Sometime 'round '79.[]
„ ... and everything carries me to you
the clip of the moon in the night sky...
Listen to that Neruda wannabe. It's over hombre, he's dead and you can't write like him. Fuck, you can't write for shit. Look at his hackneyed entourage, cheering after every-single-poem. And then there are his little speeches between every-single-poem, making some oblique reference to some people in the audience. Try jabbing me, hermano, and I'll make sure that not only will you not be able to write your execrable poetry, but I'll make sure that you can't even jack off. Shit, there has to be something besides this noise. Something beautiful. People singing. People dancing. The ringing of glasses brought together and the moaning of young women and young men. Some of them beautiful, some of them drunk, some just craving flesh or a body lying next to them. And there we were, outside all this banging and clang and clutter, just sitting and staring and scaring our shadows away.
And she says I'm pouting again and she's right. Svelte, beautifully insane, not caring about this picayune horseshit that got me riled up. She grabs my hand and I almost feel warmth, she’s smiling. Let’s go, I say, into the incandescent madness of this adopted city of mine, your city, our nights, and she says ok.
The night, the sultry air, the cars and the shouts from bars. And there we go, hand in hand, like Punch & Judy without the violence. And she asks me what I’m thinking about and just before I answer I sense something strange. We hear an explosion a couple of blocks away. Then gunshots. And then the howling. Those Sabbat cachorros don’t know when to stop, do they? I look at her, she grins. Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war, motherfucker. "
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Sometime 'round '83.[]
„So, what do we do with the body?“ asked the tall, bearded guy with a guerilla outfit.
„I don't know comandante, leave it here? With all the shit that's going on...“, I begin, twirling my pistol 'round my right index finger, crouched above the body.
„Don't call me comandante, pendejo. And we can't just leave it. Motherfucking ghoul, nobody told us he had a ghoul...“, the tall beardo says, kicking the poor sucker's head gently. I couldn't help calling him comandante since his first name was Ernesto. Ernesto Diaz, ex-guerilla, currently a Brujah, leader of Pendejos Impentientes, our gang, the unrepentant assholes. Oh yeah, the “he” Ernesto was referring to was Diego Fortuna, a Sabbat priest we dusted a couple o’ minutes ago. By “we” I mean the Pendejos Impentientes. Lucky shot too, we got out of it with minor wounds. This was one of the first victories we had in a long time. The “we” this time ain’t just the Pendejos Impentientes, it stood for every non-Sabbat kindred remaining in Santiago, not just the Anarchs, and hoowee, hermano, there weren’t many of us left.
„Well, I’ll bring the car 'round, you drag 'im down, then we bury him,“ I stand up, holstering my pistol.
„Nah, what if police dogs find him?“ he answers.
„Eh? Police dogs? Hermano, this is fucking Santiago, ain't nobody gonna look for these sorry motherfuckers in the motherfuckin' ghetto,“ I look at him like he's gone crazy.
„I heard if we bury him 'neath a dog that the police dogs...“
„Have you lost your mind? Kill a dog so police dogs won't find a dead Sabbat ghoul?“
„Yeah, that does sound paranoid.“
„You think?“
„Hey!“, we hear from the other room, „Nothin here...“ that’s Cachi, a fellow Toreador. Real name (I shit you not): Cachi Gonzales, an avid guitarist, lover of Los Saicos, muscle cars and one of those assholes who claimed that wine, poetry and women were the finest things this world has to offer. Hasn’t seen or tasted much of either since his embrace. Cachi was a bit of a pushover, but his heart was in the right place. Figuratively speaking, of course.
„Right, hang on a second” Ernesto shouts whilst he reloads his shotgun, “So, what do we do?”
„I say we leave the body here.”
„Alright, he nodded, „Cachi, we ride,” and just like that we’re outta there. Screechin’ wheels, speedin’ towards Jara’s, one of the last places we can hang out without getting dusted. Probably the only joint in Santiago with imported, nah, smuggled punk and garage rock records, and brother, Clash’s „Combat Rock” and Iggy Pop’s „Funhouse” never sounded better.
„So, where are are Cesarea, Javi and Vince?” Ernesto asks me, taking out a pack o’ smokes from my front pocket. He lights one, and puts it in his own pocket. I take the smokes out, light one, put ‘em back where they belong and prop my feet up on the table.
The music has gone silent, „Hey, dumbass, flip the goddamn record!”, I shout to the bartender. Cachi is over at the bar hitting on a smokin’ hot Malk chick. Not that I’m gonna tell him she’s completely frigid. Anyway, the people (again, figuratively speaking) Ernesto was referring to were, in the order they were pronounced, my sire (and lover), her ghoul (my lover) and Vince, an American college kid who read too much Chomsky, came to Santiago and then got embraced by some Caitiff. Cesarea felt sorry for the fella and let him join our crew, „Cesarea and Vince are out on a recon mission, Javi stayed back home, Cesarea wouldn’t let him go, said it was too much of a risk,” I say.
„Eh, poor Javi must hate being patronized,” comandante Ernesto laughs and starts singing „Straight to Hell” in a thick accent.
I shrug and join in, „No man’s land and there ain’t no asylum here, King Solomon he never lived ‘round here, go straight to Hell boys”.
An hour into celebrating, Ernesto’s had enough. I nod, I don’t agree with him, our morale is low, we need the laughter, but I’m also eager to hear what Cesarea and Vince found out. Not the nights of wine, poetry and prose, that’s for certain. I tell Cachi and we’re off to our haven. A hangar on the edge o town we turned into our fortress slash base of operations. Good location, good security too. We get out of Cachi’s car, a muscle car, definitely not subtle but hey, we figured we’re dead anyway, might as well rock out with our cocks out. Y’know, blaze of glory, all that Hollywood macho crap.
A chill runs down my spine, ‘round my asshole and settles in my balls, spreading like rabid lead flowers into my stomach and lungs, „Something’s not right,” I draw my pistol.
„Yeah, I sense it too,” luckily, Ernesto wasn’t your typical Brujah. Or it might’ve been paranoia. Either way, it’s good our chief was being clever about this.
„Come on, since when are you guys that easy to scare?” Cachi shouts, a bit too loud.
„Keep it down, maricon,” I growl.
Weapons drawn, we, me with my pistol, Ernesto with his shotgun, Cachi with his revolver and machete, go in. I turn on the lights. Right across us, exactly at the spot the light’s the brightest is a chair. On the chair a flower of gore and viscera. I look closely and recognize the pattern on the shirt. It’s Javi. Just as I’m about to rush towards him I hear rapid footsteps coming from behind and I spin, ready to fire. And I do just as a blade smacks my gun away. Instinctively I duck, the blade nearly ending up in my throat, and throw a quick uppercut that doesn’t make my assailant skip a beat.
Just like that we’re fighting for our unlives again. Gunshots, cursing, screaming, clawing, fucking bedlam I tell ya. My assailant, a rabid Sabbat puppy mauls me with a haymaker and I crash into the wall, blood fills my mouth and I raise my guard just in time to catch his fucking blade with my bare hands. He’s pushing forward, the blade cutting into my palms, and the stupid bastard is snarling. Hombre, you’re dumb and you don’t scare me, plus, you just killed Javi, trust me, this does not end well for you. So I pull the oldest trick in the book, I spit blood in his face, he flinches and this buys me enough time to knee him in the cojones. Undead or no, nobody has balls of brass. So I tumble to the side, pick up my pistol and give him one in the balls and one in chest. That drops him and I finally have time to look around. Ernesto just slammed the butt of his shotgun in some chick’s face. Well, I’ll never find out what she looked like. The next moment he’s firing away again. I bet he already dropped two of them.
And then I see Cachi and my heart stops, so to speak. Something, yeah, some thing over two meters tall, was holding him down, its palm over his face, other hand clawing at the chest, Cachi screaming. I fire away, the bullets doing no damage at all, or none that I could see. The creature rips off his head and something, probably his lungs.
„The trunk, open the fucking trunk!” Ernesto screams as he runs next to me just as the creature starts walking towards us… slowly. I nod; he begins to shoot at it. Fuck, the keys. Cachi had ‘em. Well, no way I’m trying to get to them. I run to the car, shoot the lock and open the trunk, then open the briefcase within. If grenades don’t kill it, well, it’ll kill us. I grab two grenades in one hand and look back in shock, I panic for a moment and sprint to grab Ernesto’s shotgun. The dumb Brujah frenzied, dumped his shotgun and rushed the thing. Barehanded. Ok, easy now, breathe. No, you don’t breathe, just focus. The creature was holding him in the air by his neck, which leaves just enough room to-
BAM! I got it, straight in the guts. The abomination drops him; Ernesto makes a run for it, the creature now lurching towards me. Ok, the granades go off in what, five seconds? One, two, five!
„Throw the damn things, will ya?” Ernesto shouts.
I unpin the babies, backing off as the ugly bastard approaches, count, toss ‘em, pray, BOOM! Shit, I can’t believe this worked. Blood, guts and bodyparts everywhere. The explosion still ringing in my ears as I fall on my ass, a mix of melancholy and relief crashing into me. Ernesto runs over.
„What in the world was that?!”
I shake my head, and then I hear wheezing. I look at the warehouse. Looks like that first puppy ain’t dead yet. Well, rest assured I’ll take my sweet time with ya. I stand up on shaky feet and we both walk towards the wheezing. The wheezing starts to sound like laughing and we see the guy I dropped.
„La hija del Diablo,” he coughs and I kick him in the guts, flipping him over. I place my boot on his chest wound and press.
„The fuck you talkin’ about?” I ask him.
„Your beloved little raven, pendejo, she’s the one who gave you up, she brought us the college brat as well,” he says.
„Motherfucker!” I scream and slam my foot into his face, teeth scattering on the warehouse floor.
„Hey, take it easy, man,” Ernesto says, yanking my shoulder.
„Take it easy?! Did you hear the fucker?”
The faggot laughs again, „She’s one of us, little poet, and boy is she out to get you,” and those were the last words of the pup. I emptied my pistol; Ernesto tried to pull me away.
Then we picked up a couple of things and drove off. I couldn’t bear to look at Javi, not like that. And outside of town we stopped at a gas station, Ernesto dialed a number from the payphone and I leaned against the hood of our car, smoking, looking into the ground as if it were the abyss.
„Padre got us a place where we can fall back. But we have to get outta here. Not outta Santiago, out o Chile, man.”
I nod, say nothing.
„Listen you pussy,” he grabs me by the chin and makes me look at him, „We don’t know if she betrayed us for certain.”
„Nobody else knew where our HQ was,” I shrug.
„Yeah,” he says, stands next to me.
And so we stand in silence, like the first men on the Moon.
„What’s next for you?” I ask him.
„Dunno, I was thinking Los Angeles, maybe. You?”
„I’ll hunt the bitch down.”
Soon we were outta the country. Ernesto made it to L.A. He joined the Anarchs there and even met legends like Smiling Jack. Me? I did exactly what I told Ernesto. I started hunting.
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Sometime 'round 1999.[]
Bar Miami, in fucking Senpere. This has to be Hell. A seedy joint, with seedy clientele and a fat bartender with a mustache, shit, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. Go to Dublin, or maybe back to Valencia, anywhere in Spain. I look at the Garcias, now more like siblings, nearly identical twins, rather than father and son. Olive skinned, dark-eyed and wild, drinking their cañas. Carlos Rodrigo, the elder, drinking more than he should, the younger one, now looking a bit older, pacing himself carefully. I look back at the TV, the picture all staticky, Athletic Bilbao playing Valencia and normally I’d root for Valencia, but not even I’m crazy enough to cheer for them in fucking Basque country. I hear Carlos Rodrigo ordering another.
“Hey, pace yourself, motherfucker.
Eh? Why? Nothing going on in this shit village anyway. We’ve done jobs like this hundreds of times.”
I sigh, look at Carlos Calixto.
“Any news?
Nah, not yet. You’d hear the phone.”
What I’d give to have a shot and a beer right now. A woman walks by, casually brushing herself against my arm. I look at her; she looks back as she walks by, all coquettish. Just keep walkin’, honey, I’m not buying that shit these days. Even if my dick still were my brain I’d still be smart enough not to engage a beautiful woman in a last chance bar.
The phone rings, Calixto answers, without a word he hangs up.
“The parking lot, half an hour”.
I nod, why is it always a fucking parking lot or warehouse?
“Hola, Carlitos, quit your drinking and go get some water. We’re on in half an hour; I can’t have my marksman tipsy.
Si, si, maricón.”
Some twenty minutes later we’re there. A parking lot near a warehouse. Our Mustang parked, I lean against the hood, check if I have my pistol ready. Carlos Calixto is in the backseat, polishing his rifle. Carlos Rodrigo starts messing with the radio. I hear songs like Scar Tissue, No Scrubs and he finally settles on Livin’ la Vida Loca, laughing.
“Cut the crap,” I hiss, then mutter “ …hijo de puta”.
Headlights up ahead. They park some 20m away from us, get out the car. I begin scanning their auras. Four of them, kine. Wait, four? Motherfuckers, it was supposed to be just the two-
Car engine roaring behind us.
“Ambush!”, I manage to shout before the bullets start-a-flying. Everything goes slow, I slide on the hood, several bullets hitting the car. It never fails, I just had the damn thing waxed and polished. Rodrigo pulls out his two uzis, fucking cowboy, and begins spraying the first car. Landing on my feet, I clearly see the vehicle ahead of me. That’s when I reach for my pistol, aim at the driver’s seat and begin to shoot like a motherfucker. The car swerves and hits a streetlamp, smoke rising. Three figures stagger out, their auras clearly vampiric. Motherfucking Sabbat. Two of them begin to charge us, one pulls out a pistol and shoots. He’s a poor shot, well, probably.
It’s my turn to boogie now. I reload, look ahead. They’re some thirty meters away. I hear Carlos Rodrigo cursing; he slides on the hood and lands near me, bleeding. He got shot in the shoulder, flesh wound. Carlos Calixto is still emptying rounds at the other car. I open the car door, grab my sawed-off shotgun and toss Rodrigo my pistol so he doesn’t have to reload.
“Give them a little bit of lead, light the motherfuckers up …”, I say and start firing, hitting one of the charging ones, he goes down as I get ready to rush ‘em back, drawing my machete. Car engines to my back, two of them.
“Calixto, get in the front seat, we gotta vamoose!”, I shout just as the shovelhead approaches, swinging, you’re kidding me, a fuckin’ shovel. I jump back, swing at his throat. The cunt starts bleeding and I start slashing until the poor bastard drops. A bullet hits me in my thigh, the fleshy part. Bullets start flying from everywhere. I turn around, Carlos Rodrigo is down, clutching his wound, a gutshot. I see several potholes in his chest. Fuck. I pick him up and toss him in the backseat. More shovelheads approaching. And just before I hop in the passenger seat I catch a glimpse of her. Raven hair, coffee eyes. I shake my head and she’s gone. We’re gone. Outta here.
An hour or two before dawn he’s no longer here. Gone. Outta here.
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Sometime right about now[]
Dear Camarilla Zagreb,
David hates you all. It's been almost a year and hoooo-boy... it's been a doozy. These months (eleven, twelve?) have been pure misery. And I’m not talking about your garden variety misery, this is pure, unadulterated, abysmal, evergaping, all-encompassing fucking misery and I hate it. Oh, shut up you pompous cunt. You love being miserable. Yeah, but I love being miserable on my own terms. That spineless schmuck Sartre was right, Hell IS other people. Especially when other people means annoying, whining and incompetent tools. But remember what your drunken whore of a mother said: “Shut up and do as you’re told, you brat”, or something along those lines.
So what has nobody’s favorite Toreador Brujah-wannabe been up to? A lot since coming to this shithole of a country.
Well, I left the Anarchs, that’s one thing; and I became the Sheriff in Zagreb. How’s that for switching careers? I think this is how bands feel when they sell out: your asshole is raw but your belly is full. The only thing more humiliating than realizing you’re a pawn in an infinite game of chess (or an infinite jest) is having to choose your own master. But I digress. Back to this shithole of a country.
I came back to Pula, my hometown (koliki su spali na njenin kušinu, i brali pičurke pod njenin kršinu. Koliki su klekli pod njenin škalin, rigali natašce u njen lavandin ... misto nje su sinoć rekli: addio Pola, Cosulich Patrizia, a via Castropola), tried to rally a raggedy-ass group of kids and form an Anarch movement. Bunch of pseudo intellectuals, if ya ask me. So then I move to Rijeka, and boy, those Anarchs were a bunch of jokers as well. I get relatively chummy with this dude Arpad. An asshole, no doubt, but a competent asshole. I like competent assholes. Then there’s Calli. Lovely Malk psycho bitch. Thing is, they’re both in the Camarilla. Then I got in trouble with the local Tremere. The neckbeard of the Camarilla. So Arpad got me out of that mess and Calli explained to me that they’re gonna dust me if I don’t join the Camarilla. Frankly, at this point I’m fed up with these Hong Kong versions of what the Anarchs are about, so I join ‘em, they show me the ropes and I hear Zagreb is opening its borders. Well, anything is better than this, right? Right? Wrong.
Zagreb is... complicated to say the least. The Prince is this freakishly tall Lasombra dude, the Harpy is a skullduggerous Ravnos gitano, the Keeper of Elysium is a Tremere who couldn’t get a joke if his unlife depended on it, the Scourge is a creepy-ass Brujah motherfucker and the rest of the cast are a bunch of candy-ass fucktards (well, most of them at least). Oh yeah, and their Anarchs collapsed like... five minutes after I arrived. The good thing was I had no clanmates. The only Toreador in town. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against my clan, but it’s not like I’m your typical ponce crying “l’art pour l’art” or some shit like that.
Ok, let’s try to establish a timeline here. I arrive in Zagreb. Soon there’s killings, whispers of hunters, the Anarch barony is burning and the Sabbat starts surrounding us. Fun times. Trouble will find me. Always. I join the Sheriff’s task force. We begin investigating shit. And by we I mean the three of us: Žac, the former Baron who I can relate to, and Kolya, the soon to be ex-Sheriff and lil’ ol’ me. The rest of those pendejos are prancing about behaving as if nothing was going on. Soon enough we’re surrounded, everyone is panicking but I’m doin’ just fine. I became a deputy; some of the elders are beginning to notice me so pretty soon, ‘round Christmas, the Prince declares that I’m to be the new Sheriff.
Now what? I strike a deal with the Nosferatu, loathsome fucking creatures, and appoint Golać as my deputy. Žac, someone I can relatively trust is also a deputy. We trade blows with the Sabbat, like in the good ol’ days. This Sheriff gig would’ve been quite cushy if some Gangrel didn’t slaughter some innocents, if some Malks held a tighter leash on their childer (poor Calli, but her death was a thing of horrific beauty) and if the rest of these cunts would be actually willing to do something for the sake of the Camarilla. But hey, I’m actually having fun so laissez les bons temps rouler. Pretty soon we get those Sabbat putas desperate. That means I get to rest soon, right? Wrong.
The hunters (or hunter) got pretty bold. They dusted the former Malkavian primogen, and they probably dusted Mica, a former Anarch. Hey, it’s not like we can be at two places at the same time so fuck it, first things first. We crush the Sabbat and pretty much everyone is celebrating, like, what the hell? We still have fucking hunters in the city, and by the looks of it the motherfuckers are deeply entrenched. Summer came, and now summer’s gone. The shadows are getting longer, so soon enough we’ll deal with ‘em. Hopefully this time around my Camarilla brethren will be more willing to act.
You’re probably asking yourself why I’m still here, shitstorm after shitstorm. Y’know how to play chess, right? Well, if a pawn reaches the end of the board he becomes the queen. In our case you become a pawn on a bigger chessboard. And I plan on finding out how many boards there are.