Fire in the hole

"We're the Real Brudya," Fat Ivan says. "Not like them pussies of the Masquerade." Black Oleg already informed us that the Masquerade hierarchy of Moscow is ruled by the Voivode, a hypochondriac Ventrev name of Lobachev who never leaves his palace.

We all make non-committal agreeable noises. See, some things don't really change after you're turned. After a weird night out, you grasp for straw and end up with weirdoes that might be idiots simply in love with the sound of their own voice, or might be murdering lunatics. They get all foamy about politics or their rights or whatever all the same. Goodmorning Radicals even exist in vampire land.

It stops being mildly funny when Fat Ivan says: "We've shared our food, now share our blood", and he holds out his arm. In vampire land this means as much as "we don't trust you worthless shits", this I can read clearly on Nika and Nat's faces. Anastas complains that in a way Yuri the Head had been nicer company. Lex had obviously other dreams when he came to Moscow to meet Brudya.

Me, I'm trying to calculate the stakes of this gang game. Sun's up, so it's too late to think about leaving now. Bastard waited so we'd have our backs against the wall. I knew there was something funny about all this. Nat and Nika are getting ready to huff and puff, and I'm not so keen myself to be the proud owner of a bloodloyalty to a smelly fatso biker, but hey. There's at least 20 of them, and let's be honest. I saw my buddies in fate fight, right?

So while we meekly line up, Fat Ivan goes on. Of course. Don't they always? I think of other mornings like this that found me sucking altogether different parts of a male to say thank you for a wonderful night. Fat Ivan killed his sire and then vampirized his whole biker gang. Yup, that's who the Real Brudya are. The finest Moscow has to offer. 32 of the fucking losers, with us makes 37. He's gonna start a war, show that diaper-shitting Ventrev idiot how it's done.

That's how my companions in fortune and me end up with the 32 other losers on an abandoned factory lot listening to Fat Ivan's manifesto. No more hiding for mortals! No more having to ask diaper-shitting Voivode for permission to make childes! No more-- Sigh. You get the drift. An SUV with darkened windows driving up pierces our stupor of utter boredom. Three guys get out: one sturdy vampire in military casual, cargo pants included, and a shiny sabre. Two ghouls with a funny mask and cape on, and something under the cape on their backs.

Sabredude and Fat Ivan have words.
Sabredude chops off Fat Ivan's head.
Ghouls whisk out flamethrowers and start having fun.


We, not so much. Blin! You think Rötschreck is bad? Try Rötschreck while having to keep an eye out for a sabre-swishing vampire all powered up to superhuman speed and on a killer streak...