Most of us start with our change. Our “Embrace”. That’s when our unlives began, and what happened before was nothing compared to what we were brought into.
I could begin at the beginning. I was born on…
I could begin when I first learned about the dark world around us. I saw some strange graffiti and for some strange reason, I understood its symbols…
I could begin when I met Yves. He was a fascist, of the old days, and believed in Adolf Hitler…
Instead, I’ll begin when I shaved my head.
It was 1981, three days after Reagan was shot. John Hinkley Jr. was infatuated with Jodie Foster and did it to impress her. I shaved my head to impress Yves, and the men he surrounded himself with. However, they weren’t men.
I was white power. A Nazi, and proud of it.
Send the blacks back to Africa, or kill them if they don’t want to go. Send the Mexicans back to Mexico or kill them if they won’t leave. Indians don’t belong here, in our schools, running our stores. Destroy their stores if they won’t sell them back to the white people who deserve them. Kill anyone who speaks Spanish. Firebomb the synagogues and kill all the Jews.
I spouted the words and sang the songs and made the salutes and carried a pistol down my ass crack and fucked the sluts who wanted to bear white babies for the cause. I was disowned from my family, didn’t finish my last year of college, and shacked up with Yves and his men in their four room apartment that had 15 people living in it. We smoked dope, fired rounds that sounded like pop rockets in the back, planned kidnappings and killings and firebombs.
Ah, those innocent days.
I guess it all comes back to the Embrace. That moment when panic sets in and you realize, “I don’t want to die!” But then, there’s that moment of clarity, when the “vitae” passes your lips, and your tongue tastes it – like damn, that’s fire and chocolate and life. You’ve crossed that line.
I crossed the Rubicon five days after Reagan was shot, on the day he went home from the hospital. That night, I was sober. Was I an orphan? Would I forsake my life for the Cause? Would I become a front-line soldier in the fight against the encroachment of minorities into pure American life? Would I do this…forever?
Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
They fed me, gave me one of the sluts that I almost drained dry in my attempt to slake my thirst, this burning thirst that is alleviated by two things. Blood and violence.
I prefer the violence, actually. It gives my body something to do. I am stronger and tougher and goddamn meaner than I was before. I know how to shoot a pistol – not the big .50 caliber monsters that most of the guys use. But I prefer a length of chain, about as long as my leg, and I use it as a whip. Sometimes I will use a chain with razor blades on them, just to get people bleeding and get the boys’ frenzy up.
Some asshole called me Indiana Jones and I punched him so hard his jaw went into the wall. They still call me that behind my back. Stupid kids.
Yves still leads us, and some said he drank the blood of an “older” vampire and is now “closer to Caine” as the hoity-toity Camarilla Ventrue call it, He’s the leader of our Rabble – and we’re damn proud to be called a Rabble. But when we get together with the other WP cells, we are movers and shakers. We bring the best speakers, the ones who will rile up the masses – both the prey and predators. Meanwhile we seven sharks mill through the waters, taking that pure white blood and enhancing our own selves.
I’m the youngest of the group, but not the most recently turned. My “generation” isn’t even enough to be registered. Some of the other clans kind of look at me funny, saying my thin blood is a sign of the end of the world. Yves thinks that’s a whole bunch of horse shit, and has protected me again and again to the Primogen, saying I’m a good little Brujah (as if there’s such a thing).
Trust me, I don’t fuck up. I do what they tell me, and I do it well. See, my head’s still shaved, so I still believe in the rights of the white man. Maybe some night, you can come along for a firebomb at one of those mini-marts downcity.
But then, I might have to kill you because you’ll know too much. That’s all right, I’m sure your pure white blood is tasty.