Punk with a Purpose

Amir grinned cheekily as he made his way through the dark allyways, occaisonally stopping to size up the potential candidates for dinner. There had been a few groups but no lagers once he showed his hideous self. Once, years ago, the boy would have been considered handsome with a swarthy complextion and dark hair and eyes, now a mass of puss filled marks covered his features. He looks young, even when he was alive Amir appeared to be three or four years then he really was and dying at 18 had made it possible to get information and go places people would never suspect, but also was hell to be treated with any respect.

Except with the gangs. The gangs of Detroit were the meaning of Amir's unlife. Let the others have their squabbles, he would give them information for the favours they could give, but other than that he kept his nose clear. Amir's herd was getting lethargic from all the blood loss and it was about time to find someone that didn't matter to feed him. Someone who didn't get the entracacies of the city.

2009-11-04 21:22:26 Amir rolls 7 dice to to find a victim 6,8,5,2,7, 8,2 (2 successes)

As a resident of Highland Park, you know feeding here is usually an exercise in savages fighting over table scraps. Well organized savages. But you have your affiliations and know exactly where to place your feet and where not to. It keeps the nightly blood baths of the area down to a minimum.

Here in Gladiator Town, you won't find socialites leaving high-end theatres and restaurants making their way to taxis and hired cars... no fat, easy pickings in this place. The residents, both Kindred and kine, are lean and stick instinctively to the shadows, using them as security cloaks for their very survival.

But the streets are not entirely deserted. You come out of an alley and walk by a deserted police station. Just past that you can see the over-pass to the Davison freeway, and your teeth ache thinking of the feeding there. But the crew that owns that plot of land doesn't especially like to share, and it could be more trouble than it's worth.

You keep to the shadows and notice to your left a few gang members boldly tagging the outside of the vacated police building near a large fire built in a trash can. There must be 4 or 5 of them standing together - all young African-American males. A stereo pumps out deep based hip hop that they laugh and dance to in the cold night air as they continue to paint.

To your right is a park. Or, what was once a park. Now it's a filthy piece of decaying land used as a waste dump while the weeds reclaim anything man-made. You can easily see with predator's eyes a few shadowy figures on benches and leaned up against trees; junkies shooting up as soon as they can buy their portions. In Highland Park they don't even need to find a private area. What cops are around to harass them?

The possibilities to feed there seem promising, but unappetizing as the smell and image is completely vile. Unwashed kine lying in their own urine and excrement, some with needles still dangling from their arms, as they chase the dragon further and further down. Plus you'll be feeling the effects of the heroine for hours...