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#Post#: 463--------------------------------------------------
Spooky Buddy Cop Drama
DIR By: Slick
Date: April 8, 2026, 7:08 pm
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[center](Through the Powers of Storytelling, this timeline
magically aligns… >.>)
Interviewing the Gang Task Force had taken up a fair part of the
evening, so Franco and Gumshoe coordinated their trek into
Anarch Territory for the next evening. Franco went to Grace’s
haven to undwind before the sun rose.
When he’d officially came to the Camarilla Court, he had taken
up a temporary haven closer to the outskirts of town, away from
the prying eyes of local kindred. He’d found the most expensive
home in the Suburbs that lent itself as an AirBnb. Then he’d
overstayed his welcome and dominated the homeowners until they
signed the property over to him.
Now that he was not such a temporary fixture amongst the
Kindred, Grace had offered him space amidst her own until he
settled his newest haven closer to the French Quarter, something
he had a hand in renovating to his liking. She had business at
the Elysium, “Keeping” it as a Toreador does. The Lasombra
sobriquet hadn’t just been Shades, or Shadows. It had once been
“Keeper”, as in “My brother’s Keeper.” A joke amongst the Sabat,
as most resented their authority. Well [I]earned[/I] authority.
The Brujah, with all their rebellious bluster, were late in
joining their greatest cause. Clan Lasombra was the first to
rebel against the Elders and slay their Progenitor.
And now…. Now he was working for the very Elders that he’d been
fighting for over a century. Warring with. He’d been a Holy
Crusader, sharing his blood with that of barbarians who bathed
in mortal blood before unloading Greek fire onto a banquet hall
full of Kindred. He did not prepare for battle these nights. He
was a glorified cop, pretending to be human. It felt ridiculous.
Looking around the bedroom he and Grace shared, he wondered if
this was him pretending as well. Love amongst the Sword of Caine
had been a viper’s nest. Emotions became involved with the
sharing of the blood, the Vaulderie amongst pack mates.
Sometimes, romance developed, but it was fleeting. The next
raid, that lover would die. The next night, a rival could take
them out of spite. A month from the first tryst, that very lover
could stake you in the back, literally or metaphorically.
Grace had shown an interest in him from the start. Not trust,
necessarily, but she’d been the first woman to speak to him like
an equal, and not someone to subjugate or eliminate. And she was
a gateway to the Camarilla social circles. She was a woman of
culture and taste and sensuality. The Toreador of the Sabbat
were mostly just rapists and butchers who considered Serial
Killing an art form. Obviously, Franco thought himself above
such things. Not the acts, but doing such things yourself for
gratification.
The Lasombra walked into her washroom. The space was luxurious
and full of mirrors. Grace was a beautiful woman, fashionable.
It made sense. But he could not use this space. Every reflection
caused a wave of what he could only describe as vertigo. It
forced a pit in what used to be his stomach. Every reflection
was not that of a handsome mediterranean man in his late 20s. It
was a ghoul. Meticulously combed hair was frayed, or matted, or
thinning. The parlor of his flesh was gray in some reflections,
and rotting in others. Deep brown eyes were instead black and
hollow; or they flashed a bestial yellow, bloodshot and
ravenous. It wasn’t human. It was a wight. It was his beast. And
it was howling silently at him from a dozen different angles.
If Grace walked in then, she would see him standing solemnly in
the center of the room, but there was not a single reflective
surface indicating Franco was there.
—————————————
Franco sat in the back of a beat up Jeep Durango, looking over
his lupara, an extremely short double barreled shotgun,
something Shepards used for wolves in Sicily. He did not like to
rely on firearms, but they tended to come in handy. With a few
dragons breath rounds, a Cainite— a Kindred — could even the
playing field. And years of Fire Dancing in the Sabbat had
stunted his fear of fire. Franco glanced up in the rearview,
seeing the abyssal pits of his skeletal face.
Gumshoe rode shotgun, wearing a hat, sunglasses and a scarf. It
kept her from having to use Obfuscate while they were in a
vehicle. Driving was Handsome Bob, another Nosferatu that was
only a few decades old. Handsome Bob was named for the fact that
he was passably human. He was a very ugly man, with a big nose,
odd shaped head, warts, thinning hair, you name it. But his skin
was not ghastly pale or the inhuman gray a lot of Nosferatu took
on. A blessing and a curse. He was singing to himself along with
the radio playing low, glancing nervously at the rear view. He
knew Franco was there, but it was unnerving not being able to
see him.
“Say these Setites did kill this Roland. What then? Would we go
to war for one Caini--” Franco stopped, correcting himself,
“for one Kindred?”
“Mmm. Probably not war. Prince could call a blood hunt. Butch
would want one. He’d probably lead it. Setites would likely
offer up a sacrificial lamb to ease the heat. Then something
else will happen in a couple of months. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Honestly, Marbroux seems more like a target for corruption than
murder, even if they got motive. I’d put my money on the
anarchs, or that Brujah biker.”
“Then why check out the Serpents?”
Gumshoe shrugged, “Hannigan likes to be thorough.”
Franco grunted, saying something disparaging in Spanish. He
gestured to his temple, “What the fuck is wrong with him?” It
came out less civilized than he intended.
Gumshoe shook her head. “Best guess? Paranoid schizophrenia and
delusions of grandeur that manifest as a film noir worldview in
order to cope with his existence. But I’m not a shrink. You
could ask him, but you know how Malkavians are about their
derangements.” He didn’t, really. But he pretended he understood
what she meant.
“So what the fuck is wrong with you?” Gumshoe asked as he
turned and leaned over the back of the seat. Franco cocked a
brow at her, setting the Lupara on the seat next to him. Before
he could ask what she meant, Gumshoe continued.
“You could be a suspect in the killing of Rollie Marbroux, too,
Mr. Da Silva. Dating the Brujah Primogen’s former Paramore.
Perhaps Roland was collateral for the theft of her favorite
necklace. I mean, we all know how cutthroat you Lasombra are...”
Handsome Bob was suddenly white knuckling the steering wheel. If
he could sweat, he would have been. The jeep was suddenly very
tense. Franco looked Gumshoe in the eyes and calmly stated.
“If I had done it, there would have been more blood. And I
would have burned the haven down.” Then he looked away. Gumshoe
seemed to consider this and turned back around, settling in her
seat once more and taking her finger off of her own sawed-off
shotgun.
“Yeah, that seems more your style. Oh look, we’re here.”
[I] “Oh thank god,”[/I] muttered Handsome Bob as he made the
turn off.[/center]
#Post#: 521--------------------------------------------------
Re: Spooky Buddy Cop Drama
DIR By: Slick
Date: April 21, 2026, 3:47 pm
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[center]
“I ain’t got a freakshow here. Look at you, scaring’ my friends
off. The fuck you want, roughing’ up my security. Lookin’ like A
plate of olive oil and a goblin…”[/center]
[center]Uncle Charlie had his chest puffed out, fanged bared,
his elderly body looking virile in that silk robe as he stared
down the Lasombra and the Nosferatu.
They had gotten tired of waiting. They’d waited through the
sermon. They’d waited for the people to leave, watching the
exits while Bob tracked the cars leaving. And they waited as
that couple that had been the center of attention at the the top
of the show to walk back to Charlie’s private entrance. When
they went inside, the duo had discussed what to do. If he was
taking visitors, they would present themselves as such. But
Franco grew impatient. It was going on for some time. There was
the smell of blood, of screaming. The longer they sat out there
waiting to be let in was more time for the Setites to flank them
with their hillbilly parishioners in the wilderness around the
tent, or set up a better defense inside. And it was getting
late. Or early, for vampires. It wasn’t a short drive back to
their havens. Gumshoe and Bob could get to safety come the first
manhole cover. Franco wasn’t going to follow them home.

Gumshoe was cursing him under her breath as she adjusted
the leather jacket she wore, trying to keep the facade that hid
the shotgun underneath. Franco walked in with his hands raised,
as if he hadn’t just thrown one of their guards a couple of
dozen yards. They were ghouls, and they were already getting up,
going to stand next to their dominator, hands on the pistols in
their holsters. The two men that bled out of the shadows,
wearing what could only be described as “ninja attire”, were
different. They were Kindred, and they welded machetes. While
Gumshoe addressed Charlie, Franco watched as the bear of a man
and a beautiful woman were trying to make their way out. Jane.
Grace's informant. At least that's what Grace told him, her spy
amongst the anarchs. (Cherie -if this doesn't work for you lemme
know)
“Charles Henson, alias Cherub Charlie?”
“Not that it’s any of yo fuckin’ business, but it is Uncle
Cherub Charlie. Altogether. Like Daryl Hall and John Oates. And
who the fuck are you, Leader of the Butt Uglies?”
Gumshoe rolled her eyes, while Franco darkened the room around
them considerably, the light of the candles and torches not
smothering, but dimming somehow. His arms lowered, and he
stepped forward, his chin high, a sneer on his handsome face.
The ghouls and the ninjas tensed.
“We come on behalf on the Prince of New Orleans, and you’ve
kept us waiting long enough. We have business with you.”
Gumshoe wanted to roll her eyes again. Charlie stared at him a
good moment before busting out laughing. The Kindred at his
sides grinned toothy grins, but the ghouls couldn’t help but
laugh as well.
“You outside the city limits, playboy. I know you; you that
Judas who backstabbed his devilish kin in the Sabbat. Yessir,
and now lookatcha. Just like the Ivory Tower to send such a
treacherous dog to do they dirty work…”
Franco’s gloved hands tightened hard enough the leather
squeaked. Gumshoe, exasperated, spoke with enough force it
almost echoed in that chamber.
“If you can stop insulting us for five minutes, we’ll be out of
what’s left of your hair, Uncle Charlie.”
“Nu Uh. I know you ain’t coming’ after my looks, You Wicked
Witch of the Rat’s nest. Ain’t my fault my Mistress didn’t seem
fit to make me when I was an Adonis. I was beautiful, bitch, and
I still am compared to you. Mmhmm, blessed. Still got a baby’s
arm holding’ an apple tween my legs. Set sought to have me
embraced as an old man cause y’all mothafuckas couldn’t handle
me in my prime. My Lord keeps me humble.”
Franco looked at Gumshoe, “We could kill him and just say he
was guilty.” While that may have seemed like a dirty,
underhanded holdover from his Sabbat days, Gumshoe had to admit
it wasn’t above them in the Camarilla. Just another dead
Serpent….
“Tempting. But let’s not press our luck.”
“Damn right. Guilty of what, you agents of Chickanery? What
y’all tryin’ to pin on my people now?”
“Final Death of Roland Marbroux. Ministry is top of the
suspects pile.”
Charlie made a dramatic aghast movement, holding his chest like
he was clutching his pearls.
“Well that’s just hurtful. Blasphemous, I tell you. My patience
growin’ thin with y’all, coming’ in here unannounced,
interrupting my social hour. Now you making threats, accusin’ me
of committing one of our most grievous—“
“Oh knock it off. You and the Setites got motive. Marbroux
caught a container full of Serpents trying to sneak in through
the port. He killed nearly a dozen of your Followers. That
demands retribution. Unless you can convince us otherwise.”
Uncle Charlie’s body language shifted, straightening himself and
dispensing with the mock outrage. He looked annoyed at them
both. Franco was waving his fingers, like a he were a gunslinger
at the ready. He didn’t look at Gumshoe. He didn’t look at
Charlie. He looked at the other men, ready to strike.
“There’s just two problems with yo’ theory, Detective Assface.
One, if we did want Roland Marbroux dead for killing a dozen of
our kind…. Well, we wouldn’t be letting’ y’all walk outta here
after finding’ us out. But number two is the biggest monkey
wrench to those gears spinning’ in yo heads. And that’s cause
Roland wasn’t an enemy to us. He was a Disciple of this here
Church.”
Franco cocked a brow. Gumshoe rolled her eyes back into her head
and glanced at the Lasombra. “See? Called it.”[/center]
#Post#: 523--------------------------------------------------
Re: Spooky Buddy Cop Drama
DIR By: Slick
Date: April 21, 2026, 8:55 pm
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[center]Realization dawned on Franco’s face. Gumshoe would see
it and tilt her head. The Lasombra filled in a gap.
“And those weren’t Serpents in the shipping container…. They
were Cobras,” he said dourly. Charlie’s grin widened, almost
impossibly so,
“That’s right. They was your cobras, weren’t they? Heretics of
our Clan, denouncing the Gifts of our Dark God and joining’ the
Sword o’ Caine.”
“Sabbat Setites. The Serpents of Lights,” Franco translated for
Gumshoe, who was cocking a jagged, bulbous eyebrow. Charlie spit
on the ground at the name of the bloodline, and so did those
around him. Franco went on, “They have ties to the Haitian
community, too. A Cobra Bishop from Miami promised to aid in a
Siege we planned decades ago. When they didn’t show, battle
plans fell apart,”
“Thas right. And Roland was our man on the inside. We the ones
told him ‘bout that shipping container coming’ in. Camarilla
doin’ our dirty work. Shiiiiiit. Prince should be here on his
knees thanking us for helpin’ save the city from the likes o’
you. You can tell 'em I said so.”
“Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my razor enema. So
Roland was in good standing with the Ministry?”
“Well, he had not been to service as often of late, I’m afraid.
Busy with work, I suppose. Hero cop n awl. But he was still
welcome into our nourishing embrace. Roland was an Addict’s
Addict, you see, and we have a phenomenal drug-outreach program.
Where you reach out and we give you drugs.” He thought himself
very slick. “Boy might have strayed, but not far. And no, I
don’t know who killed the dope fiend, neither. Yo guess as good
as mine.”
Of course, it could have all been bullshit. Lies meant to sew
distrust. Stir shit up for Butch, for the Prince. Maybe Sabbat
were in the mix now, too. Gumshoe was ready to call it a night
on Uncle Cherub Charlie, ready to get the hell away from his
half-naked ass and his incessant talking. He loved the sound of
his own voice and it was starting to grate on her. Franco,
either still in growing pains of how this gig worked, or simply
tying to find a reason to slap Charlie around, had more
questions.
“Any other Disciples we should know about? We wouldn’t want
anything bad to happen to them,” Franco very much wanted
something bad to happen to them.
Charlie just smiled flatly, shaking his head, “Oh no. We a
house of… [I]discretion[/I]. Now if we done here, please get the
fuck out, or I’ma throw you hounds in the fuckin’ dog pound.”
Two more figures bled from the shadows on the sides of the room
beside the Hounds. Gumshoe turned, checking their exit, hand
disappearing into her jacket.
“I think that’s all of our questions, Uncle Charlie. God, er,
Set Bless you..”
A third figure appeared near her, but a fourth screamed out. He
bled from the shadows, but the shadows were holding onto him.
Tendrils coiled around his body, lifting him into the air and
squeezing until the axe in his hand clattered to the ground.
Charlie’s eyes went wide, but not from anger. From fear.
Franco pulled the Lupara from a thin blanket of shadow that had
covered the back of his suit, aiming it at the man as he backed
away, looking at Charlie with a wicked fire in his eyes. He
pointed a finger gun at Charlie.
“Child of Darkness,” he pulled the finger gun back and jerked a
thumb towards himself, “Master of Darkness. Next time, they
leave the shadows in pieces, Chucky.”
The Setite warrior was dropped, the tendrils seeping back into
the darkest corners of the room. The others shied away from the
darkness as Franco and Gumshoe hastily made their exit. Charlie
was slapping the heads of his ghouls and henchmen.
“Don’t you listen to him. Set’s the God of Darkness. We of his
blood. You hear that, ya greasy Lasombra!? Y’all mighta been
born of darkness, but we were adopted by it. Molded by it, like
Batman! And he won! Not no Bane! Fuckin’ Jackboot comin’ in here
flexing’ shadows. Fuckin’ parlor tricks…”
[/center]
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