By Kevin Davies (mizake@mizan.demon.co.uk)
I'm going to put an end to all these rumours, right this minute.
In fact, this description doesn't even come close. The Prince is a tool of the highest order who would be intellectually overcome by the challenges of wiping his own nose if it came to it. He has all the higher functions of a sponge and the instincts of a lemming. He is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most useless excuse for a diplomat since the Greeks tried to convince the Trojans not to go to war by inviting them over to drink a few beers and light each others' farts. I have seen this man call a Blood Hunt against his own housekeeper for the heinous crime of 'looking at me in a funny way'. I have watched him indulge in long and complex discussions with representatives of the Tremere from across the river, and have to leave the room every few minutes to ask his viceroy what the fuck they were talking about. I have witnessed him asking a Nosferatu what her favourite brand of lip gloss was. This man is a danger to himself, all around him, and anyone who has ever heard of him. He is a constant reminder that, despite thousands of years of cultural adaptation, we Kindred are just two steps away from knocking stones together, living in caves, and pointing at the moon and going "Ug!"
I guess all of this must be part of why I love working for him. It's been two years now since I entered the Prince's employment, and what a merry ride it has all been so far. From those first days when I spent all my time pretending to be a Toreador, having to talk about art and sculpture and smiling until I thought my face was going to split open, right through to now, when I consider myself lucky not to have had my head hacked off because I stepped on the cracks on the sidewalk, or something like that. Course, there's lots of other places I could have gone, maybe had better hours, better fellow workers, a boss who knew the meaning of the word 'tact', but when you're in my tired old boots, you don't have much choice. Most people would have puked in their hats and run me out of town the second they heard the word 'Coprophage'. There's others who wouldn't even waste that second and would have cut me into little stringy cubes as soon as I said the first syllable. Thankfully, my dear employer, not being the most well-read of aristocrats, didn't pay much attention when he found out what I really am. I still believe he thinks it means I'm from Australia. Anyway, whatever his delusion, it means that I'm safe for now, even if I am surrounded by plenty of others who think I should be hung from the weathervane with a sign round my neck saying 'Pervert'.
It wasn't easy pretending to be a Toreador, I have to say. People would ask me what I thought about the latest re-interpretation of Verdi, and I'd reply that I didn't care how many times they changed it, I'd still prefer ravioli. If I was lucky, they would laugh and compliment me on my wit and verve. If I wasn't, they would look at me as though I'd just asked if I could eat their sire's armpit. It was almost a relief when one of the Prince's informers came to him bearing the news that my story was a complete sham, and that I was, in fact, a foul and debauched Coprophage. The Prince looked about as impressed as a slab of granite, by all accounts. Said he'd have to consider this carefully. The next evening, he had the informer executed. Apparently, he'd been 'found in possession of an offensive cologne'. Didn't surprise me one bit. Anyway, things got a whole lot easier after that. I gave up on the artistic leanings and started talking about things I knew about: sex, restaurants, Humphrey Bogart movies, sex, very loud music, ice cream, detective novels, banana daiquiris and sex. At least then, with everything out in the open, the Prince became certain that we had absolutely nothing in common. I think he maybe even started to like me.
Whatever, he promoted me (whatever the hell that means -- I still don't know exactly what job it is I do, but I try not to let it bother me), and so I ended up spending four nights a week instead of two standing around waiting for some idiot to try and kill me. I suppose you could call me a hunter of sorts. Basically, when the Prince has engaged his hatred circuits against some poor slob, he sends me out there into the big, bad city to track them down and eliminate with extreme prejudice. Says I'm the best one for the job. I guess I am, really -- let's face it, when you have nothing more to go on than a drop of blood, a slick of sweat or a puddle of stale pee, there aren't really many people you can call in to seek and destroy. So I sniff around and hope that I don't stir up something that's too hot to handle. Which is how I found myself hunting down a pack of hairy, heavily-armed maniacs across a couple of city blocks with a mouthful of dogshit.
Apparently someone had broken into one of the Prince's favourite pleasure houses and smashed the place to pieces. Obviously they weren't familiar with his temper, or they thought they were big and tough enough to weather it. Whatever -- the place was a mess. Myself, the Prince, and a couple of his more careful employees went to investigate. His Highness was not happy. In fact, His Highness looked about to explode at any minute. I decided it was time to make a hasty exit, before someone was chosen as a sacrificial victim to the great god Pissed Off. I managed to make it into the back room before the shouting began and hoped that it wouldn't last too long. The argument behind me had apparently degenerated into mindless violence by the time I realised that I was almost certainly in deep trouble. There was a pile of dogshit on the floor. I knew that this was not a good thing. Not for the carpet, not for the Prince's sense of style, and certainly not for me. That pile of dogshit meant that I was going to have to investigate. Up until that moment I had thought that His Idiocy would just take out his anger on a couple of servants, maybe the odd visiting dignitary, but generally just let out his frustrations at random. But now -- as soon as he saw that, he would look at me with his little piggy eyes and tell me to get straight onto the case. "Munch away," he would say, "enjoy yourself. And then bring me the head of the motherfucker that did this." I wouldn't normally have been so concerned about my own personal safety -- dedication and devotion and all that -- but this place looked like it had been taken apart by Godzilla after a week-long drinking session. Judging by the holes in the walls, it had to have been vampires, at least four or five of them, and every single one bearing a grudge the size of Alaska. I didn't rate my chances. I decided the best way to get out of a potentially tricky situation was to destroy the evidence. And anyway, I was hungry. So I knelt down on the floor and started eating my way through the dogshit.
After the first mouthful, I realised that I had no idea what kind of dog it had been -- I couldn't recognise the taste at all, though it was vaguely familiar to me. It was slightly bitter, very musky. Not like anything I'd ever tasted before. I kept on eating. After the second mouthful, I realised that this had been one hell of a big dog, and that its diet seemed to consist almost entirely of fresh meat, slightly sweet, a little like pork but not quite. I scooped up another handful and carried on. Midway through the third mouthful the Prince stormed in just as I realised what kind of dog it had been. My mouth must have been hanging open, as he turned away with that 'Oh my god how can you be so revolting' expression on his face. I gulped down what was left in my mouth and tried to force out a coherent sentence. I think I managed to get as far as the first syllable. "Wuh-" I said, and stopped.
"What?" replied the Prince, holding a handkerchief over his nose and looking down on me with a suitably disgusted expression. "What did you say?"
"Wuh-" I repeated, contemplating the sense of impending doom that was seeping in through my body's every orifice.
"Out with it!" he shouted, ramming his cane into the wooden floor. "What have you found?"
"Wuh- wuh- werewolf," I finally managed, and sank to the floor in a useless heap, my whole body taken over by the encroaching gloom and feeling like a dead weight on the end of my mind.
"Werewolf?" cried the Prince, utterly enraged by this revelation. "The filthy, hairy, smelly, unwashed, primitive, howling bastards!" He brought his cane down in exactly the wrong place, showering me with shit. It pretty well summed up how things were to go on.
After a brief wash and a couple of hours spent listening to His Most Furious Majesty's ranting, I was assigned my duty. I would track down the foul heathens who had done this. I would confront them, I would make them pay for what they had done. I would bring back their heads to the Prince, and if I did not succeed then I would die. To make it easier, he told me I could borrow something from his armoury. However, I already knew that his armoury did not include a tank, so that didn't make me feel all that much better. I selected the biggest gun I thought I could carry, which, to be brutally honest, wasn't very big at all. I then spent the best part of an hour searching in the vain hope that someone had acquired some silver bullets. I didn't find any. No surprise there. Realising I'd do as much damage with a water pistol, I trudged off to begin my investigations.
The building was still a wreck, no matter how much imagination I applied in trying to make it look better. I made my way into the back room and sat down before this large pile of dogshit, thinking how funny it was that it had been a lump of shit that had put me right in the -- never mind. I sighed deeply and took a handful of the stuff. Yep, that was from a Lupine, alright. Couldn't imagine how I'd missed it before. Probably the excitement, the worry, the panic, the prospect of imminent decapitation -- at any rate, this was werewolf shit. I popped it into my mouth and closed my eyes, letting its taste flow around my head, hoping that it would give me some kind of flash of inspiration. All I got out of it was a vague image of the full moon and a nagging sense that I was going to get one hell of a bout of indigestion. I swallowed it and decided to look around for other clues.
Now, us Coprophages, you might think that we would be the last people on earth to be shy about anything, but there are certain things we just don't do in front of other people. One of those is the wonderful expanding nostril trick. It's a great way of getting a feel for a place by letting in as many odours as we possibly can. All we need to do is flex those nose muscles a little and inhale deeply. Pretty simple, really. Only thing is, it makes your nostrils widen until you could fit a ping-pong ball up each of them, so it's best to avoid doing it while around the squeamish. I learned this to my cost early on in my career when I tried it on a crowded dance floor, just to get a little more insight into the girl who was gyrating in front of me. The end result was she had to be carried away on a stretcher after fainting so suddenly she cracked her head on my steel toecap. So I just don't do it anymore unless I'm sure I'm alone.
Well, this pretty much qualified, so I wriggled my nose a little and took in as much of the stale air as my lungs could contain. Then came the problem of trying to sort out the dozens of different scents which lingered on here. I took them slowly, one at a time, taking care not to let myself get carried away. The strongest -- patchouli. Somebody had gone to great effort to make sure this whole place absolutely stank of patchouli. I hate patchouli.
Next came the dogshit, unsurprisingly. Musky and slightly tart, with not so much a wild as a tamed feel to it. Like a tiger who'd been trained to jump through hoops. Or a monkey that had learned to communicate in sign language. I got the feeling that whoever had left us this offering was more of a city wolf than a wild one. Perhaps it had just been living here too long. Anyway, helped a little more than the patchouli. After that was something burnt, something charred and blackened. I couldn't quite figure out what it was, but it seemed fleshy. Like a piece of meat that'd been left on the barbecue for too long. It was probably a clue, but I couldn't make it out, so I skipped it and moved on.
Under that was blood. Lots of blood. Hundreds of pints of blood. It was almost stifled by the smell of strong industrial cleaner, but it was still there. I couldn't help but shiver, but I already knew how much pleasure the Prince had had in this place, so I suppose I should have expected it really. No real way of sorting one drop of blood from another, so that was a dead end. Then came something far more interesting. Sweat. Just a lingering trace of it in the air, but I leapt on it swiftly. The Prince liked his prey to be relaxed and carefree, so I didn't really rate the chances of it being part of his vast herd. No, this was more likely the sort of thing I was looking for. I flared my nostrils wider and took in more of the scent. The same musk was there, much lighter, but unmistakable. I closed my eyes and pushed all the other odours out of my head, concentrating on that single aroma. No cologne to mask it -- very 'back to nature' -- only that damn patchouli that got everywhere. Going deeper inside it I saw an image of a man begin to build up behind my eyes. Middle-aged, fairly respectable, not used to doing this sort of thing at all. A slight oily tang to it -- something sexual? Maybe. Getting a kick out of smashing things up at least. Quite a large man, muscular I think, though seems to be letting it slip a little. And there -- right at the bottom of it all, a touch of sourness. Guilty conscience, I thought. Well, who could blame him? I memorised the scent and opened my eyes again. They were beginning to water from all the patchouli. I decided to give up on hunting for smells and go on what I already had. My nostrils snapped back into place ("Ow fuck," I mumbled) and I wandered back outside to hunt a man I knew only by the smell of his perspiration.
I started in what was laughingly referred to in this town as the 'Business District', as though five streets of crumbling office blocks and a wrecking crew amounted to a district. I'd guessed that the man was a professional and this seemed the most likely place to begin. After being propositioned by three guys in suits and insulted by another two in uniforms I was feeling pretty pissed off, and no closer to discovering the identity of my friend. I'd even wasted some of my hard-earned cash on getting a couple of taxis to see if I could spot any trace of him there. I was tired; it was a couple of hours away from dawn, and that damn gun was becoming very heavy inside my overcoat. I stopped at a nearby hamburger bar to have a rest and get something to eat. As soon as I walked through the door I was assaulted by a furious rush of smells; hot fat, reprocessed meat, stale bread and rumbling bowels. It appealed in the worst possible way. The boy behind the counter looked like he was a mix of at least seven different races from four different continents, and sounded as though he had remained faithful to all of them by never learning any one language to anything more than a basic level. I ordered some fries. He asked me if I wanted fries with that. I told him to go fuck himself. He smiled genially at me and giggled like an idiot before skipping into the kitchen.
I sat at a flimsy table, my back to the window, and regarded my fellow patrons. There were two of them. One was asleep, face-down in his half-eaten burger. The other was toying with his fries as if deciding whether to eat them or pick his teeth with them. I looked down at mine and felt a hollow wave of despair ran through me as I realised that the essence of this town at 4 am could be summed up entirely in a damp carton of french fries. The sleeping man raised his head and belched loudly. For a second I could smell nothing but cheap Mexican beer, half-cooked burger and harsh tobacco. I winced and watched as he hefted himself up and staggered towards the men's room. He fell through the door, dragged himself to his feet again, and disappeared inside. Dinner at last, I thought. I waited a minute then followed him through.
The toilet was a stinking little hole, as I'd expected. There was a single washbasin, badly cracked and lined with vomit. Above it was a stained mirror which looked like it had been sprayed with lead shot. It made me look as though I had an infectious skin disease. Opposite these were two toilet stalls, both doors slightly ajar. Grunting noises issued from the nearer one. I pushed the door lightly and smiled benignly as I looked down upon the textbook example of Stone Age Man I now saw slumped upon the toilet seat with a limp cigarette hanging, unlit, from his upper lip. I coughed. He looked up at me with glazed eyes.
"Wadjuh doon'?" he slurred at me.
"Oh, nothing," I whispered, toying lightly with his hair. "Just need something you're about to throw away, is all -- " The man grunted again as the stall door swung shut behind me. I'll leave the rest to your imagination; I know how fussy some folks are.
I fed quickly; I didn't have much choice. Round here they're pretty suspicious when two men spend a lot of time together in the bathroom. Needless to say, I left my neanderthal friend sleeping like a baby and none the worse for his encounter. That's another thing with us Coprophages; we're just so nice when we feed.
As I was leaving the bar the employee of indeterminate race shouted at me that I'd forgotten to eat my fries, was there something wrong with them? I replied that even shit tasted better, and made my exit swiftly.
It was 4:25 now and I really didn't feel like running round in circles any longer. Realising that waiting around for a cab at this time would be like waiting for the second coming, I wandered in the general direction of what I lately called home. It was about two miles away but the walk might just clear my head. I'd made it as far as the bus depot when the scent struck me like a bullet in the back of my brain. He'd been here, and recently. It was much stronger, masked only by the diesel fumes all around me. I raised my nose to the air and sniffed it out. It was only a few hours old -- he'd probably been there around midnight, maybe one. He was feeling nervous, but excited, a little like an expectant father, I'd guess. I followed the scent back to where it was strongest, in a phone booth by the main doors to the depot. The floor was covered with piss. Of course. Anything to make things difficult for me. I sniffed away at the telephone, trying to find traces of his scent on the buttons. It wasn't easy. At least fifteen people had used it since he was there. Besides, I'd been sniffing around all night long and my nostrils felt like they were on fire. I decided to go for the more direct approach, and licked each number in turn.
One -- nope, that one tasted of oil and grease, probably one of the depot workers had used it. Either that or some poor slob who'd visited the same burger bar I had.
Two -- yes, but only faintly. Probably only pushed it once.
Three -- yes, again. Stronger this time.
Four -- nothing except a dash of nicotine. Never liked that taste much.
Five -- very powerful, that one. Pushed it at least three times, maybe four. Could be something there, write it all down.
Six -- faint again.
Seven -- whoever pushed this number last had just pissed all over their hand. Didn't people in this part of town appreciate personal hygiene?
Eight -- antiseptic, something like formaldehyde. Vaguely unpleasant, I had to spit it out straight afterward.
Nine -- another taste of nicotine. These people just didn't have any respect for their own health.
Zero -- another faint taste. So, all in all, that told me he had dialed the numbers 2,3,5,6 and 0. Not much to go on, but that's a start. I lifted the receiver and licked the mouthpiece gently, hoping to find a taste reminiscent of that sour muskiness. Sure enough, it was there, but hidden in a much stronger flavour of fried chicken and throat lozenges. Well, at least now I knew what he had for dinner. And his breath seemed to have come in sharp outbursts, highly accentuated, as though he was shouting. I returned the receiver to its cradle and wrote down the numbers I had discovered. Whistling to myself like someone who wasn't marching onward to his almost certain death, I wandered back homeward.
Halfway there I encountered a couple of punks who wanted my wallet, but that didn't matter. I was still hungry anyway.
I slept soundly in my little pit with the gun beneath my pillow. God knows why, it only made me more nervous there. But I felt like I should at least keep it nearby, since my lord and oh-so-gracious master had been kind enough to lend it to me.
I woke at eight and immediately started up my computer. Now, what most people think of when you mention the word 'computer' is a nondescript looking box which contains one of the greatest marvels of modern technology. Mine was, if you like, an anti-computer. From the outside it looked spectacular, all sleek, black and streamlined, with my name painted across it in beautiful silver letters. When you actually tried to use it, though, you began to wonder if a notepad and pencil would be faster. It clicked and whirred into action; action in this case meaning it spent three minutes displaying nothing but a black screen bearing the logo of an electronics firm that had gone bust sometime in the last decade. I made myself a cup of coffee while I waited.
Now, of course, coffee doesn't have any noticeable effect on me any more, obviously; I don't even find it tastes pleasant nowadays. It's just tradition, okay? Can't start the evening properly until I've had myself a cup of coffee. One of my mental scars, I guess. Not one that's likely to send me screaming into the arms of a bunch of Malkavians, but it's there, anyway. I played with stuff in the kitchen for a while until I heard the tell-tale buzzing noise that meant my machine had finally booted up.
Now the monitor displayed a primitive menu of twenty-four options. I was proud of the fact that I'd programmed it myself. It was this simple and ludicrous pride that had prevented me from ever going out and buying a half-decent operating system. Now what the hell did I need that for? If I ever so much as tried that on this machine, it'd probably just wheeze a couple of times, maybe start singing 'Daisy, Daisy' and then shut itself off forever. No, I had just as much as I needed here. So I kept telling myself, anyway. I selected option 17, the telephone directory database. While my painted Babbage machine buzzed, whirred and clicked, I wondered just how exactly I thought I was going to figure this out. This was pretty much a token gesture at trying imaginative tricks and had about as much chance of producing a decent result as wandering out into the street and yelling "Tag! You're it!". But I had to give it a shot.
The database loaded up and I entered in my search parameters; as soon as I had done so I knew that it was going to take the best part of the night to come up with any answers, so I dressed warmly, hid the gun away inside my overcoat again, and climbed on board the first bus to come along. Wouldn't you know the son of a bitch was sitting in the driver's seat?
Most of my guesses had been right; he was middle-aged, fairly muscular, had the look of a respectable man about him. Okay, so he was a bus driver rather than a suit -- hell, I can't get everything right. That scent of musk was fairly powerful, and I could tell that he was in some way related to whoever had deposited a heap of werewolf shit on our doorstep. He wasn't a Lupine, though -- I was certain of that. There was something far too mundane about him, far too close to the ordinary world. I sat staring at his reflection in the mirror and tried to take in as much information as I could. His badge said his name was Rupert Dorff, 'and I'm happy to drive you!'. He had a thick, bushy moustache which made him look as though he should have been a general in a 1950s war movie. No wedding ring. One of his teeth was made of silver and it sparkled like he had a tiny star inside his mouth. When he spoke it sounded like a miniature thunderstorm was about to start. There were a host of other facts I committed to memory, but most of them were so tedious I wondered myself why I was bothering to memorise them.
I rode the bus for as far as I thought I could without raising suspicion, and got off near one of my favourite clubs, of the sort that doesn't usually open until well after midnight and won't let you in unless you're wearing at least one chain. I felt like killing a little time until I could investigate this more thoroughly. And anyway, I was hungry again. The club was closed. They weren't going to let me in. I convinced them.
I left at just after two and got a cab to a couple of blocks past the bus depot. Walking back through the rain-slicked streets I let my thoughts wander from my investigations to the pretty girl who'd danced with me back at the club. Her name began with C -- I think -- and she had a face like an angel. She dressed in solid black with dyed white hair and had a big silver star hanging from her ear. She danced like a tornado to Death In Vegas and like a ballerina to The Cranes. Her voice was like soft rain falling on a darkened beach. She laughed like a tiny bell and drank nothing but amaretto. After a few soft words she'd said she was in love with me. Round about now she'd be waking up in the toilet with her panties round her ankles wondering what the fuck had happened to her.
The bus depot, when I eventually reached it, was dark and empty. The air was still warm and so I guessed they hadn't been closed for long. I sniffed the air and smiled when I caught the scent of dear Mr. Dorff. It was time to enter a new stage in my investigations. I climbed in through a back window which was wired with one of the most easily-broken alarm systems on the market. Inside I found myself in a tiny office with maps on the walls -- the kind people stick pins in, either to perform some obscure voodoo ritual or just to make them look important -- and a grubby plastic desk opposite the door. The name plate on the desk read 'O. MERRILL', and, judging by the smell, Mr. Merrill was a man who used his office considerably less for work than for getting stinking drunk. Two bottles of whisky were in a locked cabinet behind the desk. I didn't need to look -- I could have smelled them through a brick wall. I made my way out of the office and into the main hall.
I sniffed around for Mr. Dorff and found the strongest scent came from a door on the far right, by the entrance to the buses. Inside were a series of metal lockers. His was the third from the left, and, oh lucky me, he hadn't bothered to lock it tonight. I opened it up and saw his uniform there, the 'happy to drive you!' badge still pinned to it. I checked all the pockets and found -- in ascending order of importance -- a comb, a map of the town, a pocket fan that wasn't working any more, a matchbook from the Delphi Motel, a greasy cloth and three scraps of paper.
I concentrated on the scraps of paper. The first featured a hastily scribbled timetable of bus services in the area. The second had a woman's name written on it in red ink -- 'Tara Knox'. And the third -- oh how my lucky stars are shining -- was a telephone number. '25-0535-63' it read, and beneath that, 'L. Chance'. Hmmm. Intriguing.
I arrived home just after 3:30 and checked the results of my database search. At the top of the list was '25-0535-63'. I cheered myself up with the knowledge that my investigative ability was not based solely on pure chance after all. I tried to decide when it would be best to call L. Chance. I wondered if it would be considered rude and obnoxious to call them now, in the middle of the night. I decided it would, but I didn't really give a shit. These people, whoever they were, were about to ruin the rest of my life; I should at least have the opportunity to spoil a single night's sleep.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang twelve times before an extremely groggy male voice answered: "Who the fuck is this?" I put on my most courteous and polite telephone voice and said "Hello, would this be the Last Chance Saloon?"
"Har-de-fuckin'-har," the voice replied, and hung up. Not much, but at least I got to hear his voice. Very gruff, almost animalistic. And that, no doubt, was exactly what I was looking for. I checked my telephone database for the address; it was the other side of the river, right by the public parks. In short, just the place a wolf would want to live in this town. I was almost there. If I'd been able to, I'd probably have shit myself.
I awoke that night with a splitting headache and a return of the sense of impending doom. I decided to ignore it and follow my leads anyway. There wasn't much else to be done, unless I felt like dropping in on the boss to see how many servants he'd had executed since I last saw him.
That didn't appeal much to my sense of fun.
I gathered together a few items I thought I'd find useful and made for the river, taking care to pass through a couple of bars on the way. Didn't want to meet danger on an empty stomach now, did I? And anyway, it was still too early. When I made it across the bridge and into the parkland it was getting close to midnight, and I was practically praying that I didn't hear any howling noises. Thinking it was best to err on the side of caution, I prepared myself well before arriving at the address.
Wolves are very good at smelling things. Coprophages are better, of course, but wolves (and their bigger, nastier cousins) are good enough to pick out a solitary being in the middle of a wood in complete darkness at a distance of, oh, say -- a couple of miles. In an urban environment it would be much more difficult, but here, right on the edge of the park, I was highly exposed. But there were a couple of things in my favour, and one against me.
For a start, vampires don't sweat, which eliminates a lot of their scent. Nor do they breathe, unless they want to, which also helps. Unfortunately, werewolves have a habit of picking out vampires from a huge crowd of people. Guess we just don't mesh, I suppose. But this occasionally causes a problem. However, I had taken some precautions.
Firstly, I was carrying a large bottle of bleach (useful item number one), which just happens to be marvelous for eliminating scents. Secondly, no fucking way was I just going to walk through that park. Park means trees. Trees mean nature. Nature means wilderness. Wilderness means werewolves. Vampires just don't belong there. End of story.
So I was going through the sewer.
This wasn't a prospect I relished. Every damn investigation I go on, I seem to end up in the sewer at some point. You may think that I'd love it down there, seems like the perfect place for a Coprophage to wander and idle away the hours, doesn't it? Well, just because I eat shit doesn't mean I like to wallow in it. Frankly, I was getting sick of going into the sewer, but at this stage it didn't look as though I had much choice.
I took out my sewer key (useful item number two) and, when I was sure nobody important was watching, lifted the nearest sewer cover. Immediately I was presented with all those wonderful, familiar smells. Yum-yum. I lowered myself down into the murk and pulled the cover down above me. The smell was as overpowering as ever, as were the sounds of water rushing all around me. It was turning into something like practically every other mission I had undertaken for the Idiot Prince, except this time I wasn't daring to rate my chances of survival. My head was spinning, my heart was pounding (I don't care if that's impossible, I still say it was); I headed off in the general direction of L. Chance's saloon. Naturally, it was at this time that the indigestion triggered by eating a pile of werewolf shit started to kick in.
Figures.
After a lot of running on instinct and the occasional scent here and there, and the sudden lack of a map (useful item number three had fallen into the muck and been washed away, and was probably now being used as luxury bedding by a family of rats), it finally felt like I was almost there. I'd flared my nostrils out about as far as they could go, and still had trouble identifying the distinctive smell of werewolves over the stink of shit in this place. But I carried on like the good little soldier I am, and the smell gradually became more and more powerful. I was sure that by this time I must be away from the park, so I found the nearest sewer cover and forced it open. I dangled from the edge of the road above for a couple of seconds, then dragged myself up, painfully aware of the fact that I must have really stank by this stage. But at least that was a help; hopefully the werewolves would generally assume a vampire would smell like a vampire, rather than an overflowing latrine. I hauled myself up the last few inches into fresh air, and, once the smell of down below had begun to fade from my nostrils, it slowly dawned on me that someone was standing behind me.
I turned my head and found it pressed against the barrel of a very respectably- sized revolver. "Hold it right there, son. Don't do anything funny. Just climb up out of the sewer and make sure I can see your hands."
Oh, thank Christ for that, I thought to myself. It's only a policeman. Just as the nice man asked, I clambered out of the sewer, keeping my hands in full view. The officer -- who obviously didn't realise just how laughable it was to refer to me as 'son' -- kept the revolver pointed at my head and looked down briefly to take a pair of handcuffs from his belt. At this point I was in a hurry, so I didn't bother with subtlety. I took a deep breath and spat a mouthful of ichor into his face, striking him just below his eyes. Somehow I didn't think he was expecting that, as he keeled over backwards and dropped his revolver into the sewer. I quickly pulled the cover back over and dragged the cop into the bushes by the side of the road. With some luck, he'd likely regain consciousness in an hour or so, and he'd never know just how fortunate he'd been. I don't often aim to miss the eyes, but then, I'm all heart.
I looked around for a street name, and immediately regretted it when I found one. This was the right street. L. Chance's house was about two hundred yards away to the left. I guess my lucky stars had just decided to go supernova.
Still standing in the bushes, I took out the bottle of bleach, took a couple of gulps of it to freshen myself, and poured the rest all over me. I hated the smell of it, but needs must. It was only at this point that I realised that the werewolves would probably find very little more unusual than their house suddenly being invaded by an overpowering smell of bleach. Oh, well, what the hell. I knew they were going to kill me anyway. May as well make their noses itch and their eyes water while they do it.
I tried my best to stay hidden in the bushes as I wandered up the street, and considered my options. I wasn't sure whether this was just to be a reconnaissance mission or a full frontal assault. I'd have preferred the reconnaissance option, but looking at things realistically, I didn't think I had much chance of remaining undetected. Still, I could always try.
I could see the windows of the house now. All the lights were on, and I could see several figures, big figures, in what seemed to be the living room. It looked like there were no more than five of them. Sure, I thought. Five, no problem. Easy as pie. Take them out without a moment's thought. It's be just a bit of exercise for me.
Ha.
When I got close enough, I took a deep breath and tried to catch something of what was going on in there. I made out five distinctive scents -- see, I was right -- and each one of them seemed highly agitated. One of them was apparently on the brink of violence. The other three were simply very nervous and tense. I got the feeling they were waiting for someone or something, and I noticed that one particular scent was peculiar in its absence -- and then I smiled to myself. Things weren't quite so bad as they could've been.
I took useful item number four from the bag I'd been hauling it around in, and put it on. A little baggy, but then Mr. Dorff was a big man, and would no doubt have been somewhat surprised when he arrived at work last night to find that his uniform didn't seem to fit him any more. Though not as surprised as poor Mr. Cargill, who arrived at work to find his own uniform had gone missing. Tch. Crime is everywhere these days.
I then took useful item number five from inside my overcoat and held it tightly in my hand. It still seemed a little too heavy for my liking but it was all I had. I made sure the safety catch was off and, staying out of sight, trotted gaily up to L. Chance's front door.
From there I could hear them talking; voices were being raised and it became obvious just who they were waiting for. Which came as something of a relief.
"-- your brother, why don't you make sure the dumb sonovabitch shows up? Asshole thinks something bad's happening, I'll show him something fucking bad that's happening, show him the --"
"Lewis, stop shouting, he'll show, he's just worried about being outside alone at the minute, you know that."
"Yeah, Lew, you know the streets ain't safe at night --"
"Shut the fuck up. You just shut the fuck up. Nothing bad's happening here, alright? Just your fat-assed brother making excuses again. No piece of shit bloodsucker is gonna blow me away. None of that shit."
"Can't we just go on without him, Lew? I mean, it ain't like Dorff's important or anything like that --"
"Just shut up for once, will you? We're waiting. He'll show up. He's -- "
The conversation stopped for a moment.
"He's here now, I can smell him. What did I tell you, Lewis? He's here."
"About fucking time. Stay there."
There were a couple of thumps and then the heavy front door swung open as the werewolf Lewis started hurling abuse at the someone he thought was standing on his doorstep. Even I was surprised at how quickly the gun reacted to my touch. "Where the fuck you been, you worthless piece of --"
I must have emptied at least thirty rounds into his chest at point blank range. Lewis - who was probably about six inches taller than I'd imagined him, and twice as hairy - was flung backwards into the wall, his torso awash with blood and ripped chunks of skin and muscle tissue. There was uproar from the living room. I smelled four bodies suddenly become alert and flooded with adrenaline and I tumbled sideways into the garden as the first one appeared at the door. I forgot about aiming and just fired wildly. Several bullets struck him in the face and he collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap. Quickly I jammed another clip into the gun and jumped into the bushes, just as a guttural roar came from the doorway. A short, squat man ran at me screaming unintelligibly, his arms flailing above his head. I blinked, and he was suddenly a man-thing. An instant after that, he was just a thing. I watched as time slowed to a crawl and realised just why it was that we vampires are so shit-scared of these creatures. He had grown from little over five feet to just over seven feet tall. His face was a mass of matted fur and gleaming yellow fangs. His entire body seemed to have been designed solely for murder; he was a mass of muscle and sinew, his claws each over an inch long, his scent overpoweringly bestial. Behind him, two relatively normal, but still evil-looking men hefted shotguns and waved them in my general direction.
As swiftly as I could, I drew in my breath and spat a stream of ichor at the werewolf's face. It struck him and splattered, sticking to his eyes, nose and mouth. The Lupine roared in pain and ran on blindly, meeting the bushes just as I remembered to grab useful item number six. As he crashed into me, I did something which, under other circumstances, I would have considered wildly insane. I rammed my hand down his throat and jammed into his gullet the beautiful silver star which I had taken from the lovely Miss C during our tryst the night before. I managed to remove my hand before the beast had a chance to bite it off, and leapt away to behind the side of the house as he fell, screaming, into almost the exact spot the two men had been aiming at. Before they had a chance to think, they had emptied their shotguns into the werewolf's back, and it crumpled to the grass with little more than a whimper. The men came tearing across the garden after me and I hoped that my last trick would work. I gulped and opened a trapdoor at the back of my throat and jerked my diaphragm spasmodically until everything I'd eaten over the past few days came rushing back almost too quickly to control.
The first man reached the side of the house and raised his shotgun, yelling something at me that made me laugh so much that I just couldn't control it any longer, and everything from there on seemed like a joke. Burning, stinking ichor and filth sprayed from my mouth in a torrent, knocking the man off his feet and splashing his companion, who immediately screeched loudly and dropped his shotgun to the ground. Covered in the blistering sludge, the first man writhed and tore at his skin, desperately trying to scrape it off. After a couple of seconds his writhings slowed considerably. A second after that they stopped completely. Still unable to stop myself laughing, I turned to the man remaining, spots of black muck across his face and hands. He looked down at his friend and coughed a couple of times, then vomited copiously across the grass. This went on for some time. After I was sure the man had nothing more left in his stomach, and I had finally stopped laughing, he looked up at me with eyes that said he'd really had just about enough. "Yeah," I said. "Me too," and broke his neck as quietly as I could manage.
Still suffering from the occasional giggle, I wandered back inside the house to make sure that Lewis wasn't about to get up and walk away. His wounds seemed to be healing slowly, so I shot him a few more times just to make sure. It took me around ten minutes to get all the bodies back into the house, and even then I still hadn't cleaned up the vomit. I looked up and down the street. No-one had come outside. Five people dead, as much noise as you'd expect in the average airstrike, and no-one had come outside. What a neighbourhood.
Tch. Crime is everywhere these days.
Well, no-one was around to watch, and I didn't have any way of cleaning up the lawn, so I went for the old trick of destroying the evidence again. Besides, I was ravenous.
You wouldn't believe just how long it took me to cut their heads off. I never realised just how tricky it is to do something like that when the only cutting implement around is a carving knife. And boy, did these guys have thick necks! Personally, I didn't really see why it was necessary to decapitate them after I'd already gone to the trouble of killing them, but orders are orders, and it doesn't do to disappoint the Prince.
By the time I was ready to leave it was around four o'clock, and I was aching all over. I was carrying a huge bag containing five heads, I was tired, and I just wanted to rest. But at least my indigestion had gone away. I ended up sleeping in the sewer when I realised that I just couldn't make it any further. I found a secluded little corner and rested among the rats who were no doubt waiting to see if I had any more maps. So when I finally got to see the Prince I stank worse than Hell on a hot summer's day.
He seemed pleased, at least. He had the five heads mounted on his wall as trophies until they reached the stage where pieces started to drop off them. I believe that staff were beginning to get restless. Anyway, he apparently promoted me again, though what difference it's made I'm not entirely sure. Maybe each promotion just makes it less likely that he'll lop my head off for pronouncing his name wrong, or forgetting to enter his audience chamber on hands and knees, or any one of the thousands of other transgressions that are possible with a boss so idiotic. Maybe it just means that he likes me a little bit more. Ah, what the hell, it's a job and it keeps me off the streets. And so long as I've got my health, what else matters? Oh, yeah. That guy who yelled at me in the garden and made me laugh so hard I nearly couldn't stop. I have to tell you.
He yelled "Eat shit and die."
Yep, amused the hell out of me, too.
At some unspecified date in the late eighteenth century, an unspecified number of Malkavians came together in an unspecified location in France, and, for some unspecified reason, decided that it was time to really upset all those hateful stuffed-shirts in the Camarilla. Tired of being castigated and punished for all their efforts at fun and games, they had come to the conclusion that all those prissy, fastidious, oh-so-wise Ventrue, Tremere and Toreador needed a good dose of revulsion to get them headed in the right direction, whichever way that might be. And so they decided to create a new bloodline. One that would so offend, so disgust, so physically revolt all right-minded vampires that it would knock them from their lofty pedestals and send them tumbling back to earth.
They came up with various ideas, most of which they rejected out of hand. Vampires who looked just like adorable little babies? No, not really practical. Vampires who gain sustenance from the sound of screaming? No, that sounded more like something the Sabbat would come up with. Vampire mimes? Don't be ridiculous. Vampires who eat shit instead of drinking blood? Now -- there's an idea. That was something that would most certainly cause the Toreadors to bring up their breakfasts and make the Ventrue start shaking uncontrollably on their thrones. It seemed a perfect idea. Beautifully Malkavian. Utterly ridiculous.
It took them some years for their first success, but when they had finally managed, the mysterious Malkavians looked on and clapped their hands with glee. Here they had something who looked like a vampire, spoke like a vampire, acted like a vampire -- but had the most unusual dietary requirements ever seen. They created more and more of them, then let them go to work, spreading across the country and righteously offending practically everyone they came across.
The Malkavians' plan worked in one respect; the prissy Elders of the Camarilla were revolted. Deeply so. Unfortunately, the dear old Malkavians had, for some (again) unspecified reason, been rather stupid in underestimating the extent of the anger their creations' existence would raise. For several years, all the news they received of the achievements of their childer came in uneasy announcements from messengers, usually beginning with the words, "Following the execution of your childe -- " Oh, well, thought the Malkavians, you can't win them all, and went on to forget all about bringing a revolution of sensitivities to the Elders, instead concentrating on the more serious business of how to clean up the all the mess the experiments had left in their workshops.
However, the Malkavians tell it this way:
At precisely 10:27 pm on the 19th January 1762, eight members of the Toreador Clan (the names vary wildly depending on who is telling the story) came together in St. Remy, France, and, decided that the time had come for them to raise a great army together to fight the good fight and become the greatest, most powerful Clan in the history of the world. Feeling tired of being put upon by cynical Tremere, uncouth Brujah and arrogant Ventrue, they were now readying themselves for a great battle to overthrow the tyrants who trod them underfoot, and found a benevolent empire of genteel, sophisticated aesthetes who would spend all day going to art exhibitions and operas and other things like that.
The Toreador, realising that to do this would require an army of unsurpassed power, decided to retire to their libraries for some time in order to come up with a few good ideas on what to do. And it was during this time that one of their number came across a passage in one of the more obscure tomes of philosophy he possessed, a passage which filled him with awe and apprehension. It read as follows: 'In all things are beauty, and, by recognising this, one admits that all things are a part of the great design, and thus a work of the most wondrous and sublime art."
The Toreador was stunned. It was as though a tiny door had opened up inside his skull and told him exactly what it was that his Clan had been missing all these centuries. He immediately gathered his co-conspirators and read the passage to them, sure that they would understand, as he now did, that the way to illumination was through acceptance of the beauty in all things.
When he returned home later that night, summing up the events of the meeting in a few short words (They are believed to have been, "Miserable bastards"), he decided that he was going to act without the assistance of his fellow thinkers and come up with something himself. Which was just as well, as after that night, his fellow thinkers decided that they had been wasting their time all along and came up with the much simpler, far more interesting idea of doing a few paintings and going to the opera every now and again.
The Toreador had indeed been changed by the words he had read. He decided that he would raise a new breed of vampires, vampires who saw the intrinsic beauty in all around them, and who would inherit the earth and all its treasures through their wisdom. He took into his household a mortal infant named Francois (Or Antoine, or Claude, or Hieronymus, depending again on who is telling the story) and began the arduous task of teaching and educating him with the knowledge he had gained. The turning point is believed to have been when his ward reached the age of four and began eating his own faeces. After a few days of telling him not to do that, that's a very naughty thing to do, Francois, why don't you have some cake instead? The Toreador realised that this went entirely against what he was supposed to be teaching, and, despite his distaste, encouraged the child continue.
There were three main results from this.
The first and most obvious was that, over the years, the Toreador's home became something of a mess and people stopped visiting him. The second was that the child, when finally Embraced at the age of twenty, found blood had a particularly unpleasant taste and went on eating faeces, along with a great number of other unconventional substances. The third was that he had already realised some years earlier that his adoptive father was talking a load of nonsense.
The Toreador was distraught. He decided that he had had just about enough and told his childe to do whatever he wanted to do, just leave me alone because I think I'm going to just have a little sleep. And so he slept and dreamed of nice, pleasant things like flowers and paintings and the opera.
His childe, on the other hand, decided that it was time to have some fun at last. Gathering together his few possessions, he wandered off into the world to seek his fortune, not entirely realising that he would disgust practically everyone he came across. Of course, he was executed within a matter of months, but not before he had sired dozens of other vampires, who, surprisingly, seemed to possess exactly the same strange feeding preferences as he himself did.
It is usually at this point that the Malkavian telling the story begins ranting about the days of wine and roses and an old friend he used to know named 'Potty' or suchlike, and so the tale is best left there.
The other Clans tend tell the story as follows:
Some sick bastard out there decided to create a bunch of vampires who feed on shit, piss and puke. Nobody knows why, and nobody wants to know why. All that's known is that they're disgusting and revolting and we should kill them all. And that pretty much says it all.
The Coprophages, as they came to call themselves, have been around -- as the stories say -- since the late eighteenth century, and did indeed originate in France. Despite the efforts of practically everyone to eliminate them, they have survived, and, in fact, grown in number since those days. Few of them stay in one place for any long period of time, weighing up the dangers of travelling against the dangers of having their heads hacked off by disgusted Princes and finding the former to be far preferable. For the most part, they manage to get by on odd jobs here and there, occasionally masquerading as Toreadors or Malkavians, mingling with mortals and trying their damnedest not to get hungry in mixed company.
The details of Coprophages' feeding habits vary depending on who is talking, but most agree that they are unable to obtain sustenance from blood, and instead rely on the consumption of other bodily substances. While their name means 'Eaters of faeces', they are not limited to this -- it is known that they can gain nourishment from urine, saliva, sweat, bile, and other messy substances; indeed, practically anything but blood that can be found in the human body. They are completely free of blood, instead having a sludge they refer to as 'ichor' within their bodies, which is believed to possess all the properties as vitae does to other vampires. By all accounts, this ichor not only smells and tastes foul, but is highly acidic and may be used as a weapon by an annoyed Coprophage. It is for this reason that -- after the first attempt, at least -- few vampires will try to diablerise a Coprophage.
Members of this bloodline are entirely capable of drinking blood, and suffer few ill effects from doing so, but will only perform such an act when they really must. Only when diablerising another vampire, creating childer, or attempting to masquerade as one of another Clan that a Coprophage will drink blood. Large amounts of vitae, in fact anything more than a few drops, tend to make Coprophages light-headed and giddy, and many complain of severe indigestion after drinking. Should one be forced to drain an entire body of blood, as in the case of diablerie or the Embrace, then most likely they will be forced to have a long lie down afterwards.
It is a quirk of the bloodline that most of its members are perfectly able to consume food as though they were mortal. Though they gain no sustenance from doing so, many still appreciate the taste, and find it a highly useful talent when in mixed company.
"You Perverts fill me with absolute disgust. You make me wish I could still vomit."
"Me too, I could do with a drink."
Most of the time, Coprophages are considered too revolting to be allowed to exist, but occasionally one will prove his usefulness and be offered clemency by a kindly -- or ignorant -- Prince. They are known to be highly competent hunters, detectives and assassins, and have much to offer an open-minded employer. Many, however, have a habit of offending all around them not only with their feeding habits, but with their behaviour also. Comments such as "A mortal is just like a Coke machine, all you have to do is stick your finger down his throat" tend to raise more death threats than laughs when made before a Ventrue Elder. Coprophages seem often to gain a perverse pleasure from causing offence, despite the obvious danger involved in doing so. It is perhaps because of this deep desire to revolt others that, if the Coprophages can be said to have friends, then they are usually Malkavians.
Coprophages tend to become more deeply and devotedly attached to mortals than to Kindred, and for this reason they very rarely consent to or offer Blood Bonds. Few vampires would Bond with a Coprophage anyway; their ichor is known to be one of the most foul-tasting substances ever discovered. Their relations with mortals, both as prey and as friends, are highly complex, and obsessive love is common among the bloodline. They seem to be more attracted by a person's scent than by their appearance or personality, and, once attracted, spend much of their time in rapturous adoration of the one they see as their true love. Most such attractions rarely last more than a few weeks, however, before the Coprophage decides that, yes, they were gorgeous and sweet, but that girl over there on the dance floor just smells so much better.
Coprophages attach a huge amount of importance to smell and taste, even with regards to other vampires. Though they will rarely drink another's blood, they appreciate the scent and taste of a vampire's flesh, and, if given the opportunity, will take great pleasure in tasting every inch of that flesh and committing its flavour to memory. With mortals this predilection is even more exaggerated; often they can smell their ideal several city blocks away, above the countless, mundane scents that always fill the air. A Coprophage who has already decided on their perfect partner is about as easy to shake off as a limpet.
Most of what Coprophages tell others about themselves is entirely untrue. What else could you expect? They're full of shit, anyway.
Most of the bloodline now live in America, finding it a country more willing to accept their outlandish behaviour than their European homelands.
In practicality, sweat and saliva, as the most easily available sources of food, make poor meals, and are most usually taken as snacks, or, more often, to enjoy the taste of one to whom the Coprophage has become attracted. No Blood Points -- or, more properly, Ichor -- may be gained through the drinking of these substances (If you wish, then you may choose to refer to a Coprophage's reserve as 'Shit Points', but to be honest, I really wouldn't recommend it). However, urine, faeces and bile are great sources of sustenance and can, when taken from the vessel by whichever method is chosen, allow the vampire to recover a reasonable amount of Ichor (Use your discretion -- I, quite understandably I think, didn't really want to get involved in a protracted discussion about how much crap you can get out of a human body). Other, more, intimate, substances, such as semen, are particularly tasty to the Coprophage, and are regarded as delicacies. It is preferable to take all these substances fresh from the body, or within a short while of them leaving it. After an hour they begin to lose some of their nourishing properties; deduct one point of Ichor for each hour they have been outside of a mortal body.
The Coprophage can, if absolutely necessary, feed from animals in same manner as from humans, but the Ichor gained through this is of inferior quality and nowhere near as pleasant-tasting as that obtained from humans. As a standard, a maximum of 3 points of Ichor can be gained from any animal, no matter what size, and most Coprophages regard this practice as revolting.
Their reaction to blood is regarded by most Coprophages as an unpleasant curiosity; they regard it with some sadness that another avenue of pleasure is effectively closed to them, but feel no great regrets due to this. Anything more than a few drops of blood makes the Coprophage drinking it very dizzy and disoriented, occasionally for several hours at a time. As a standard, drinking anything more than a single Blood Point's worth of vitae causes him to suffer a -1 to all rolls during the period of effect, and renders him unable to gain any more than 2 successes on any attempt at using a Discipline for that same period. The effect lasts for as many hours as the number of Blood Points' worth drunk. If a mortal or vampire is entirely drained by the Coprophage, then he must make a Willpower roll or immediately enter torpor. Anyone foolish enough to attempt drinking the Ichor of a Coprophage suffers one die of Aggravated damage for each point imbibed, which almost certainly discourages him from doing so again.
Gangrel: Mmm. I like the outdoors as much as anyone, but doncha think they could have so much more fun in the city?
Malkavian: Daddy!
Nosferatu: For the way they look, you just wouldn't believe how sweet they taste --
Toreador: Mommy!
Tremere: They always want to spoil our fun. Give me half a chance and I'll spoil their fucking fun.
Ventrue: Ahhhh -- you can just taste all that repression. Gorgeous.
Caitiff: The best thing about them is that they come in more flavours than jelly beans.
Assamites: Five minutes with one of them is all I need to turn him into a quivering mass of flesh.
Giovanni: Take them as they are, and they'll adore you forever. Well, that's been my experience, anyway.
Ravnos: Cute little bunnies. They just keep on coming back for more.
Salubri: You mean that really is a third eye? Jeez, and I thought it was just a really neat tattoo --
Setites: Oh -- yesssssssssss --
Lasombra: Hell, I'm not afraid of the dark -- but these guys make me wonder why not.
Tzimisce: They taste like dust. It's like having a mouthful of ashes. Like licking an open grave. Really quite unpleasant.
Lupines: Big, dumb, hairy furballs. But, what the hell, they've got hearts of gold. Pity more of them don't live in the city; then they might start seeing things in perspective.
Mages: A flash of lightning through your mind. A taste of God's lipstick. The smell of burning brain cells. And you wonder why we don't hang out with these guys.
Wraiths: No way. I still have nightmares.
Changelings: Sometimes I feel like one of them. Sometimes I think I should have been born in Arcadia. Sometimes I wish I could dream the way they do. Then I wake up and wish I'd never been born.