Bomber almost fell back in his chair, looking for all the world like a man exhausted. He put his head back, stared at the ceiling and pictured in his mind one of the many squad parties in Kuwait. His gunner Mancini had gotten his hands on a burqa complete with veil and wandered from tent to tent panhandling. Nobody seemed to notice the combat boots sticking out of the bottom.
Images like this calmed the Beast. He wasn’t lying telling the Scotsman that he needed to remember what he was in order to keep the Beast at bay. He only hoped that he could keep those memories over the years, centuries, or create new ones.
Where did my sense of comedy go? The Beast ate it. I’m not going to let it keep it.
He had a staff meeting with whoever was on tonight and basically reiterated that this was a goth club, not a porno club, not a sex club, but a club for music, dressing up, meeting up, and making out. But once things were exposed that shouldn’t be, and these were noticed or complained about, the offenders would be escorted out and banned for the night. Most importantly, he was not going to be the object of curiosity, and that alleged contest was over.
Bear knocked on the frame of the open door. “Hey, Bear.” Bomber sat up straight.
“You wanted to know about any boots because of drunkenness?”
“Yeah, c’mon in.”
Bear pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Over the last week, we had eight incidents of drunkenness. We had three fights we had to break up.”
“How many fights did you have a week with just beer?”
“Uh, one? Maybe two max? Sometimes none at all.”
“What about underage drinking?”
He nodded at that. “We caught a few of those. I didn’t track that cuz they left quietly.”
“Where, at the door or the bar?”
“Most of the time at the bar.”
Bomber leaned back. “I’m not liking the hard liquor, especially with so many underage kids.”
“How about you make it dry on certain days of the week or at times on the weekend?”
“The fights were on the weekend?”
“Yeah.”
“What does Anilia say about this?”
“Jacmes was the one pushing for the liquor license a long time ago.”
Bomber frowned. He’d live under Jacmes’ shadow until he took control of things himself. “All right. I’ll keep it in place for the next couple of months. If shit starts hitting the fan, I’m pulling the license.”
“Okay, boss.”
Bomber sat back. “Anything else going on that I need to know about?”
“Some o’ the Bitten are leaving.”
“Will they tell?”
“Dunno. A couple might.”
“What do you usually do in cases like this?”
“Depends. Jacmes used to just talk to them and told them to forget and they did.”
“Shit…What’s the other option?”
“They were taken care of.”
Bomber stared at him. “Killed?”
“I dunno. We never saw ’em again.”
Bomber sat back, looking around. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“They’re told never to talk about it to anybody else. It’s like a sorority or fraternity.”
“Things will get out eventually.”
“We take care of it then.”
He sighed. “Okay, Bear, thanks.”
With a brief nod, Bear got up and left. He looked heavenward. Here he was, owner of this little nightclub, and he was feeling queasy about people disappearing. How can I be ruthless enough to be a Prince of a city?
“Vampires are different,” he said quietly to himself. “They’re already dead.”
Words: 590
Inspiration: Showing Bomber’s eventual growing to become more ruthless as a Prince, but not as a protector.
Music: Draw the Line – Aerosmith
Comments: The club was meant initially to be Bomber’s proving ground for an eventual princedom over time, but when Amelia’s player panicked at being the leader of the Camarilla and asked me to take over, I had to move Bomber there ICly. Now he’s stuck.