Kevin's Watch

Please posts in here for Layson Street chapters.

Pulling his bike up to a halt, James looked around. Everywhere the eye could see there were party goers. Working girls strode side by side with drug peddlers and clubber's. James smiled. This was his kind of place.

So far there was no sign of Maddoc. Checking his watch he waited barely patient for the insane kindred.

Music drifts out of the entrance to a strip club, and red and green light washes over James as he sits on his bike. A group of drunk men stagger out of the club, one of them slapping the bouncer on an arm. Next door three teenagers wander into a bar, no one bothering to check their identification cards. Two men in jeans and t-shirts give each other meaningful looks and swagger into the venue, following them. In an alleyway, a woman squats down and pisses into a drain, while a warm night breeze blows trash past her red high heels.

Public recognition (Wits + Perception + 1[Fame]) roll: 2 successes.

Some men walk by the strip club talking loudly amongst themselves. James is given a quick appraisal, which is soon met by a second. A man stops, nudges a friend, and says aloud, "Hey it's the lead singer of Deathspiel. Fuck me dead, I don't believe it. And he's outside a strip club. That man's the shit."

Maddoc's taxi hits Layton street squarely amidships, the driver coming to a tire-squeeling halt. "There!" he says, guesturing broadly along the intersected street, "Now pay me my money and get the fuck outa my cab!"

Maddoc springs from the car, paying the driver with a handfull of crumpled ten dollar notes. He looks up and down the street, picks a direction, and heads off.

ooc: relevent merit: direction sense 1

In no time at all, Maddoc finds the Layson Street Review club. Strangely, he had only viewed a map of the street once but was able to orientate himself in the right direction. Straight away he saw James, sitting on top of his motorcycle.

James looked sideways towards the men speaking about him. Unable to help himself, he felt the need to correct them.

"Guitarist. Lead guitarist. Formally of Deathspiel. And yeah, strip clubs are the shit." He grinned slyly towards the men.

Spotting the flamboyant Maddoc heading towards him, James nodded his greeting.

Maddoc sees Jimmy's grin, answers with one of his own. He holds his arms wide, strutting to better display his finery as he approaches Randell.

"Jimmy!" he says, "Pissed of any more sociopathic oligarchs lately?"

"Ha, No. Just queen bitch and her cronies." James grinned. "Hey you don't know our glorious prince well do you? Need to get that bitch off my back? Anyway, should we go and take a look at what this review club has one offer?"

"Indeed!" says Maddoc, indicating the entrance to the Review with one purple-velour wrapped arm. As always, the theatricality of Maddoc's movements seems forced, stilted. He may have read the script, but his performance lacks rehearsal.

Swinging in beside Randell, Maddoc approaches the entrance to the 'gentleman's club.'

Approaching the door, James slipped the doorman a tip "Do me a favour and keep any fuckers away from my bike will you man? Would be much appreciated."

Walking into the main entrance, James turned to Maddoc.

"I apologise if this whole thing seems a bit odd, looking into the wallet. Its just that I'm a fish out of water when it comes to this whole being dead stuff. Your about the only seemingly friendly one of... "us" I know. I'm kinda hoping this whole wallet thing leads me towards some answers." James admitted coldly.

Entering the club, James made for the bar.

Layson Street Review was like every other strip club in the city, and indeed the United States, in that it was filled with music (all bass and no passion), booze, aroused or desperate men, and strippers eager to part them from their money. The lighting was gaudy and cast the entire bar in a lurid, green, red and blue glow. Like every other club, the women danced on raised stages that were surrounded by benches - where drinks glittered in the neon light - and a ring of stools occupied or empty. The strippers or exotic dancers, had artificial breasts or fake smiles, usually both, and all cared very little for the men that hovered around them.

Where Layson Street Review differed was that there were vampires lurking in the crowds of mortals. Some reclined on couches in the corner and in the dark with their victims - males and females, pale and asleep, stalked people as moved about, or sat on the stools watching the dancers with hunger in their predatory glances and in their sharp smiles.

Both Maddoc and James both felt the urge to flee the place, lest they become prey to the beasts that hunted in the smoky and gaudy haze. One Kindred turned to look at them and bared his fangs briefly.

Once inside, Maddoc halts. His eyes go wild, flashing from side to side, and his hands clamp themselves against his side as if to prevent them from flying away into the Night. He closes his eyes, raising his nose and sniffing like a bloodhound. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff-sniff-sniff.

"Ahhhh..." he drawls, opening his eyes and looking about with a smile fixed rigidly on his face. "Smells like home."

Slowly, he heads towards Randell and the bar.

A stripper looks at with curiosity evident on her elfen-like face. She then turns and resumes a grinding motion on one of the client's lap. The massively built Negro clearly enjoying, to the point of placing a wad of cash down her bra.

Maddoc bumps into a Kindred - a short man in a Hawaiian t-shirt and tight jeans - who scowls at him. Maddoc and Randell pass through a dense knot of people - some mortal others not - including one figure who exudes an aura of menace and power. This figure stands at the centre of the group, holding a glass of a thick, ruby liquid. At his feet a drunk female nods off to sleep, blood pouring thick and slow from a gash on her arm.

Feeling very much at unease James leans on the bar. Turning to his companion, he sees him bump into the man in the Hawaiian shirt.

"Ha, who wouldve thought someone here is dressed more... flamboyantly vulgar than you man... what do you want to drink?" He said nervously, forcing a smile.

A tall women, heavily tanned, topless, and with a plastic smile walks seductively up to the pair, glancing at Maddoc with an curious look. "What it'll be guys?"

"Blood," Maddoc says, transfixed.

Maddoc's eyes are nailed to the slow, dark fluid seeping from the woman's arm. He grabs Jimmy's shoulder, pointing out the unconscious woman amongst the tight group of beings.

"That's what I want, Jimmy", he says, releasing Randell and heading for the woman.

Having turned to talk to the woman who wished to order their drinks, James was unprepared for Maddocs actions. He turned saw him be line for the unconscious girl.

"Oh Shit! He hiss as he ran after the insane kindred, to slow to stop him reaching the group stood around the girl.

Maddoc frowns as Randell stops him. "Bu-but, Ji-immy...blood!" he says, gesturing with mute appeal.

A club patron looks at Maddoc strangely. "What the heck are you on?"

Maddoc pauses, he licks his lips. "Yeah, what am I on?" he says, itching the inside of an elbow. Despite his finery, he looks sunken, pallid. But watch his eyes, and you can almost see the calculations.

"Where are the toilets, man?" he asks the patron, his eyes flicking from the man to the bleeding woman feverishly.