My Dearest Penelope,
I’ve tracked my quarry to the most intriguing of places. Bright lights, fast cars and full of those damned French. In the
Anyway, shan’t dally too long with this. Back soon for a strong cuppa and a polish of your headstone.
Custer von Glitz
“Worse then Seattle boss?” Mikey asked skeptically.
“Worse then Seattle” I repeat to myself with a nervous chuckle.
“This place makes Seattle look like a kindergarten!” I exclaimed, followed again by a chuckle.
Mikey remained quiet, either out of shock or simply waiting for me to continue.
“You should have seen it Mikey, they had ten times more guards at my welcoming then at maximum security prison. At first I thought it was a simple show of muscle, but after seeing their reaction when they realised I came alone, I knew better.” I said, my gaze fixed on the lit cigarette in my hand.
Mikey continued to remain quiet. He knows me well. He knows when to talk, and when to listen.
I shake my head, “Once that Nossie came up to me saying how they we’re all fucked I knew these guys were in serious shit, he was proper scared and he didn’t look like no wimp to me.” I say, taking a drag of my smoke.
Mikeys cue to put a word in.
“Yea boss, makes sense. I had feeling Miguel was sending us into a shit storm. I mean, how often does a Cammy Prince join the Anarchs?”
“Yea.” I reply, “We normally have to throw their asses out, fuck me, who would of thought it would be worse them JOINING us!?”
The seriousness of the discussion broke for a minute as laughter erupted.
“They must have made some serious fucking camarilla enemies though boss, and lets not forget the huge Sabbat presence here, it’s no surprise they hitting the mattresses.” Mikey said once the laughter died.
This time I remained quiet.
“You just do what you do best boss, Miguel knew if there’s anyone who can sort this shit out it’s you.”
That last statement proved to me that Mickey truly saw the mountain of a job I had ahead of me. Again, he knows me well, he can see through my bravado, that face I put on for the troops.
“Thanks Mikey, you right, I’m just gonna do what I do best.” I repeated, trying to reassure myself as I put out my smoke.
“Now tell about what Mafia contact you’ve made?”
“Yea boss, turns out a couple of wise guys moved up north during the prohibition to help smuggle the booze down…”
Business continues.My dearest baroness,
Do not misinterpret my previous correspondence as a sign of wavering support. We have all drawn our fair share of ire for turning against the elder sects, this is true. My concern comes from the sheer magnitude of the aggression that follows you. I am finding your enemies to be both impressive and determined. Yet I suppose this is to be expected from having one of your standing join the movement.
The situation in the city is changing and, as you suggested, so should our approach. I have committed to reinforcing you from our side and I have no intention of reneging on my promises.
Repeatedly, I have been cautioned against mobilizing forces between two warring factions that, frankly, have far more resources and numbers than our own but I have taken a lesson from your book in this. We shall wage an invisible war of diversion and subterfuge. As best as I can I shall continue to rally support for you from the
Viva la Revolución!
Miguel Peréz
The rhythmic snap of his leather shoes on the marble floor rings out across the courtyard as he strides towards a heavy oaken door, flanked by a pair of large figures. The two men at the door look identical. Same straight cut black suits, same dark glasses, same conspicuous ear piece jutting out from the sides of their heads.
He doesn’t break stride, marching towards them. He wears an expression as if intent on storming through them yet, seemingly at the last moment, the two guards step aside from the door allowing him entry. He bursts in.
Surveying the study in front of him he is greeted by the soft crackle of a gramophone gently wailing Wagner. A lone candle illuminates the room casting flickering shadows to all corners.
The room, in and of itself, is sparse. A single mahogany desk with a high backed padded chair positioned in front of it being about all the furniture within. A similar chair tilts behind the desk occupied by a heavy set individual, his eyes severe behind small framed spectacles with a jaw wide at the jowl. The man behind the desk simply extends a hand to the opposing chair. An invitation and instruction all in one simple gesture.
The man entering the room clears the distance between the door and the chair in the blink of an eye. Deftly pushing the chair to one side, he remains standing as he produces a long brass cylinder from under his coat. Snapping off an end he unfurls a worn parchment and placing his hand squarely in the middle of the page slaps it down on the table top.
“Sign it,” his voice is almost a growl.
The man sitting retracts his extended hand. A small smile etched on his broad face. He turns to the gramophone on the far end of the desk and tilts his head.
“It may surprise you to hear but I never had the pleasure of listening to Wagner in person. Not that I didn’t have the opportunity, mind you, it’s just at the time I was so preoccupied with other matters. One forgets how fleeting mortal lives can be.”
The man standing places both of his hands on the desktop and slowly lowers his face to meet the man’s opposite him. He annunciates each of his words deliberately.
“I am not here to play games. Sign it.”
The smile fades away from the man sitting yet once again he gestures to the chair.
“Sit down,” he says and as an afterthought he tacks on, “please.”
The man standing looks at the chair and with disdain pulls the seat in behind him and sits. The man behind the desk allows the smile to return as he regards the parchment in front of him.
“It is no small thing you ask of me, my friend,” says the spectacled man from behind his desk. “There is significant resistance to this decision and, frankly, I’m not sure it is worth the political fallout.”
“Politics be damned,” snaps the man opposite him. “This is the opportunity we have been waiting for. The law is clear, the traditions affirmed.”
“And then what? You return to the
“This time it shall be different. This time I go not with bureaucrats and lawyers. No more tribunals and political maneuvers. This time I come with archons and alastors. The very thing that protected her before has now been recklessly cast aside. And now is my time to strike.” He pushes the parchment further across the desk his voice trembling with rage. “Sign it.”
“You are taking this far too personally, my friend,” replies the spectacled man. “Above and beyond being absolutely right, I fear for what rash decisions will come from you in such a state. Your mission is pure but your motives are fueled by pride. Let it go. There is more than enough rope to hang this harlot. There is no need to be snared in such entanglements. Let her destroy herself and live on in the satisfaction of having tried to steer her right.”
His words seem to penetrate as the man opposite him considers their merit. He stares at the brass tubing housing the warrant. Eventually, he looks up.
“I have lived for many years and am by many centauries your senior. I know that does little to change our current, respective ranks but remember this; it is by my grace that you sit in that chair. Either you sign this document or your expedited successor shall.”
The smile shifts into a scowl.
“Be that as it may, on this night, in this room, I am still your superior. In nights where friends are few you overstep your mark with me. Yes, even you have parameters. Never the less, I shall sign off on this personal vendetta of yours, however, with one caveat. I am redeploying our Frankish Hospitalier to your side. I have seen to it that his precious heirloom has been returned to him and, hopefully, he shall act as your voice of conscience.”
“He has his uses. I see no harm in having him with me. Agreed.” As if punctuating the point he gives the parchment one last nudge.
The man sitting behind the desk produces a beautifully crafted Montblanc fountain pen, the gold inlay glinting in the candlelight as he scratches his name across the bottom of the page.
“Mark my words,” he adds, finishing his signature with a flourish, “you will come to regret returning to that city. When the flames of revolt rise they shall consume all in their path.”
“I will not be denied on this. She will be brought low as well as all those that follow her. For I bring with me a most pointed reckoning. And you would be most, most astonished as to those who share my sentiment.”
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