Post by The Mouth on Jul 4, 2014 11:29:49 GMT -8
Limerick, Ireland, 1st of May 2013
If you want a true expert you have to go to where they are. True experts, those rare few individuals at the top of their particular game are loathe to leave their comfort zones. They can demand that the mountain can come to them and generally can make that command a reality. Conferences exist in a large part to flatter egos and to get these rare birds to leave their cages to bask in the sunlight of adoration.
Also, to make it easier for those with a soft touch to get access to them in a less conspicuous way.
For criminals and revolutionaries there is a similar function; specialty, exclusivity, and restricted access. There are no conventions though - No, you have to go through a different kind of specialist. A fixer; a guy who knows other guys. It is not a position without risk; fees are often withheld and violence proffered especially when the expert has just fucked off with the clients money. After all if you found the expert once, the client will reason, you can do it again.
Kindred are no different. Can’t get in the door with out a note of introduction. Most of the time if no one in town knows who wrote the note then you are fucked; staked and left for the sun. Travel is risky. Unless you are a young jet-setter Yuppie lick like me. For us we have certain mobility; we know how to move around in the modern transit system. Means we can be in and out like nothing- An increased threat to the ancients because they can’t pin us down as easily and our crimes travel with us.
Fellow I’m looking for is two things: A fixer and a bomb expert.
‘Bomb expert’ in Ireland is a little different than most places. Most so called ‘masterminds’ are really just engineering students who managed to get the construction down without blowing bits of themselves into orbit. Funny thing about bombs is there are a lot of right ways and nearly infinite wrong ways. Wrong in this case being ‘boom’ anywhere off target. Right being on target or a fizzle. Oh, a profession in which simply failure is preferred. Most bomb makers prefer one method of construction; the bullshit ‘signature’ they talk about in movies. Why? Go with what works, and if it ain’t broke…
You can even tell who trained with who by the ways that get passed down in bomb maker ‘lineages’. The guys who defuse them get to know the designs as well. This gives law enforcement a leg up, because they talk to each other. Bomb makers tend not to because sharing techniques is a deviation from the ‘if it ain’t broke’ rule.
Unless you are Corbin Leary.
Corbin is an Anarch, an Assamite embraced during the Irish revolt of 1919. Corbin took a pretty extreme interest in explosives as a young vampire and has kept up with the literature in the mean time. But that isn’t why I’m talking to him.
I’m talking to him because he is an Irishman who hates the English. Which is why he is in Limerick instead of Belfast.
Limerick is where Yuria chose to roost. Pascek took Dublin and one of his toadies took Belfast. But since they are both ‘Prussian bastards’, according to Corbin, he only hates one of the invaders: Yuria.
“Tha’ Norman baitch needs to go; she is the bloody fookin queen of the devil sassenach.” Corbin said the first time we met a week ago.
“Well, that isn’t exactly why I’m here,” in my flattest Minneapolis accent. Selim helped me refine a trick I learned from Shakespeare: Always be a fucking foreigner. Tonight I am Kevin Lorrican, a fellow Assamite Anarch dodging the schism from the midwest, making friends across the pond after it got too hot at home. You know, cuz’ Kevin killed some local Elder in a plot almost clever enough to succeed.
Okay, I am also talking to him because he the Rain Man of explosives.
Thankfully, I won’t need an earth shattering kaboom.
“Aye, good to see the lads across the pond aren’t fookin losin thair touch. So, how we string the Sassenach? For real.” Corbin is a little restless. For that matter I’m a little restless.
Restless because I’m sitting across from a crater that’s been delayed for 94 years.
*30 MInutes Earlier*
“He’s got WHAT?!” I spit out at Selim.
“At least one grenade, a pipe bomb, a couple of loops of det cord, and some sort of home made plastic explosive. Also detonators.” Selim’s even tones imply a great deal of patience for his student and just the slightest regard of smug relief.
“And I’m supposed to sit next to him at a pub? What if he scuffs his shoes on the carpet too much? You know I bloody hate explosives.” It’s true. Melt a face with acid, in a heartbeat - Still true in my case. Making nitroglycerin? Completely out. Those berks just go boom and are all blessed if they do it out in the middle no where.
“I suppose you will have to… Adjust your level of comfort.” Selim is smiling, a flash of yellowed ivory in his coal black face.
Fuck. He did this on purpose.
*Now*
“Seriously. I’m laying low. I splash too big, even here, and they will fucking find me.” Corbin thought I was joking before. Now he’s sold on how serious I am about not doing the job.
The mood of our booth chills faster than Maggie Thatcher’s libido at the mention of the poor. “Selim said…”
“Fuck Selim.” Cutting him off and trash talking the great Selim seemed to almost push him over the edge, so I reel him back. “I am meeting you as a favor to him, but he doesn’t own me. And I am not going back to Minnieapolis in separate bags, catch my drift?”
“Oh, I catch your drift, ye right yank filth. How’s bout we try anotter way of convincin ye.” Shit. The stick. Corbin’s bringing out the stick and it’s going to be a boom-
“I’m a bomb makin’ genius ye fuckin mook. Used the Clan resources t’ get me all over the world and study wi’ the best. Ye do this job or ye can fuck off in pieces small enough to through a collander,” - Stick. Corbin looks positively mean, now, all smiling and letting his rep fill me with fear.
So, I best be scared.
“What? Selim didn’t say anything about -”
“Feck off, as ye said about Selim. He got ye here, that’s enough. And he’s the one that told me that ye got an in.”
“That son of a bitch…”
Corbin smiles his big ‘gonna get one on a Yank’ smile. “Yeah. Real help that Selim. So, you’re in it.”
“And if we pull this off?”
“I won’ kill ye. And ye get yer choice of land.”
For an Irishman that was about as big an offer as it got. Hundreds of years of being told that they were a nation of renters and tenants had made land ownership a bit fetishistic for the Irish. I knew Corbin was going to kill me anyway, just to cover his tracks; but the offer was tantamount to a large briefcase of cash for an American. Each area had their own Tradition that was inviolate, in Ireland it was Domain.
“K. But we do it my way; I’ve actually pulled this off. I need intel. I need a base of ops. And I need at least three cover ID’s. And I will have a shopping list, for which I will probably need at least 50,000 Euros for.”
“50K? Try for like 20.”
“30K. It’s an ops budget. And I will piss out money like an Irishman does whiskey.”
“Fine. But I’m the one in charge.”
I sigh. Lay my hands flat on the table. I still myself and reach for that place that Selim taught me, the howling, black place, the space my Beast fears and loathes, my reason.
“No.” Resonant, simple, intense. I pour my essence, my need for control, the powers of my Blood - Everything into one word. I stare Corbin in the eys, something most Kindred will not do.
He blinks.
“I said, my way. You have given me an operational task. I will plan, handle, and execute the op. You sign the checks. You have a deal with Selim, clearly, to have me handle the problem. I will handle it. But you and I? Beyond this, we are fucking done.” Without using a Discipline I am now certain that Corbin will understand our roles for the duration.
“Ye fuck this up…” Gamely, Corbin tosses out an attempt to re-assert dominance.
“Then you kill me. Which is, all probabilities, the worst you can do. You want the ‘sassenach bitch’ gone, I’ll do it. In under a year. But you wlll get me my money. My contacts. My shopping list. Then back to Belfast you go. I won’t have you jogging my elbow.”
Simmering like a pot that was taken off the heat, Corbin nods. We shake hands and two hours later I have my packages.
Pretty obvious why I needed a fixer - Connections are everything, and this is a short con as far as Kindred are concerned. No, I needed a bomb making Irish Assamite; because that kind of guy? With all eternity ahead of him he still like the thrill of making things go boom and risking his life to do it. In short I needed an angry fucker with an addiction to risk.
And now I have him.
Assamites
By Ben Vaughan
If you want a true expert you have to go to where they are. True experts, those rare few individuals at the top of their particular game are loathe to leave their comfort zones. They can demand that the mountain can come to them and generally can make that command a reality. Conferences exist in a large part to flatter egos and to get these rare birds to leave their cages to bask in the sunlight of adoration.
Also, to make it easier for those with a soft touch to get access to them in a less conspicuous way.
For criminals and revolutionaries there is a similar function; specialty, exclusivity, and restricted access. There are no conventions though - No, you have to go through a different kind of specialist. A fixer; a guy who knows other guys. It is not a position without risk; fees are often withheld and violence proffered especially when the expert has just fucked off with the clients money. After all if you found the expert once, the client will reason, you can do it again.
Kindred are no different. Can’t get in the door with out a note of introduction. Most of the time if no one in town knows who wrote the note then you are fucked; staked and left for the sun. Travel is risky. Unless you are a young jet-setter Yuppie lick like me. For us we have certain mobility; we know how to move around in the modern transit system. Means we can be in and out like nothing- An increased threat to the ancients because they can’t pin us down as easily and our crimes travel with us.
Fellow I’m looking for is two things: A fixer and a bomb expert.
‘Bomb expert’ in Ireland is a little different than most places. Most so called ‘masterminds’ are really just engineering students who managed to get the construction down without blowing bits of themselves into orbit. Funny thing about bombs is there are a lot of right ways and nearly infinite wrong ways. Wrong in this case being ‘boom’ anywhere off target. Right being on target or a fizzle. Oh, a profession in which simply failure is preferred. Most bomb makers prefer one method of construction; the bullshit ‘signature’ they talk about in movies. Why? Go with what works, and if it ain’t broke…
You can even tell who trained with who by the ways that get passed down in bomb maker ‘lineages’. The guys who defuse them get to know the designs as well. This gives law enforcement a leg up, because they talk to each other. Bomb makers tend not to because sharing techniques is a deviation from the ‘if it ain’t broke’ rule.
Unless you are Corbin Leary.
Corbin is an Anarch, an Assamite embraced during the Irish revolt of 1919. Corbin took a pretty extreme interest in explosives as a young vampire and has kept up with the literature in the mean time. But that isn’t why I’m talking to him.
I’m talking to him because he is an Irishman who hates the English. Which is why he is in Limerick instead of Belfast.
Limerick is where Yuria chose to roost. Pascek took Dublin and one of his toadies took Belfast. But since they are both ‘Prussian bastards’, according to Corbin, he only hates one of the invaders: Yuria.
“Tha’ Norman baitch needs to go; she is the bloody fookin queen of the devil sassenach.” Corbin said the first time we met a week ago.
“Well, that isn’t exactly why I’m here,” in my flattest Minneapolis accent. Selim helped me refine a trick I learned from Shakespeare: Always be a fucking foreigner. Tonight I am Kevin Lorrican, a fellow Assamite Anarch dodging the schism from the midwest, making friends across the pond after it got too hot at home. You know, cuz’ Kevin killed some local Elder in a plot almost clever enough to succeed.
Okay, I am also talking to him because he the Rain Man of explosives.
Thankfully, I won’t need an earth shattering kaboom.
“Aye, good to see the lads across the pond aren’t fookin losin thair touch. So, how we string the Sassenach? For real.” Corbin is a little restless. For that matter I’m a little restless.
Restless because I’m sitting across from a crater that’s been delayed for 94 years.
*30 MInutes Earlier*
“He’s got WHAT?!” I spit out at Selim.
“At least one grenade, a pipe bomb, a couple of loops of det cord, and some sort of home made plastic explosive. Also detonators.” Selim’s even tones imply a great deal of patience for his student and just the slightest regard of smug relief.
“And I’m supposed to sit next to him at a pub? What if he scuffs his shoes on the carpet too much? You know I bloody hate explosives.” It’s true. Melt a face with acid, in a heartbeat - Still true in my case. Making nitroglycerin? Completely out. Those berks just go boom and are all blessed if they do it out in the middle no where.
“I suppose you will have to… Adjust your level of comfort.” Selim is smiling, a flash of yellowed ivory in his coal black face.
Fuck. He did this on purpose.
*Now*
“Seriously. I’m laying low. I splash too big, even here, and they will fucking find me.” Corbin thought I was joking before. Now he’s sold on how serious I am about not doing the job.
The mood of our booth chills faster than Maggie Thatcher’s libido at the mention of the poor. “Selim said…”
“Fuck Selim.” Cutting him off and trash talking the great Selim seemed to almost push him over the edge, so I reel him back. “I am meeting you as a favor to him, but he doesn’t own me. And I am not going back to Minnieapolis in separate bags, catch my drift?”
“Oh, I catch your drift, ye right yank filth. How’s bout we try anotter way of convincin ye.” Shit. The stick. Corbin’s bringing out the stick and it’s going to be a boom-
“I’m a bomb makin’ genius ye fuckin mook. Used the Clan resources t’ get me all over the world and study wi’ the best. Ye do this job or ye can fuck off in pieces small enough to through a collander,” - Stick. Corbin looks positively mean, now, all smiling and letting his rep fill me with fear.
So, I best be scared.
“What? Selim didn’t say anything about -”
“Feck off, as ye said about Selim. He got ye here, that’s enough. And he’s the one that told me that ye got an in.”
“That son of a bitch…”
Corbin smiles his big ‘gonna get one on a Yank’ smile. “Yeah. Real help that Selim. So, you’re in it.”
“And if we pull this off?”
“I won’ kill ye. And ye get yer choice of land.”
For an Irishman that was about as big an offer as it got. Hundreds of years of being told that they were a nation of renters and tenants had made land ownership a bit fetishistic for the Irish. I knew Corbin was going to kill me anyway, just to cover his tracks; but the offer was tantamount to a large briefcase of cash for an American. Each area had their own Tradition that was inviolate, in Ireland it was Domain.
“K. But we do it my way; I’ve actually pulled this off. I need intel. I need a base of ops. And I need at least three cover ID’s. And I will have a shopping list, for which I will probably need at least 50,000 Euros for.”
“50K? Try for like 20.”
“30K. It’s an ops budget. And I will piss out money like an Irishman does whiskey.”
“Fine. But I’m the one in charge.”
I sigh. Lay my hands flat on the table. I still myself and reach for that place that Selim taught me, the howling, black place, the space my Beast fears and loathes, my reason.
“No.” Resonant, simple, intense. I pour my essence, my need for control, the powers of my Blood - Everything into one word. I stare Corbin in the eys, something most Kindred will not do.
He blinks.
“I said, my way. You have given me an operational task. I will plan, handle, and execute the op. You sign the checks. You have a deal with Selim, clearly, to have me handle the problem. I will handle it. But you and I? Beyond this, we are fucking done.” Without using a Discipline I am now certain that Corbin will understand our roles for the duration.
“Ye fuck this up…” Gamely, Corbin tosses out an attempt to re-assert dominance.
“Then you kill me. Which is, all probabilities, the worst you can do. You want the ‘sassenach bitch’ gone, I’ll do it. In under a year. But you wlll get me my money. My contacts. My shopping list. Then back to Belfast you go. I won’t have you jogging my elbow.”
Simmering like a pot that was taken off the heat, Corbin nods. We shake hands and two hours later I have my packages.
Pretty obvious why I needed a fixer - Connections are everything, and this is a short con as far as Kindred are concerned. No, I needed a bomb making Irish Assamite; because that kind of guy? With all eternity ahead of him he still like the thrill of making things go boom and risking his life to do it. In short I needed an angry fucker with an addiction to risk.
And now I have him.
Assamites
By Ben Vaughan