games
Sunset.
I've always been a light sleeper, even after my Embrace, and tonight followed the norm precisely. From where I stood, I could see the late afternoon's storm clouds lit with a cherry glow as the baneful sun threw off its last rays towards a deep and deepening blue sky. It made a silhouette of the church steeple to my left as I ambled down the street, hands in my pockets, sunglasses on my face. Steam from hot streets mixing with the rain puddles rose to mist my face.
I suppose it could have felt good, if I really cared about stuff like that anymore. But something seems missing. The twilight darkened towards night around me while I stood, staring at the buildings around me, trying to figure it out. I saw myself reflected in store-front plate glass, a middling height sort of guy with shaggy brown hair sitting on my shoulders. Even with the fantastic eyesight I was given, unless I knew already that my eyes were a black-ringed grey, it would have been hard to tell. My skin had lost the pockmarks of acne as I saw more years, unchanging my basic physical form. But where I used to be bulked up from football (and overuse of steroids), now I saw myself looking at a frame more easily seen on your average ambitious yuppie.
The thought made me ill, so to speak. I hate yuppies, or at least what they represent. The smug bastards, whether they had to work at it or not, had futures that assured them of being pampered for the rest of their fat-cat lives.
That reminded me of what was missing -- a cigarette. Used to smoke whenever I took a walk down the streets in the daytime and the evening, watching those juiceless pretty boys and their rich bitch girlfriends. Made it seem alright, because I was cooler than they were.
Hah. Things never fuckin' change. So why was I special, all of a sudden, that night that I'd received the one gift I should have looked in the mouth? Even my Sire, who'd left soon after, didn't have a reason for me.
"A fly-by vamping," he joked, then took off, leaving me gulping in agony and new vamp-ness in the alley. Wasn't until a couple years later that I found out who he was, and even then I wasn't about to tell anyone that it was Smilin' Jack. I found out once what claiming him as a Sire did for you -- nearly get yourself staked, is what. It's hard, though, when you gotta explain who you are to Mr. "I-Own-You", the Prince, no matter where you go. Brujah's the clan I was made, and Brujah's what I'm gonna claim, though, so it's not that I tell the Prince "nobody" and have them label me as one of those damn clanless, the Caitiff. Got a taste of what it's like and they can friggin' keep it.
Some bag lady is looking at me weird, because I'm still staring at myself. When I turn to look at her, she just hunches over her shopping cart, mumbling about crazies.
Pot calling kettle, sweetheart.
I have to think about that for a second, though, because all of a sudden I do feel like I'm the oddball. I mean, here I am, dead essentially, and I'm walking around like I'm still living in 1983! Couple other Licks wanted to call me Spiccoli; you know, Sean Penn's character from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High"? Anyway, all I had to say was that I was better looking and could kick his ass. That got'em laughing. Sometimes I wonder if they'd done too much pot or something before they got dead, because they act so stupid.
Or maybe I'm just getting smarter. Scary thought.
I haven't been in Highland Gate too long, though, so I still have to watch who I'm calling stupid. Especially since some guy, a Toreador I think, declared himself Prince. Seems that for a while they hadn't had one and had been doing alright, but some shit's going down lately and he thought he could do the job. Dunno this guy, so I can't tell. But, that means another round of Twenty Questions for me. Meantime, I've got a date with my radio and a pirate hat.
I hear Smilin' Jack had been a pirate, once, so why not be a champion for pirate radio? It's fun, anyway, even though I don't get paid in anything but sickly little fan letters from teeny-weeny Goth babies. Between that and rolling drunks for money and blood, the unliving's not bad. I think the only thing that's freaked me out at all are all the fuckin' dogs running around. Don't they have animal shelters or something around here? Big fuckers, too. Maybe they got that way from the runoff from that huge Pentex factory just north of town. Yeah, yeah, Pentex is suppose to be this big, happy, nice-n-neat company, but who really believes that load of crap? You can call me cynical, but they're all dumping waste. You'd have to be blind not to see it. And you know something? I never really saw it quite so obviously until one of your typical hairy tree-hugging Gangrel showed me, up close. I mean, everyone knew that stuff like that was happening, I just didn't see all of it like I do now. I'm no crusader, trust me, so for all I care they can go on about their business. I'm just big on being told the truth.
It's all I want, really.
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