Following Suit

[Erick Ganz]

Ah, card games with Kindred! A rare treat. Along the dangerous neon canyons of Las Vegas, one so undead is well-advised not to engage in games of skill, because you never know exactly who own the House. And if the House loses, and you are a blood-drinker with the potential to have unduly influenced the outcome of the gambling in your favor...well, let's just say your kneecaps are the least of your worries if the Giovanni get ahold of you.

So it was with much novelty that he-who-is-rumored-an-Elder Spirodon Kentaris sat down with us recently and offered an archaic card game for us to play: Whist. A deceptively simple game. I think I like it for that. It was from this game that the phrase "following suit" is derived. At least, so says Elder Kentaris.

It was he, myself, and the lovely Giovannis Octavia and Lydia around the table. Working in pairs for points, it was he and Lydia versus Octavia and me. We played a few practice rounds to understand the rules, and pattern, and general strategy.

There was ulterior motive to all of it, of course. Why else would the pinnacle of the Ivory Tower bother carousing with vitae-dredges such as we? He was taking our measure, I assume (correctly). He even made mention of the fallacy of 'chess' as the ultimate bellwether of thinking-man's capabilities. "Lacks interaction," he said. Or something to that effect.

In any case, after the first few rounds, he moved on to the meat: that the game was not nearly as interesting or vital without the threat of wager. Money was too passé of course. Alternatives?

"Truth or dare?" I suggested. "Losers must honestly and in detail answer a personal question?" Eyebrows rose! Interest was piqued! "The story of the first time you engaged in a physical altercation!" I suggested. "Or, at least, the first one you recall," I said, giving a subtle nod to the possible eons anyone around the table - save for myself, I will admit - may have already been in existence.

And so we played; played until one team had topped the other by at least three points. It only took two rounds, and Octavia and I were the winners! Somewhere in there Dragos had floated into sitting next to Octavia - he is quite smitten with her; sexually, magically, or sexagically I am not entirely sure - and watched intently to hear the results of the wager.

But it was Herr Kentaris who gave him the No-Face. But rather than shoo him away, the four of us adjourned to a private area to hear Spirodon's and Lydia's tales of early-life violence!

These stories you do not get to hear. But mine, however...

As I sat there through the two rounds of tournament, even I had to strain slightly to remember the very first fight I had ever been in, or at least recalled. But slowly, as the cards fell and my mind reached backward, the tendrils of memory finally coalesced into what I am...mostly sure is the truth of it.

It was at the orphanage of course; that gray and dreary dormitory that passed for charitable housing. Though mine and all the others were blameless for the lot that had lead us to those scuffed and pitted front steps, we might as well have been convicts for the way we were considered and cared for.

The fight occurred sometime within my first week...at least, no later than my first month. Everything we were provided was from a donation; usually outgrown hand-me-downs from the local community, or surplus goods recovered and deemed unwanted after the war. And so, like a prisoner, I was allotted a bar of soap, a toothbrush, a small box of toothpowder and a washcloth. I was also gifted with a new (for me) set of clothing: trousers, shirt, small suit coat for Sunday services, and - by the luck of some cosmic chance - a completely brand new pair of shoes.

They were a deep, rich auburn, with a soft shine that was almost a glow in the proper light. They fit me perfectly, and allowed me to stand-out (forgive the pun) from the rest of the unfortunates with whom I had to then co-habitate.

In the catch-as-catch-can world of post-war Austria though, such luxuries bred only envy, of course. And the biggest boy in my dormitory...whose name....whose name was...

I...I do not think I can recall. Well then, for the sake of the story, let's call him Rudiger. I like that. Has 'rude,' right there in it.

Rudiger was of that proto-Aryan stock; for all I know, he may very well have been a result of Herr Fuhrer's Lebensborn experiments. Tall, sturdy and blonde, his only deficiency from Master Race status were the hazel eyes, and a face that would make Mr. Rogers double-over.

I was as relatively slight then as I am these nights, though not quite the dandy I eventually became. Though those shoes were a good start! In any case, you see where this is going. I had very nice shoes, and Rudiger wanted them for himself. For whatever reason...oh, all right: he was an idiot. The idiot never realized the shoes would never fit him, but that was beside the point of course.

Rudiger caught me just after lights-out one night, creeping from his bed and across the chill dormitory floor. I suppose I should have heard the oaf coming; perhaps I did. In any case, before I knew it he had jumped on top of me, pinning me with his body while he held his washcloth in both of his hands, pressing it violently across my throat. As I choked, he informed me that the shoes were now his, and that if I protested, he would attack me in like fashion every night. Forever. And ever.

Children. You know.

Well, unfortunately for Rudiger's balls, he had positioned himself in such a way that, indeed, my upper body was effectively restrained by his weight, the washcloth, and my own sheets. But my legs were otherwise free, and I brought the bony thickness of my knee straight up into his groin without the smallest notion of restraint on my part.

I felt, more than heard, something pop, and then a warm wetness coated my knee. There was a brief - very brief - instant of total silence from Rudiger, just before a primal scream of anguish and...betrayal?...leapt from his throat, filling the dormitory. The pressure on my neck disappeared, and he rolled off of my bed clutching himself as he thudded to the floor.

I do not recall what happened to Rudiger after that; my memory suggests he never admitted to having been bested by one such as myself, which would explain why I do not recall being penalized for my part in his maiming. Ah, the benefits of personal pride, I suppose. So, I won that fight. I lost many, many others, of course. But I kept my lovely shoes, and they were - at least for a time - a symbol of a certain level of violent satisfaction.

So...wait. Ah! Ze fuffies!!

Perhaps things make more sense, now.