Rio to be trans-shipped to the hotel. Complete with two chest protectors, because being staked makes unlife difficult. Afterward, checking out AskJeeves for some leads on these paintings. Seriously, Google cannot get here fast enough. Note to self, drop some investment capital into that one fast.

That said, art place found, and of course we get pulled into left field - first, an invitation to meet The Prince. Then the crowd yanks us in different directions. A bunch of drunk frat-kids from the University of Titsnbewz dragged Brenda along and caged some free drinks. While paying their tab, shock and awe some goddamn punk lifted my wallet. Cancel the cards, Brenda pays the tab, and the kids get my number. They owe us. So that taken care of, we wind to the art gallery. Painting found, courtesy of a pair of gravity-defying breasts attached to a welldressed young lady. Also, can a brother get one place in New Orleans where the first thing they do is offer you something that's not a drink? One lemon martini that smelled like lemon-fresh carpet cleaner in hand, we wander. As an aside, for all you budding art gallery folks out there, if you go cheap on the vodka or gin, you can make it better by running it through a Brita filter 4 times. The more you know...

20 grand later, we have a painting. I touch it to see if I can get more information. That was a trip through a dark, dark Candyland. Although I did get the artists' name and I do know more about why he's so...important. People want his paintings not just because he paints well, it's like he transfuses reality through his paint. The subtle interplays of shading to create the illusion of motion and heighten the sense of paranoia the artist feels at being so cut off from the world by the Embrace make the viewer feel like they're in a full-spectrum sensory experience.

Ahem.

My Inner Toreador has been boxed up and placed back in the corner where the pretentious little shit belongs. We finally wind our way away from the French Quarter (Note to self the second, find alternate routes for transportation) and get to the Princes' haven. One gaudy American plantation castle, making the viewer feel very very small. Almost Tara-like, but for some reason the first thought in my head was "Whoever approved this building had to have a tiny penis." One discussion with the Prince later, clan Assamite represents. On the up side, he didn't throw me out immediately. He may think I'm bullshitting, but eh. Whatever keeps me in the city. But I'm on the clock. Brenda, however, got a little more indepth drillwork. Honestly, she shoulda gone and said "ye clanless". We're cool for the duration of Mardi Gras. After that though, there'll be another discussion. Meanwhile, a funny thing happened. I mentioned I was looking for an artist, mentioned his name, and the Prince just fibbed to me. I mean really, you don't lie to someone unless there's a benefit to you. Baton Rouge. Whatever. So what's the benefit to the prince, I wonder. Gracefully accept that the Prince is a crappy liar, and we're off to the Lamplight club. Which means back to the French Quarter. Oh, look. Tits.

I will say this, however. There are some flexible ladies in that establishment. The brass poles in that place must be some serious load bearing structures. Met the owner, who rather graciously offered some of her friends for an apertif. I wasn't really feeling the need to drink anything, but refusal would be tacky. So...take my time, the young lady squealed happily and loudly enough to make the amateur gynecologists look in our direction. Watch and learn, boys. That said, another little party to go to hunt down some art is on the todo list. And the owner of the Lamplight...well, she is a classicly stunning beauty. I caught Brenda looking at the sway on the way.

So; summation of progress. The artist may still be a ruse of some sort, but he is more important then originally believed. Dead bodies; 0. Ruined Suits; 0. Wallets lifted; 1. Credit cards cancelled; many. Replacement cards on their way. Intriguing threads in regard to New Orleans, several. No progress on who tried to whack us, but I think I may be able to find that out tomorrow.

Postulations; the artist is an Auspex savant. That's how he can push the emotional oils to the canvas. There could also be something to the paintings themselves that makes the denizens of the city treat him like he's such a treasure. Going out on a limb here, but he may even paint the future. New Orleans is nice, but I prefer Rio. Once I get this done, I'm going to start planning to go to CERN. Winter, so I can see as much as possible.

More progress the subsequent night

This place gets stranger and stranger. But first, I woke up to a note under the door about some packages. Not only did I get my new body armor, but they threw in the riot gear package as well. I'm pretty sure that if I were capable of pitching a tent reflexively, I woulda. It's light, it looks good, it's discrete, and it's got a couple plates that should make any would-be stake-wielding wingnuts have a bad night. Brenda's still under the covers while I'm thanking Santa. She pulls 5 more minutes, I whip a ceramic plate at her. She got up. And...new credit cards. Hallelujah. Now to business. Tonight was like...steps back in time. Took a carriage to the police station to file a report on the guy who ganked my wallet and maxed out all my credit cards on TnA. Disputing the charges, filing police reports...dealing with people who are just so...foul.

I just said that, didn't I. Fuck. I am definitely changing. Justifying it as becoming more refined in taste is not a viable excuse, given that my roommate's a cannibal. A very nice cannibal, but still. Mortal concerns dealt with, and on to the lamplight club by way of a "I need a new leather wallet and belt" store. Credit cards are on a chain now, thankyouverymuch. Then to the entry of the Lamplight, through a club called the Tornado. Dude slapped me on the ass walking into the Tornado, and it was quite possibly one of the more backhanded compliments ever. If that wasn't bad enough, the lady behind the bar was like...Grace Slick with bolt-on boobs. And to try and entice me to stay there, she put her ankle behind her head from a standing position. I can certainly approve of the attempt, but I had more pressing concerns than a quick pint at the pub. Through to the lamplight, more amateur gynecologists. Feh. And past not quite The Worst Toilet In Scotland, but it was definitely making Americas' Top 40. To a place of actual elegance and refinement.

And then something odd happened. I almost got caught in a painting. Seriously, what the actual fuck. I don't roll like that. But empirical evidence suggests otherwise. Anyway, remind me to thank Andre for teaching me French, because the lady of the parlor was older then America. She was French like the Sun King - as an aside, Morgaine probably banged the dude. But that's just a wild guess. To the point of the matter, courtesies were exchanged, and I finally convinced Brenda not to whip out what actual clan she is, because that just freaks people out. Now I won't say Morgaine bloodied up her (silk) panties when I told her I was an Assamite, but she did double-clutch at least once. I think she's old enough to have remembered the horror stories and all that. Stupid Warrior caste. Once we got past that minor speedbump, we got to the point. Painting needed, painting available, let's make a deal. But first...we had some time to kill. So we shot some pool with a couple prettyboys, Chris and Jake, I think. Played the first game, we got smoked. Then we made some bets. With the increased stakes, Brenda was kind enough to clear the table. And we got wheels. 1970-something Mustang. with NoS. Praise Beezus.

I'm getting ahead of myself again. Oddness number 2: After the game's over, Jake left to have a sulk, and then Chris tries to make a deal with me to get the location of Josh-the-Artist. Basically, trying to get me to owe him one. Eh...not so much. If he finds anything, then I'll do him a solid. Until then, I ain't paying out nothing to him. Painting arrives, and Oddness number 3. I fell into that painting and swam around for a good...5 minutes, at least. Then the bargaining.

For my part, the skills I advertise don't really do much for a Toreador that's older then America. Shocking, that. I suppose I should accept that the comfort zone of elders is limited to what they find useful. Knowing the ins and outs of computerese isn't desirable to her, and I didn't press. But then Brenda and Morgaine played some verbal footsie for about 15 minutes, at the end of which was a bit of a deal. I can work with that.

And because there's just not enough weirdness in the night...we're followed back to the hotel. And watched as we go in by 3 people. Gods, thank you for incompetent enemies. Of course, paranoia makes me wonder if I saw 3, how many did I miss. That said, logistically they can only throw so much at watching just us. So the paranoia gets to take a backseat for a bit. Then at the desk there's a scroll for me. An actual. Fucking. Scroll.

Let me just take a moment to speak to the ancients out there. When you're dealing with the young, speak their language. Or use their methods of communication. At the very least, stay in this century. I mean really, sending a scroll?! I'm sure that was all the rage when you were young, but so was the Black Plague. Get a grip and send a messenger. Or really make me pay attention and drop a voicemail, email, whatever.

Now that I got that out of my system, I read what Elminster writ. Oh, gee. An offer of assistance in looking for Josh-the-artist, from the Tremere. And then the message self destructs. That's definitely a nice touch, but if you want me to not take you for some conjurer of cheap tricks, don't go whipping out the cheap tricks. Ya cheap trick.

So the content tells me several things. First, there are two distinct factions in the city. One wants Josh right where he is, and will cheerfully lie to my face to obscure his whereabouts. The second wants me to find him. Of course, the second faction doesn't do anything for free, so they want favors from me. Given that the second faction consists of a Tremere, I'm hesitant at best to deal with them. The forces at work here transcend an artist with exceptional ability. As a side note, I thought that entrancement by pretty pretty paint was a Toreador-exclusive thing. It's obvious why the Tremere would want it - if you can have someone standing like a poleaxed cow for several minutes, it makes getting the drop on them that much easier. The same could be said for anyone. We're here for a (relatively) important piece. Life gets interesting.

Tomorrow, more hobnobbing with the art crowd. But first, websites need to be updated and picks need to be made. This ride ain't free.

Dammit Ray!

So. Somewhere out there, is someone named Ray. Ray is someone who enjoys suffering - I know this because I am going to beat him with a stick until candy comes out.

I'm getting ahead of myself here. Picking up from last night, I got my site updated, sent some communiques to a few folks back in Rio, because we're empire building. That sorta shit doesn't happen overnight. That base covered, website updated, all's well, right? I get a well-deserved nap before waking back up and enjoying another night of finding paintings and maybe an artist, right?

Beloved Reader, if you believe that, you are a damned fool optimist.

I get awakened. Slowly. Like, daylight awakening. Like "Jason, people who want to do Bad Things are here" awakening. Never a dull moment in this town. People are trying to stake me. Again. It's daytime, so I am way not operating at capacity. Ski masks, BO, and leather are apparently the uniform of the day for these kids. Once again, it's goddamn amateur hour. I try to wake up fully, and...y'know. Didn't. Next thing I know, Gomer's hammering at my chest with a stake. Rock the kid with a little poison in the blood, take a healthy chug of his blood, and he's kinda out of the fight. But he's alive. Booyah. Now, because I'm not a complete idiot, I toss on the body armor, and grab me a hand cannon. Out the door, firing up the greatest silencer ever, and whaddya know. There's someone with a crossbow who wants to shoot me. And they do.

Bless this modern technology. Also, bringing a crossbow to a gunfight is a bad weapons choice. Even if the guy with the gun doesn't want to kill you. Crossbow Dude hits my armor, dents it. Shoot the crossbow dude in the arm, and do the chug-a-lug knockout. Score one for me. meanwhile, Brenda's ageificated the poor sap on her side and she's just watching him croak. Between me and thee, that's kinda gross. But more immediate crises present themselves in the form of People Dying.

This is never good. Apparently I overfilled when I took out the crossbow personage, and so I yoinked the mask off to discover Crossbow Dude is in fact Dudette. So now we're in a bit of a pickle, as hotels take a very dim view of dead folks in their suites. Trying like hell to save her ass, even taking the exceptional measures of giving her back my hard earned blood to try and re-fill and help her ass out. For some reason, this offends the delicate sensibilities of Brenda, and she takes a mallet to my brainpan. I mean really, this is never a good sign. Clashing moral codes is going to be a running theme here. In this instance, the back of my head lost.

I wake up and it's night. Halllllelelujah. Or not, as Brenda's sick sense of humor decided to put the Dudette next to me. Dead. Son...of a bitch. Y'know, I try to stay out of killing people, as much as I can. And yet here I am again, living up to clans' rep as a homicidal maniac. It's an annoyance. I get up, go to work on seeing who's what and where. Kill the headache, and the guy she'd oldified is busy being younger again. Get ready to talk to him, and there's a crash from my room. It seems that in my haste to save the girls' life, I'd inadvertantly embraced her.

And on the first date, too. I'm not that kind of boy, I swear. Again, empirical evidence suggests otherwise. Get my new childe (Tina) calmed down, chilled, and dressed before getting ready for the nights' events - namely, teaching her how to feed in the ease and comfort of Mardi Gras. Really, it's nice to start them out in the kiddie pool. We'll work our way up later. Go to check on Brenda, and she's out cold. We have one guy still in his chair, but the second one has absconded with himself. Apparently he likes living. There's some discussion, and finally we re-secure the goods and go out to feed. Combat is never fun.

Now though, we know Ray (whoever he is) wants to have us delivered to places unknown, for reasons unknown, but he wants us alive. And I still have an art fest to go to, clothes to buy for Tina, and I have to teach her about the traditions she's been yanked into. Really, why does eternity have to be so damn busy.

Supplemental: Masood is going to be so upset with me. To be honest, I'm upset with me. I mean, the social dynamic between myself and Brenda is bad enough as it is; adding in a childe just seems like the act of a Roshambo-loving god who's making it up as he goes along. In yet another irony, I managed to make a childe without even trying. Trying to keep her alive, I wound up putting her in that sliver of a gray area. It's depressing to think about really.

And like any mortal parent, I look at my childe and have not the foggiest clue what to do next. I mean, this one's a bit past diapers and social education, now I just have to re-educate her. Help her get past the initial shock, start finding where her talents lie. She was in the military, so there may be some common ground there. Give her what she needs and send her off to make her own way. Given the social dynamics of the warring sects, I quite honestly hope she stays in Rio. It's refreshingly honest. We're killers, but we should have a reason to destroy each other. If I stake and set a vampire on fire, it's because I got beef with said vampire. It's not hiding behind a veil of "They're playing for the wrong team." It feels healthier, somehow.

The political implications are just tremendously entertaining at the moment. I could be awhile paying this off if His Nibs finds out. The most expedient thing to do in this situation is of course to lie like a motherfucker. Worst thing that happens is I have to stay out of New Orleans for awhile. Boo-hoo, the bastard child of Paris and New York won't let me eat paste with them. I seem to be a little condescending towards New Orleans. I shouldn't be. That said, I'm not endeared with it. Something about it just seems errant, somehow.

Onward and upward. Plans must be made. Given the things that have happened, a meeting with Ray is in order. Bringing Tina is going to of course be required. Hopefully at that point, we can make a deal and he stops sending people to try and kill us, and I have far far fewer moral quandries with what I have to do to maintain myself above ground. Meanwhile, I have to also teach Tina. I should be able to schedule this while Brenda's teaching Morgaine about playing nice with the really really dead. And finally, the paintings. The paintings the paintings the paintings.

Social Conventions 101

So our time in New Orleans is getting closer and closer to its' end. Paintings have been secured, and loose ends are getting wrapped up. At this point, we've absconded with a pair of paintings, and we have several more possibly on the line. That said, getting them could be rather problematic. The night began with us outside the hotel, stashing our possessions in the trunk of a 70-something Mustang. Then we went looking for new accommodations, as our previous ones were pretty much shot to hell. Sometimes I wonder about people. I mean really, it was only a little firefight. I suppose the one corpse does kinda up the ante a little. In any case, new temporary home. We caught up with a bunch of guys who apparently had a hall pass and no fashion sense whatsoever. Beggars, choosers, all that. The lowlight of the evening when I had a fit of optimism and tried faking a shot of tequila. Instant barftastic. And that's what you get with cheap tequila and an undead wingnut who's violently allergic to anything not blood. Once that was sorted out, we started drinking heavily. As it were. Well, the guys did anyway, myself, Brenda and Tina pretty much shied away. I make such a great example. Finally wound down enough to get myself a sip from what I lost, and...I'm not sure what was in that guy, but it was awesome. I was in a zone of ideas, and I came upon a few novel solutions for bullpup-style weaponry. It's an interesting idea, but we're looking at caseless munitions with a rear-loading magazine integral to the buttstock itself. The firing system will have to be electronic, so the trigger mechanism is going to have to be sufficient to power a three-round burst. Selector switch rotation putting either one or three capacitors into play. The rounds will be smaller and lighter since they're caseless...but I'm getting offtopic. Ahem. Suffice to say it's a nice little design, and should overcome enough of the engineering challenges to viable for standard frontline use.

Tony Stark can suck it. Well, in a few years when the movie comes out.

Annnyyyway. Gather everyone up after feeding, and Tina's still got a little modesty to her. It's a little amusing in a few ways. I think I was too drug-addled to think about it, but she piped up while Brenda and I were arguing about how we were going to arrange things for our daylight sleep needs. Tina pipes up with "why not just loot their cash".

Son of a bitch, I should have thought of that. So wallets are liberated of cash, and we're looking for a new room. We got one. Their cash got a room for us for a few days. That should damn well throw Rays' dogs off our ass until we are the hell out of here. Brenda came into our room giggling. I really...really don't want to know what she was doing with our generous hosts while I was packing and sorting out who's doing what. The Mustang got put on a slow boat to Rio, because there is no flipping room to park it and parking tickets suck. In the meh news, Tina's first flight as a member of the undead is going to be as human remains. It sucks, but it's only about a 10-hour flight. Remind me to get her a blackberry and some books, because she's gonna be hella bored. Walkie talkies may also be in order.

I digress yet again. Housing situation sorted, and the next evening. Tina was distraught because apparently during the day her last meal made its' way out. I don't remember that happening to me, but...well it was a little distressing. Got her chilled out, showered, and then it was time to go shopping - because we had a party to go to. Thank all the listening gods, there was a ladies' boutique open. I said "Make them pretty, Brenda is gonna need a sandblaster and a trowel."

Sometimes, my mouth gets away from me. I was going to pay for that one later, but I was shooed away to the haberdashery across the way. I left the ladies to their work, and was very properly taken care of by a pair of gentlemen who tailored not one, but two suits for me in about an hour. The traditional power suit of charcoal, and a more leisurely suit. Ties, jewelry, all that. Even a nice emerald earring to add a little flavor. Power suit worn out, other clothes sent back to the front desk. The ladies were beautifully attired, and I found out that my wiseassery cost me about 20 grand.

Worth. Every. Penny.

Two reasons - Brenda and Tina looked fah-bu-louuuus. Burgundy dress for Brenda absolutely did wonders for her complexion, gucci heeled shoes, clutch purse, and a new hairdo, and then this enamel number for Tina that showed off her highlights to an outstanding degree. For Brenda and myself, this is almost getting to be standard, but for Tina it was obvious this was something new for her. She looked like she'd been hit with the Fairy Godmother Hammer. Limo ride to the house was uneventful, and apparently the Princes' Palace needs some upgrading.

Uneventful is my new favorite word.

So we get there, our coats are taken by a nice gentleman. I'm ushered to the balcony for cigars and liqour, and let me be honest for a moment. Humanity as a whole really doesn't differ when there's riches and power. I mean, you're the same person, but you're magnified with wealth. I note this because on the balcony there were three discussions. One about finance, one about sports, and one about dog-fighting. Dog fighting, really? Basically, the same subjects of money, sports, and violence you'll find in any sawdust covered bar. In theory, I could have moved through all three easily, but dog-fighting has the same appeal to me as catching a hammer to the knees. I mean really, if you're going to be violent, get in there and do it yourself, don't send a vaguely intelligent proxy to do it for you. The sports discussion was limited to horse racing. There were a few chuckles when I said rather confidently to throw money on War Emblem in the Derby, but I was able to back my verbs with knowledge. I think the odds are about 30 to 1, but they should be down to about 25 to one or so by post time. I am gonna make bank on that one. Financials hey if these guys don't get out of the market by early 2007, their loss. Literally. I mean, apply the trends and you'll see. The tech bubble has lost its' shine, and now everyones talking about housing. The growth is not sustainable. Note to self, check the odds and start a slow burn on War Anthem. Post a few things to make the odds go up, then a few counterarguments on my site to make them go down.

Casual conversation done, and I had a few people talking with me. Then all hell broke loose, metaphorically. A 7 course dinner. silverware and all. All in all, I think I would have rather had a firefight break out, especially since Tina and Brenda were right across from me. I was fully concentrated on watching Tina and making sure she didn't do anything untoward that I completely failed to fake my own funk.

Funk me.

The waiter asked after me, and I mentioned some allergies and other gastric issues. I sounded like a 5-year-old who didn't want to eat broccoli. But the waiter seemed to be accepting it, and the whole thing proceeded once again without incident. Well, other than the state senator who apparently likes women young enough to be his granddaughter. And slurped through the entire soup course. To her credit, Tina was holding her own, despite being thrown into the social fires of inequity. After dinner, coffee. Oh dear god, coffee how I miss you. A pair of gentlemen from Vienna who knew more ways to make coffee than sex were pouring out delightful cups of liquid joy, with waltzing in the background. I managed a waltz with the hostess, and then she asked about the food. Again, the allergies excuse got trotted out, and again fell...not completely flat, but at least she didn't call bullshit. That said, I'm going to need to either learn to stomach this food crap or get better fakery if I'm going to be rolling up the metaphorical human social ladder.

That, I can apparently waltz decently. Where I learned this, I'm not sure, but it came in handy. A lady who has a pair of paintings was pointed out to me, and in due course we spoke. Calling her a lady would have been a stretch - she had nice makeup to look older, but if she was a day over 15, I call thee liar. We had a discussion of the paintings, and she asked some questions, I gave up answers that she absolutely ignored. Because she was looking at my aura. That and the necklace of beautiful filigreed roses makes me think that the lady is a Toreador. She excused herself, went to the ladies room to freshen up and then we'd meet for further discussion. Time to get the boogie shoes on. Nudged up Brenda, asked where Tina was...no clue. That's not a good sign. Went looking, and found her.

She was draped on a guy and quite cheerfully draining his neck and attendant body. Oh, funk me again. Grab her, she's absolutely gone to the beast of "yummybloodwantmore". But her dress is still flawless. Oh good. Finally got her in a nice forearm hold against the wall until the Beast decided to go right back into his cage where the fuckwit belongs. FYI, not a crease in my suit when it was done. Then she had a mini-nervous breakdown, which given the circumstances was okay. So. But a blanket on the guy because he needed warmth and a doctor, now. Tina asked if giving some blood back would help, I rather firmly said not so much, because if he dies, then we have another vampire on our hands and that's not good. Get downstairs, alert our host to an odd sighting of someone who appears to have fainted, get their doc to look, and retire to the hall. No owner. Ambulance comes, ambulance leaves, and still no owner. Stood up. Naturally. I'm not sure what it is about my aura that says "Assamite", but damn. Give a brother a chance. So we go back, we have to hit the Lamplight tomorrow, I'm going to try and keep my childe out of trouble and find the lady of the paintings, and hopefully broker a deal that'll get a couple more paintings before we head back. Meanwhile, Brenda will be teaching playing with the dead-dead.

I think Ray may be off our asses, but Tina was nervous about something. I have a feeling there's going to be one more annoyance before we leave.

A moment while I pause and wax rhapsodic about Tina. Apparently the gods were good to me when they sent me this one. There was education about the clan - I told her what I knew, and really didn't hide behind "it's a sacred mystery that I'll tell you later" when she asked the questions I couldn't answer. Thankfully, Brenda left before I really got rolling about the vizier gig. I think she's content with the answers, but I do need to ask Masood about what she was asking me. Maybe if I spring for a ticket he'll come out. That said, she was an MP with a K9 unit for four years until she investigated the wrong officer who got her dishonorably discharged. She really didn't know what was up with the whole staking job that sent her to me, just that her deceased compadre had done it before (!) and that she was going to receive about a grand for her efforts. Kind of a sad story, really. Kid's got skills (I really shouldn't call her kid, since we're really only a few months apart in age), but she couldn't utilize them, and wound up becoming a drifter where her skills merited her a grand for risking her life. That's just wrong on the one hand, but on the other hand, how many more are there out there like her in Rio, and could I utilize them in some way? It'd be nice to have my own security company to do things that other folks don't really want to do. Another thing to research. I digress again. Tina didn't seem thrilled about the undead assassin thing, but she's ok with undead research into her passions. This seems to be working out nicely. Once we're back to Rio, I'll be getting her a little more educated with the undead society and why Rio rocks.

So now, here's the interesting thing. I have got to confess, my feelings toward Tina are becoming oddly paternal. This is something distinctly new, since I never really had paternal thoughts before and So with that in mind, it does seem as though the undead condition presents opportunity for growth as well. A second note to this is how my goals are changing more to the long term. Given what I know of the sects, they're...an undead dickwaving contest. I mean really, at the heart of it both of them want the same thing. Dominion over humanity. Rio is an island of calm amongst the bickering. Eternity could be spent in worse ways, really. Also, again the dress. I mean, really, back when I was breathing a three piece suit was only marginally more desirable than a swift hanging. Now it's a go-to almost. The suit projects power, and I do have some measure of it, I suppose.

So. To-do list for Rio. Stop by the patent office, drop off the bullpup design. Invite Masood for drinks and history lessons. Get Andre to set up a gym. And start teaching the everloving crap out of Tina. Lessons in self-control are going to be vital. Meet the king. Recruiting some of the streetgangs. Make some bets, crank up some sites.

Long term list. Start developing weapon systems, and put prototypes in the hands of the street gangs. Build capital, form a mercenary company. Train using local facilities, bring in secondary training as need requires. Begin recruiting other sports experts to provide analysis and picks, go international. Buy country-specific domains as available, open up branches there. Diversify, get into the real-estate markets and start making money before the crash.

Philosophical point regarding violence. I find myself designing weapons, while at the same time I hold human life in high regard. As a contrarian point, I'm in a clan best known for killing. Does the clan make the man, or was the man always there and the clan simply reaffirms who the man is?

Really?

Oh, this education of Tina is getting funner and funner.

The night starts well, as it were. Check my messages, and there's a guy begging to get his 25 grand back, because he made a bet and lost. Admittedly, I took a light bath on it, but he screwed up and bet a little much. Not so much the bet, but he is in one of those "no-gambling" jobs. Tsk. So I email him back, roughing out an idea for him. I need an accountant. He appears to be involved in banking. This. This is good. Life is looking good.

So we go back to Morgaines' so that Brenda can educate, and first bit of odd is the chess. Fuck me it was a nice set. It was stunning, spectacular, and the players were moving the pieces with their minds. Or some discipline or sorcery, I'm not sure. Handy that. Morgaine and I talk about Ms Zhulia the toreador, and she is...not within reach. A small favor for a meeting, okay. Anyhoo, I see in the reflection of Morgaines' (flawless, natch) lipstick, a Nosferatu. It's really really jarring. That said, Morgaine and I exchange our pleasantries and wander our ways. I decide introducing Tina to some of the physically uglier sides is in order. She freaks and bolts.

Of course.

The Nosferatu advises me that His Nibs wants to see my ass posthaste and forthwith.

Of course.

First things first. Catch Tina. Thankfully, Pops has more in the afterburner so I catch her with relative ease. 30 seconds of exposition on what's happening next, and advising her to be quiet because I may have to lie like a sunnovabitch, and I hear a reek and a "Lie about what?"

I cannot catch a break in this town.

So we're bundled into a limo, and there's a quiet ride to the man's palace. And that's when things went off the rails severely. He asks about the paintings, and then he starts asking what I'm really doing in town. Really, I'm looking for paintings. His Nibs ain't buying that shit. Apparently, there's been disappearances in town, and I'm tonights' scapegoat. Oh yes, the big bad boogeyman Assamite's coming to get you, your highness. And he's going to introduce himself as an Assamite when he comes into town. He's either not here to kill you, or he's so badass he wants you to know he's coming. I'm not the latter. That said ,I now have something to do for the next few nights. Now, I get to play Disposable Asset for the prince, and figure out who's killing stray vampires and mortals. And to top it all off, I get saddled with one of his childer. Because making it easy is not the Princes' style.

As an aside, there are levels at work here. At the heart of magic is misdirection. Someone wants the Princes' attention focused on me, so that dirty deeds may be done. Opportunity, or someone moving a piece? In either case, stop one is the cop shop to call on Detective Carter, so that I can get some information. Of course, the office is locked, but Tina can pick locks. Booyah, life's looking good. Next, check for a username and password. Under the keyboard, just like every other civil servant. Username and password don't work. Well...son of a bitch. 2 hours of pounding keys later, it's Marcel-and-kindred2001 for the password. Meanwhile, there's a ton of things being found in file cabinets by Tina and The Littlest Prince. Things about vampires.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Detective Carter knows waaaayyyy too much. The content was horrifying. All that noise was going to my usb drive tootsweet, and goodies are getting either memorized and noted. His Nibs will either be pleased or pissed. It was a shit sundae stretching back a century. But we hadn't gotten to the corn yet.

The corn arrived in the form of Detective Carter and two fellas with tommy guns (Tommy guns?) - the good detective packing a crossbow. Idiocy the first began when for some reason Detective carter was being all mean and refusing to listen to a reasonable "Dude, put the crossbow down..." Little fucker shot me. In the chest. Right where my body armor would have stopped it, had I been wearing it.

And that's why we wear hideously expensive low profile cardiac plated body armor. So that mufuckin Kojack doesn't plant wood in your chest. I'm frozen, and the princes' childe rocks the "Flee from me mortal" warface. Which helps with one, but the other decided to unload his tommygun into the kids' chest. Tina was brilliant, though. Grabbed me and blew the fuck out of there. And then she freaked when she got back. Couple hours pass and all I'm hearing is a little sobby-freaky thing. Brenda comes back, and Tina thinks I'm dead. Well, technically, yes. But Brenda yoinks out the arrow, and ecch. I get up, clean up...and call the prince to report in.

His nibs is angry, but it's probably more, "What did this guy find". And he wants his kid back the way the kid left. Yeah. I want a goddamn pony, Your Highness.

I <3 Body Armor

So let's get down to business. Our good Detective Carter has been a busy...busy mother. Like, a century plus of busy. I'm starting to think he's a bit of a ghoul. If I printed this out...it'd be about 10 Bibles. Freakin' thick. So, time to write a quicky search script to go seek for information to see if the prince and detective carter have crossed paths. They have. Except it's not Marcel, but Marcels' predecessor. Said predecessor appears to have been using the Detective to get rid of some undesired elements. Marcel appears to have declined, but who really knows at this point. That said, I think we found out what's responsible for the string of disappearances. Detective Carters' notes indicate no small amount of disappearances over the last century, including an interesting case involving Storyville, a dead lady of the evening, and the smell of blood making vampires frenzy. This piques the collective interest, and so we're off to find a dead hooker, but not in the trunk of the car. It appears that this one has a penchant for luring vampires to their deaths with the smell of blood to make them frenzy. Well, I guess even the dead need a hobby or two in order to while away eternity.

But first, shopping. I sent Tina out into the wilds with 3 grand, with the instructions of "We need guns and ammo". And she did deliver unto us shotguns, pistols with silencers, and even small submachine guns, with ammo. I do believe there's a tear in my eye. Looking things over, it appears that there's some street contacts in Tinas' repitoire. I like. That said, keeping the pistols for a backup, because ballistics evidence sucks, and the pieces she scrounged were used, abused, and almost certainly wanted in connection with illegal activity. The other amusement arrived when Brenda woke up with keyboard face. Seriously, she passed out on the keyboard while doing research of her own.

Now, I could have certainly gone after the princes' childe, but let's be honest here. After reading the notes of who captured him, I think we're at a distinct disadvantage. Disadvantage 1; it's his town. He's been here since Reconstruction. We've been here 2 weeks. Disadvantage 2; the prince himself. Quite frankly, once I'd advised the Prince about things, he should have been sending 4 or 5 pipe swinging bastards to politely ask for the return of Number 2 Son. I know for a fact you can buy a hitman in this town for a grand. A competent hitman might be 1500, but really what's money when compared to the unlife of a childe? So really, is the prince getting rid of a recalcitrant childe on top of his Assamite/Nagarajah headache, and making progress on a thorn in his side as bonus fries? Preparing some things for His Nibs, just in case. Perhaps the Nosferatu would be interested in finding confirmation of the things that have happened.

But back to the main thrust here. Since I'm not overly fond of arrows in the chest we armored up and geared up, and went looking for Brendas' Dead Hooker. We go to the parish records office - in a church, and oh man is Tina going good. 5 minutes, lock picked, and we're in. And there is something funky going on right from square 1. Places are checked, and dimmed flashlights are handy things. Searching, more searching, and Brenda found what she was looking for. Brenda also found acorn with something she was interested in. Whatever a mojo bag is. I found a diary for the Society of Leopold. That sounds secret and scary and not something I was supposed to find. So that got secured and we got ready to move out.

Then we smelled blood. Maybe it's who we're looking for; so we bip down to check it out.

And that's when things got weird. Yep. We were suddenly not in 2001, we were more like 1914, 1915 or so. I saw a Model T, but it was mostly horsedrawn carriages, and gaslamps. (Side question; what the hell do the old farts see in this time? Is it nostalgia gone wild? Seriously, it smelled like horse shit, rotten fish, and things I don't even want to think about identifying.) But, we did actually find the lady in question. I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. We were back in 2001, but Tina was...invaded by some smoke that made her batshit crazy and try to kill me. Not fun. Adding to the not fun was the fact that time slowed to a crawl for me, so that even with my celerity maxed I was just keeping up. This went on for a 10-second eternity, but I managed to keep her almost at bay. Then it stopped. I think Brenda pulled the invaded horde out, and tina came back. Thank the heavens, cause I was low. Celerity ain't cheap.

Just in time to see someone point a goddamn elephant gun at me. And fire. The whole thing was like watching a highspeed film. Fire rushing out, the cannonball coming toward me - okay, it was just a bullet but you try watching the whole thing as it happens and not think "Mother fuck, cannonball!" It collided with my chest, and bad things happened. But worse things could have happened. Thank you Kevlar™.

Then worse things happened. The other barrel fired. It hit the same spot. Life was getting worse. Then Brenda showed up, and...it got better for a second there. On the plus side, I wasn't getting shot with bullets designed to take down hugeassed Elephants. On the minus side, there were grenades being thrown. This is someone who takes the phrase "There is no 'overkill', there is only 'open fire' and 'time to reload'" as a way of life. I can admire that in anyone. On the other hand, it's a little less admirable when you're the target of 10 grenades and a few elephant-killing rounds. Hauling ass Escape-from-the-death-star style with Tina and torching out the last spare blood I've got to save my ass, and...I'm not, unconscious, but the Beast is demanding we hit the drive-through now and, ah, yes. I'm gonna listen to the skeezy shit.

Another Fine Mess.

So I wake up...and I'm still in this this world. Which I'm totally down with. I like this planet as a whole. But parts of it, not so much. Like the part where I sit there in a abattoir with 4 dead people. 3 dead old people, and then the former janitor.I say former because he kinda lost his throat. And I am totally covered in blood and old-person smell.

Goddamn drive through. Cleanup was not a good time. I mean, okay, the old people...seriously, it's like a low-security prison for the aged. I'm not gonna say Nana had it coming to her, but they lived long lives. But the dude. He was my age, give or take. I mean, there's so much potential. Am I rationalizing this? I am. But I can either make a deal with the devil inside myself, or I go bugfuck crazy and live in a sewer drainpipe feeding on rats. In which case I'm paying rent to the Nosferatu. Fuck that.

That said - body disposal. I'm getting too good at this. Found the kids' car, put the bodies in, and then sailed it into the river. Hopefully this isn't a thing with the locals, because otherwise the lake is going to be a rust belt in a year or two. So I dust myself off and come face to face with a couple strapping dockworkers, whom I immediately dubbed Skimask and Bubba. Skimask was wearing a ski mask. Bubba was wearing a hat that said "bubba." Bubba was also wearing a pair of pantyhose on his head. Louisville Sluggers and whatnot are in evidence.

Y'know, I'd like to digress for a moment about a concept called "Normalization of deviance." Essentially, it's what happens when something potentially catastrophic happens so often that people who observe or partake in the events begin to consider it normal by simple fact that nothing catastrophic occurs immediately afterward. I think I've fallen to this, because honestly? A normal person, or even a normal vampire, who is beset upon by two faceless men who appear to wish him ill, is concerned for their safety. Me, I have a flashback to Raising Arizona. "Son, you got a panty on your head." That is not normal, and it will lead to catastrophe. I see that they've thoughtfully brought an Impala. There's brief discussion, and they want me to meet "The General."

I've met far more people than I want to, and said as much. I tried to decline the meeting, but Skimask made two profound and well reasoned arguments before the lights went out. When the lights came back on, I had at least a grade 2 concussion and what felt like a knot the size of a regulation baseball on the back of my head. Oh, and I was bound to a chair with barbwire. Oh Catastrophe, my old friend, how you never tire of visiting. And bringing such fine company with you.

This one was The General. A rather large man, wearing suspenders and BDU pants. No shirt, cause then I wouldn't be able to see the huge rippling abs and so on and be properly scared out of my wits. Seriously, this is getting old, so we cut to the chase. Turns out he's all kinds of worried about the things I'm investigating and wants me to investigate for him too. Birdman of Alcatraz, meet Birddog of Nawlinz. Seriously, everyone looks at me as a disposable asset or something. I would like to say fuck this in as many languages as I can. They want me to stay and be their personal pointer dog and be thrilled that I got the chance. At this point, I'm used to getting screwed without so much as a kiss or even dinner, so sure. The General yoinks the barbwire off with his bare hands, gives me a burner phone along with the keys to the Impala and tells me to call with what I find. And I can't leave.

Y'know what? Screw that. The General gets the same information the prince does. And if these little dimestore superheroes can't figure out what to do day after tomorrow when I'm Casper the Friendly Ghost, well, someone better'll take their place, or they'll continue to have the same problems with crazy timeshifting homicidal dead hookers killing from the afterlife and century-old ghouls with the police department. I am not their damn Mr Fixitall. Worst case scenario, I'll call Detective Carter from the airport and let him do his job. In this town, there are no enemies, and there are no friends. Only situational allies.

Stupid Camarilla. Seriously, they have no sense of community about them. That's why they're so screwed up.

Speaking of situational allies who aren't, Detective Carter. Researching his notes, we found one of his safehouses and decided a social call was in order. Brenda started talking to one of her dead friends. Would you believe the really dead bet as well? I gave a few tips, and he gave info. Life is good when you can actually horsetrade and not have to dicker from a position of power, or negotiate from inside a barrel. One trip to Walmart, and I walk out with a decent hunting rifle and some goods. Another store was happy to sell me body armor. Lastly, we have home napalm and molotovs. Thusly set, we bring ourselves to the safehouse in fine mood. One guard out front, equipped with some seriously highspeed-lowdrag gear. Like, night vision, suppressed submachine gun, damn nice body armor, the whole works. So then, a long-distance shot is in order. While I'm not the best shot in the world, the range was certainly doable, but I had to hit a small, small target. So, dig deep and remember the lessons of Ft Jackson. BARS. Breathe, Aim, Relax, and Squeeze. And launch some disciplines which could silence a cannon.

And the Score opened with Walmart 1, Highspeed 0. Brenda took her car (stolen) and made an unseemly ruckus with it while I parked the Impala a little ways away from Impending Catastrophe. Two jeeps out front suffered punctured tanks and some fire. Walmart 3, Highspeed 0. I take some blood from highspeed, and oh dear lord that was the best drink ever. It was like a tankard of mead from back in the day. Sweet from the lips all the way down. The guy had to have been a ghoul and damned if I don't want more of that.

Brenda's keeping the boys up front all kinds of busy. Damned if she didn't know I zoom around back where Tina's breaching the back door - Gods bless the shotgun. Door breached and kicked in. And there's a gout of flame. The reason is quickly determined. Some wingnut heard the adage about not bringing a knife to a gunfight and took it a step further by teaching us to not bring a gun to a flamethrower-fight.

The problem with flamethrowers is the tank. I saw just enough of it for a one-chance in a thousand shot. Nailed it. My next 999 shots are going anywhere, just so you know. Our target which we thought was Chris the Princes kid was behind a blanket spraying madly with a fire extinguisher. Smart kid, and I thought about being a hero and getting him. The devil inside was cheerfully telling me to go get fucked. We had a long discussion about this while Tina was in a headlock. She wanted no part of it, and I didn't blame her. I turned her to brenda while I was going to do this thing. Brenda turned Tina loose.

Fuck me yet again. Finally, the guy gets out, the safe house is burning...but it's not Chris. It's a guy who saw something Masquerade-breaching and was in Detective Carters' custody. Now he's in our custody. And that's where we are. So tomorrow we leave. Before we go, we need to exchange Chris for this guy, get the Prince and The General the information they want, get Tina in her box and in the plane, and then get ourselves the hell out of town. I should arrange the meeting at the airport, just to make things nice and neat.

As a side note, I'm discovering I do well in the chaos of a highly fluid situation that involves guns or computers. Other situations, I'm so far out of my comfort zone I might as well be in high school again. I need to correct this. Additional side notes; the Camarilla as an organization seems very...odd. Admittedly it's an organization that is built around stasis and retention of position, with a lot of clawing and a seeming aversion to dirty hands. That may be why everyone is trying to use us, we're they're very own antibacterial soap. The questions that are coming up in conversation are big. Who knew we were coming? I mean, really - who tipped off whom that a couple of moderately competent individuals were going to be in town? To be honest, they're not exactly laying out the red carpet if they want us to stay. I believe those who knew also knew that we were only available for a limited amount of time. And there will be questions. I think the trip to the LHC is going to be very enlightening.

Note to self, learn German. It seems to be the dominant language of Zurich. I could probably get by with French, but still. Let's not hedge and hope.

...And Back Again

Well, this is the final piece here. So we get on the road back to New Orleans, and feeling pretty good about life. I mean we got an Impala, we got a guy in the back who's slightly damaged but still useful.

Time to deal. I break out The Generals' phone, and call - Detective Carter. He answers, and we have a pleasant conversation about the events of the night. I offer to trade a Chuck for a Chris. He wants to know what happened to his men. I deferred, quite rightly. I mean, really, who tells a cop "Uhm, yeah, put me down for three counts of arson, one count of trespassing, three counts of destruction of private property, 3 or 4 counts of first-degree murder, one count of kidnapping, and can I get fries with that?" So we make a deal. The swap sets for 8 pm the next night.

Now 10 minutes had passed without something bad happening. According to whatever god is tugging my puppet strings, that's wholly improper. The Impala - I can't really explain this well, but it wound up wrapped around a cypress tree. Tina had decided to enjoy the back seat, but the collision put us all together in the front seat. Yay physics. First, blame Brendas' driving. Then the door gets kicked open, and we get out. It was a rather hurried exit, because I could smell gas. Gas and sparks make fire, which is bad for life in general.

We get out of the car, and things are noticed. first, that the Impala got attacked by a fucking ninja bear or something. there's claw marks and a bigass dent in the ass end. And not a sign of the attacker anywhere. I look up, and there's a meteor coming to hit us. Because of all the things god loves, he loves seeing my bitch ass run. Second glance, not a meteor but a flaming arrow. Apparently the Tremere are in town, and they brought their 12th century badassness with them. Scrolls and flaming arrows are apparently their schtick. I get out "run!" and take my own advice.

The results are predictable. Car goes up in flames, we scatter. I got caught by the ninja bear, and much to my surprise, it's not a ninja bear, but a...well, I think it was a Lupine. 8 feet of muscle and fur and BO. There's laughter from the heavens at this predicament. I'm serious, whoever's in charge upstairs has the Jason Channel on favorite and brings people for viewing parties. But I digress. The things' breath coulda killed a goddamn camel. I get ragdolled and throat-squeezed, and it asks "Why are you here?" with a voice that was half gravel and half slobber. I assume rather correctly that it's not here to debate the finer points of philosophical existence, so I try to explain that we're picking up Chuck and we're ready to bail. He slobbers out that this is his territory (And how the fuck does that happen anyway?) and we're encroaching and he wants me to do something for him. He scratches a phone number in my chest and tells me he's looking for Sam something or other. Hate, Anger, some bullshit. Then he throws us all in a goddamn ancient ford so we can leave. Which we do.

Even the goddamn furballs want me to do them a favor. They can just take a number and get in line. After all that...it's goddamn feeding time. We head for the docks, and split up for the hunting. I snag a dockworker under water, take enough to heal a little, and then there's this stunning, stunning lady who would like me to get into her limo. Women are trouble, but...it seemed like people were deferring to her, and she had that look about her. Also she may have watched me just chug out of a dockworker while looking like 5 miles of bad road and wasn't freaking the hell out. Introductions are made, Tina comes back to see me talking. There's a conversation of facial expressions, and then Brenda comes back and a leisurely stumble. I suspect she was drinking rather heavily from some waaaayyy intoxicated folks. We get in the limo, and we're off.

Things are turning for the better. I suspect I'm in deep with the current savior but...I'm confortable with that. A very delightful bath, followed by a nice looong days' restful sleep. This person has...paintings. THE paintings. Son of a bitch I fell into one and it was...delightful. Wake up, we all get dressed nicely. Then for dinner, some questions get answered. Ray is apparently a caitiff who sells people. Ain't that sweet. I give the quick rundown on events thus far, and then turn around and make discoveries. Apparently detective Carter was planning to whack me, since he had the self-preservation skills necessary to realize the Princes' childer are sacrosanct. More then likely Chris was nice and safe. Marcel you magnificent bastard. Also, given my current status, air travel was not encouraged. Comically karmicaly, Brenda was on something very impressive, so by the time I told the whats' what, I had...the three paintings. And not taking the airport out, we take a cruise ship to St Thomas. And then a quick jog to Caracas and back to Rio. 5 million plus expenses gets deposited to my bank account. I got my accountant, file for patents, and things get back to normal.

In the final analysis, New Orleans is a great place to visit. But given how everyone seems hellbent on shafting each other, I don't think a permanent residence is in order.

Epilogue

So now, back in happy, safe Rio. I'm on a beach, with a couple patents pending for new weapons. This brings a sense of diabolical unease. I mean really, should I be making things with the express purpose of killing people? On the one hand, people are going to kill people, and if it's not my weapon they use, it'll be another possibly inferior product. On the other hand, efficient killing is still killing, and if I make more efficient to kill people, more people are going to get killed. I can't go to Brenda with these crises - she just looks at like like I suddenly sprouted a second, much dumber, head.

Tina's - I still can't quite get my head around her. She's mostly enthralled with the idea that I saved her life. It's odd that things have worked out this way. That said, a childe has brought some things into focus. To wit, how little I know of the clan. So that's something to be addressed. Masood has generously offered to teach us over code and other things. That'll be a few months, there. I can show him I'm doing good, and then things can move on apace. It's odd, he's almost more of a mentor-wise old man. He has the history edge on me, but I think I may be the one who has the edge on practical applications.

Andre seems to adjusting quite well. I think it's that his life is more or less "permanent vacation." I don't really talk to Brenda's ghoul. He's kind of a one-trick pony, and his trick is really really gross. Existential crisis moment; why is it that people like that are allowed to exist and thrive, while generally decent people croak at my hands repeatedly? But then if I pass judgement on him and say "you're not allowed to share air with humanity", who's next? I mean, where do you draw the line? And quite frankly, my slate's not exactly the cleanest out there. Am I the victim of fate or the instrument? Or both? Oh well...I suppose I'll have several weeks of uneventful time to navelgaze on this.