The boot struck with a crunching thud as Antonio kicked the fallen man in the side. Maybe he'd broken a rib or two. He laughed at the thought of that. Mr. Laying in the Gutter was too full of piss and vinegar. A sensible man would have handed over his wallet and car keys without a fuss. A sensible man would have told his bitch to hand over her purse and jewelery.
But Mr. Laying in the Gutter had had one too many drinks, or maybe he popped one two many pills.Either way, he wasn't putting up much of a fight now. Too bad. They'd have to kill both of them. People got murdered or disappeared nearly every night in Nachton. What were two more?
The brothers made a sweet racket from muggings along the bar stretch. Murder wasn't there thing. But rape wasn't either. Antonio stomped on Mr. Laying in the Gutter's fingers as he tried to curl up in a little ball. A little ball of ever increasing hurt.
Antonio's brother's decided the bitch was more interesting and dragged her kicking and shrieking like a stuck pig up against a wall. She stopped wailing when Francis backhanded her across the face with his fist and Jacob punched her in the stomach.
Antonio laughed as the bitch doubled over, only to be roughly pulled back up. He pulled out a knife and decided to start sticking Mr. Laying in the Gutter for a while. Stick him good like a pig and watch him bleed.
Francis spat at the bitch and grinned. He was about to backhand her again when he heard something clatter to the ground. Something metallic. He turned to see the busted up fuck but no sign of Antonio. His knife was lying on the ground.
Jacob and Francis exchanged surprised looks. Maybe Antonio had gone off for a piss, although he wouldn't have dropped his knife like that. Jacob dropped the bitch to the ground and strode over towards the knife. He carefully picked it up and looked about. It was difficult to see in the darkened alleyway. He called out his brother's name. No response. Francis kicked the bitch to make sure she stayed down and walked over to Jacob, calling out Antonio's name.
Francis heard a whisper from behind him and swung around, his face screwed up in confusion and anger. Nothing. "Fucking fuck." he cried in frustration.
Jacob suddenly fell against Francis. Francis stumbled backwards and almost tripped over Mr. Laying in the Gutter. "Fucking a Jacob. Watch what you're doing."
Jacob's response was to collapse to the pavement, his head sloping at an unusual angle from his neck. Francis almost crapped his pants. What the fuck was going on here? Francis backed away slowly. "I got a fucking gun, you cocksucker." He screamed.
Another whisper from behind him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "No, you don't. But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt shall I."He felt three sharp taps in rapid succession and then a blinding pressure in his head. Frances tried to move but his limbs refused to budge. He sputtered, blood and spit as his mouth worked in vain to speak. Frances continued to gurgle as his unseen attacker spoke gently, almost lovingly to someone.
"Your life or his. Choose now. Your companion won't live. But you have a chance to learn from your mistakes. Choose wisely."
Frances heard the bitch condemn him. He tried to protest, but nothing passed his lips except drool.
He gasped once as he was spun around and an open palm struck him in the chest like a sledgehammer. His heart stopped. Frances dropped like a puppet with his strings cut. The last thing he saw were black leather shoes. Nicely polished.
Walking the Strip (Private)
Humans were such industrious little creatures. Neon glow and harsh flickering lights lined the Strip as men and women of all ages scurried about, in and out of the multitude of stores that hawked all manner of goods and wares.
It was a bazaar of sorts, and Nachton was famous for the simple fact that this bazaar kept running day and night. Which of course was entirely convenient for the resident vampire population that called this city of shadows home.
And now it was Arran's home too. He strode the concrete sidewalks and would often stop to stare in the shop windows of stores that caught his attention, or to fixate his gaze on a human who had the misfortune to step across his path. Men inevitably pulled their eyes away to the side, while women did so with more reluctance. Children of course knew little of social conventions. They stared back, and usually smiled.
Arran acknowledged each with a rewarding smile and an almost imperceptible nod of his head as he passed by. But Arran wasn't looking for Lambs this night. He was interested to see where the Wolves were. The throngs of humanity grew thinner as the sidewalk became more cracked, and the twinkling lights above dimmed. Welcoming shop fronts were gradually replaced by iron grills and boarded up windows.
The wolves always hovered around the fringes, keeping themselves out of the light, watching and waiting to pull an innocent bystander off the street or from a parking lot, or to pluck them from the bars and clubs that infested this area of the Strip.
And he stood and waited and watched. And Arran's patience was eventually rewarded with a muffled cry and the sound of something heavy falling. Sweat, urine and fear. The alleyway stunk of it. He stepped so softly that the faded newsprint did not rustle as he made his way quickly through the dark.
The jangle of keys, an unanswered scream, a sharp crack. Arran increased his pace, his feet almost gliding across the street as he oriented himself towards the sound of violence. He landed on the dumpster and perched, birdlike as he surveyed the little humans and their dance of murder.
"You must understand brother. That there will always be sheep and wolves. And you do not wish to be a sheep."
"But that does not mean you have to be a wolf. You can soar high above the plains like the eagle."
"And hunt the wolf. Hunt the wolf."
Arran's lips parted in a thin smile as he watched the trio of men set upon a fourth, while a woman tried to crawl away.
"No-one pays for sheep." Arran whispered.
Arran
17 years ago
Arran
17 years ago
Amateurs. Arran thought as he stepped over the bodies and went to examine the cowered woman. Her companion wouldn't make it to an ambulance, let alone ER. But the woman was another matter entirely.
Arran soothed back her hair, removed his gloves and applied gentle pressure point techniques to stop the pain. With deft hands he reset her dislocated shoulder and pushed fingers back into place. His soothing voice, running with the delicate strings of Command kept her from screaming, but not from sobbing.
She stood against the wall, vainly trying to smooth out her ruffled clothes as Arran donned his leather gloves and dragged off the three bodies and hoisted them effortlessly into the dumpster. Not that the dumpster had been emptied in some time. Along with many things in this area of the strip, things tended to get lost or forgotten.
Her companion wasn't a boyfriend, not even a friend. Just some poor young fool who probably thought he would get laid tonight, instead of being waylaid. He was already missing his wallet and car keys, and there was no sign of a cellphone. Someone would miss him, but he wouldn't be reported for a while. Arran added his body to the dumpster and shut the lid without a second thought. If the woman was lucky no one would have remembered seeing her leave the nightclub with him.
But Arran didn't believe in luck. He worked her over with honeyed words that left her feeling like he was her closest friend and best confidant. He guided her quickly through the back streets and alleyways back towards the reassuring Neon glow of the Strip.
She turned to thank him and he plunged his fangs into her neck. She let out a gentle gasp and clutched his shoulders tightly, moaning softly as he drank deeply. Arran didn't need to feed very often but he always believed in balancing out one act with another. He licked the wound clean, and sent her on her way down an alley towards the garish lights of a taxi cab company stand.
She wouldn't remember him, or what transpired tonight. She would assume she was too drunk and had taken a taxi home. The Police might not buy that if they ever found the bodies and started investigating. But they could hardly draw upon the conclusion that a petite young woman had slain four grown men with apparent ease.
If they ever found the bodies. Arran laughed softly as he watched the woman step out of the shadows and into the light. Nachton was no different than Cape Town, Kingston or Budapest. There were areas here so dark that no-one, not even the Police would willingly go down. Some things were better left in the shadows.
((ooc - lock please))
Arran soothed back her hair, removed his gloves and applied gentle pressure point techniques to stop the pain. With deft hands he reset her dislocated shoulder and pushed fingers back into place. His soothing voice, running with the delicate strings of Command kept her from screaming, but not from sobbing.
She stood against the wall, vainly trying to smooth out her ruffled clothes as Arran donned his leather gloves and dragged off the three bodies and hoisted them effortlessly into the dumpster. Not that the dumpster had been emptied in some time. Along with many things in this area of the strip, things tended to get lost or forgotten.
Her companion wasn't a boyfriend, not even a friend. Just some poor young fool who probably thought he would get laid tonight, instead of being waylaid. He was already missing his wallet and car keys, and there was no sign of a cellphone. Someone would miss him, but he wouldn't be reported for a while. Arran added his body to the dumpster and shut the lid without a second thought. If the woman was lucky no one would have remembered seeing her leave the nightclub with him.
But Arran didn't believe in luck. He worked her over with honeyed words that left her feeling like he was her closest friend and best confidant. He guided her quickly through the back streets and alleyways back towards the reassuring Neon glow of the Strip.
She turned to thank him and he plunged his fangs into her neck. She let out a gentle gasp and clutched his shoulders tightly, moaning softly as he drank deeply. Arran didn't need to feed very often but he always believed in balancing out one act with another. He licked the wound clean, and sent her on her way down an alley towards the garish lights of a taxi cab company stand.
She wouldn't remember him, or what transpired tonight. She would assume she was too drunk and had taken a taxi home. The Police might not buy that if they ever found the bodies and started investigating. But they could hardly draw upon the conclusion that a petite young woman had slain four grown men with apparent ease.
If they ever found the bodies. Arran laughed softly as he watched the woman step out of the shadows and into the light. Nachton was no different than Cape Town, Kingston or Budapest. There were areas here so dark that no-one, not even the Police would willingly go down. Some things were better left in the shadows.
((ooc - lock please))