The fat man ran as hard as he could. His lungs straining for good air but only getting fumes from the sewer grates as he flew in a reckless panic through clausterphobic slums of Cascadia. He had no business there. He wasn't hard, he was as soft as they come. Late 50's. Cheap tan colored suit, stained in the pits from his sweat. He got into some trouble with his investments in Hells Kitchen, and turned to high stakes gambling to try to get himself out. He owed money to the wrong people, never took them serious enough. That was.. until now.

The fat man squeezed himself down a narrow space between filthy buildings. He did his best not to make a sound and failed. Huffing at the sour night air, tasting the refuse left in the alley by drug addicts. It didn't matter. If his breathing didnt' give him away his heart would. It pounded in his chest loud and fast. He couldn't hear his own choking breaths over the deep low octave thumping in his torso.

His eyeballs stretched wide as a fried egg as he saw the tall shadow cross the street. His heart stopped pounding in that moment. He took one gasp of air and held it. Silence. Thank god. He had never heard this part of town so quiet. Only a distant hissing. Pressure being released in the sewers below. Sweat beaded down his face, he closed his eyes and thanked every god he knew the name of. The darkness of his closed lids and the utter quiet broke giving him his last moments of peace.

"Huh,!! What was that!" He thought it, never spoke it. He listened again, harder. His fears confirmed. He heard the lonely miserable whistled song down the alley. He knew what it meant. He scrambles. Hands twisting to grip a window just above him. Fingernails bloody as he desperately tries to raise it. Shards of dry paint gouge into his hands. "SMASH!!!" His fist breaks the window on the third swing. His suit bloodied, he doesn't know where he's cut. He convulses like a sea lion rolling his bulk forward... working to squeeze his massive girth into the little window, like giving birth in reverse.

They found him the next day, half in-half out the window. He had a switchblade stuck right in the center of his head, and a look of humiliating surprise on his face. Yet thats not all they found.


There was a Jack of spades in his mouth.

((well done! and welcome back

But wait! There's more.............right????? :shock:

((Very very nice!

The Rodent circled paced back and forth in front of the hanging body..

Something was wrong.. most people run from Rats. so something was wrong with this man..for several more seconds the rat stayed.. then with a quick dash it was gone. down a crack in a wall and to his master.. the silent urging that this was something the Dark man should know of.

The street looked the same. Hadn't changed one bit in the handfull of years since it was my hunting grounds. Trashcans with fire leaping from them to keep vagabonds hands warm dotted the corners. Drug dealers and prostitutes playing out their low-class soap opera drama for the rust bucket cars that rumbled by leaving smell and smoke in their wake.

So here I was, back in the city, back in Cascadia. Wearing my biker leather, my tom cruise shades, my faded Iron Maiden t-shirt. Last time around this city that shirt was lame, the band outdated and uncool, but the Donors got a taste for retro. I look cool as shit now with Eddie dangling the Devil from strings like a marionette. Logos change, but one thing stays the same always, whether the mortal bloodbags figure it out or not. Rebellion will always be cool. Eddie will always be cool.

A big shot from Atlantic city payed me well enough to kill some nobody that screwed him over. Two nights in town, havent met the Prince and already have one local murder on my resume. It would be in my best interest to get back on the bike and head back to Atlantic city. I had planned to, but memories get in the way of common sense all too easily. The biker bar I called my Haven had been turned into a Kareoke bar. Filled with college kids out to make a fool of themselves in the worst part of town, where the beer flows fast and cheap. I play pool with them but mostly keep to myself. This place tugs on me. Like an anchor pinning me here. My eyes pan acros the room. I see apparitions. That dame with the red dress. A Toreador. Always more interested in the state of her painted nails then in whats going on around her. I smile. Where is she? Sabbat get her? The Garou? What about Sorrenti. He always played it cool, even when I was near frenzy hell-bent on one rant or another, back in the day. Did they make it?

Screw it. I may head back to Atlantic city, but not before I check out this town. Killing here is gonna rub the prince the wrong way, but thats what I do, i'd be breaking character if I did otherwise. Whoever the prince is.

[quote:15a8180959="Drain"]The Rodent circled paced back and forth in front of the hanging body..

Something was wrong.. most people run from Rats. so something was wrong with this man..for several more seconds the rat stayed.. then with a quick dash it was gone. down a crack in a wall and to his master.. the silent urging that this was something the Dark man should know of.[/quote:15a8180959]

A single stab to the forehead. Clean The switchblade sheathed to the hilt. The fatmans neck broken also from the impact. Whoever did this is strong. Very very strong.