"Funny, you don't sound Irish."
First thing I hear every time I give a proper introduction. Well, you ignorant fuck-tard, I've been living here in the states for over ninety years. It only took that vapid twat, Madonna, six months of living in England before she started talking like a limey cunt. So yes, I am Irish, and no, you'll not be hearing about me lucky charms.
You see, way back in 1920, my father got it in his head that America was the land of milk and honey rather than whiskey and potatoes, so he packed up me, my mother, my three brothers, and my two sisters and got us passage to the States through Ellis Island. Like I said, Irish. I was nineteen years old when we hit stateside. Things were pretty rough for us for the first few years; no rougher than it was for any other family of immigrants at the time, but rough non the less. Dad went from shitty factory job to shittier factory job, my brothers and I took to petty crime and thuggery to make ends meet. And my sisters... well, there weren't a whole lot of career options available to a pretty young Irish lass in New York city back then. Still aren't, really.
Eventually the factory work left dad too crippled to do... factory work. So the responsibility of keeping the family under one roof fell to the eldest son. That, of course, was me. Fortunately, the thuggery perpetrated by my brothers and I had caught the eyes of some more significant Irishmen. The Irish Republican Army, or at least a small branch of it, was making waves in the slums of New York. They were a driving force in letting the rest of the country know that we weren't going to be pushed around. If you look at how far we've come as a people: from being considered the scum of the earth to having everyone claiming to be part Irish at least once a year... leads one to think that maybe the strong-arm method could be the right approach.
I'm getting a bit off topic here; so as I was saying, my brothers and I were inducted into the Family. We'd go on "errands" from time to time: leaning on business owners that were delinquent with their dues, bustin' the skulls of people who spoke out against us, getting the coppers their cut of our profits... you know, normal stuff. We were one of the most successful groups of young mooks in town. Thanks, in no small part, to my natural ability to lead my brothers. Our success kept us in comfortable living accommodations, and got us in good with the inner circle.
One night, our youngest sister came to us bloody, bruised and incoherent. Kept saying the John wasn't human. I couldn't let mom and dad see her in that state, so I took her to our headquarters to see if anyone could help, or if anyone had seen anything. None of us could make out what the hell she was talking about. The only thing that was clear to me, was that some son-of-a-bitch had to die. As if on queue to that thought, the head of our chapter burst through the door like some kind of god-damned superhero. He grabbed up my sister and instructed my brothers and I to follow him into the back room. It was there in his small, modestly furnished office that he let us in on the secret that would change our lives forever. We stared in silence as he slit his wrist and let the blood pour into my sisters mouth. Her wounds began to heal and her senses returned as we watched. He explained the power that came from imbibing it: the strength, the speed, the magnificence, the ability to heal from lethal injury in a matter of moments, the near-agelessness, and the loss of the ability to ever refuse his will again. He then came to each of us, in turn, and offered his wrist. We all accepted. It was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted and I never wanted to be without it again. He gave us a brief rundown on how to use our new power, looked at our sister for a moment and told us where to find her attacker. Told us that when we came back he'd fill us in on the whole story.
So we went forth with fire in our veins, and we tracked our sisters assailant to an upscale pub uptown. The "gentlemen" at the door weren't too keen on letting a couple of Irish dogs in to their establishment, but they were less keen on the broken ribs they received for trying to stop us. The pompous ass we were after was seated at the bar, laughing with a couple of foppish lackeys. I could feel the rage boiling up from my belly, my expression mirrored in the faces of my brothers, I'm sure. The rest of the room went dead silent as we approached the three over-privileged punks. I clapped my hand on the bastards shoulder and "invited" he and his friends out to the back alley for a "word".
It was a good old fashioned, proper, beat down. We took turns holding them down while one of us kicked or punched, or smashed bricks over the head of the one that attacked our kin. Then, once his head was thoroughly pureed, we started in on his friends. No, we didn't kill them. We broke them pretty good, sure, but I decided that someone had to spread our message to anyone else that might be thinking of treating us or our kind with disrespect in the future.
As promised, when we returned from our task, we were told the truth about the things that go bump in the night. Our beloved leader was a vampire, we his ghouls. He explained about the Cammarilla, the Sabbat, Clans, the Beast, everything... And he told us that when the time was right, if we wanted it, that he would make us like him.
We spent the next few decades learning and growing in power. Our parents and oldest sister died of old age along the way. Our new family saw to it that they were interred with dignity and respect, in a real cemetery, with real coffins, and real headstone. We protected our Regnant while he slept, and he taught us at night. We learned new skills as the world changed around us, started new legitimate businesses, and left the thuggery to the new generations. That was probably a bad idea, now that I think about it. There used to be a finesse to the whole thing. Seems like n rabid animal could do a more respectable job than today's' criminal element. Ah well, we were happy at the time.
You remember that over privileged fuck that I was talking about a minute ago? His friends that we let go? Well apparently they went and spread our message like I said. Turns out mister beats-the-ladies-and-laughs-about-it was a fledgling vampire, and his daddy was a bit upset about the loss of his progeny. And it would seem that immortals can hold grudges for a very long time. The attack came fast and unexpectedly. Just after sun-down our Regnants haven door creaked open. everyone looked up to see who the intruder was. There was a flask of blinding light, and our Regnants head exploded into a fountain of blood, then my brothers began to fall, one-by-one. I turned to face our attacker and everything went white.
I awoke in Philadelphia in 1968, eighteen years after I was ripped away from my family. Cold, hungry and filled with an anger unlike any I'd ever felt before, I dug myself free from the proverbial hole I was in and found myself face to face with the second man to change my life forever. Hate welled up inside me, but I couldn't bring myself to lash out against him. He smiled the widest shit-eating grin imaginable... smug asshole. He introduced himself as my sire, and explained to me that I had killed his dear childe forty-six years prior, and that he was owed satisfaction. I was to be given one year to prove my worth to him, or I would be utterly destroyed. He instructed me in the new aspects of my being and commanded me not to leave the city for any reason and, assuring me that if I tried, that I would fail. Deep down, I knew it to be true. Then, he let me loose upon the city.
The first few weeks on my own were difficult, but I've always been resourceful. I managed to squat and grift until I was able to save enough to rent a room in a slum apartment. It was like the old days in New York all over again. I made acquaintances from kindred all over the city,... people I thought enough of to get my back should I need it. Things started looking up for me after just a couple of months. It's no real surprise, I had been through most of this before, after all.
One night, walking home to my haven, I heard a young lady screaming for help down a side street. Bear in mind, Philadelphia was not the shit-hole it is today, young ladies in peril were not nearly as common-place. Plus, there's just that part of me that always sees my sister when a woman is in harms way. As I went to find the source of the commotion, she ran from the side street, obviously hurt, and obviously still concerned for her own safety. She was covered in blood, though I couldn't determine exactly what wounds she was suffering. Then, the source of her problem made its self apparent: I large wolf, with blood matted in it's fur bits of broken glass protruding from its hide, and large gouges where its eyes should have been came sniffing drunkenly at her trail. I yelled for her to get behind me and proceeded to square off with the wolf. At hearing my voice, the wolf shifted and twisted into a human form. Bearing fangs at me, he insisted that I go fuck myself. That was a bad decision on his part. I produced a knife that I had "requisitioned" from a thug a few nights prior, and proceeded to jam the blade, repeatedly, into the open sockets of the vampires skull. He was either hurt prior to the encounter with the young lady, or he was so fresh out of the dirt that she was able to take him to the brink of final death on her own, but either way, my intervention was probably not necessary. He was dead in less than three stabs. And I always thought they were supposed to be the tough ones.
I did not have the opportunity to get her story. Though, what followed made it painfully obvious. I'm always finding trouble ,killing the wrong fledgling. Fortunately, The wolves are not known for their elaborate revenge schemes. The dead kindred's sire appeared from no-where and cornered us, threatening death to both of us for killing his newest childe to save a meat bag. Fortunately for me, again, outwitting a wolf is not too terribly difficult either. I pointed out the obvious deficiencies in the choice of childer. Not only had he been unable to hunt his prey without drawing attention, but he had almost been killed by the one he had chosen to kill. That statement gave the vampire enough pause for my Sire to make the scene. Stepping between myself and the angry wolf, he proposed a solution to our "quarrel". This girl was more capable than the man that was chosen to become kindred, perhaps this girl would make for superior progeny. If that was not to the wolfs liking, he could kill her, but I was now under my Sires protection. The wolf thought for a moment and then presented the option to the woman, who eagerly accepted the gift of immortality over excruciating death. The deal was made, and my Sire and I parted ways from the vampire and his progeny to be.
The years went by quickly from that point on. Mostly because my sire would stake me and lock me away for a year or two whenever I showed improper etiquette in his presence. I hated him so much, but I was bound. Eventually, after he felt he had taught me enough of his way, he let me out on my own again. This time with considerable means to live on. Before long, I made contact with my old acquaintances , including the young lady that I had saved, and we formed a coterie. We became well respected in our circles, though never truly rising in station. My Sire had moved to Washington D.C. leaving me free to do what I wanted, aside from leave the city. He had never lifted that restriction from me... asshole. But I was happy enough not having to deal with him. That is, until the fighting broke out in Washington.
My entire group was ordered south to aid in the battle for control of Washington. It was a far cry from what I was used to. Several of my friends were killed or captured. Only the young lady and myself remained and things were looking grim for us. But then I felt something. I knew exactly what had happened. My Sire was dead. I was completely free. That thought gave me the resolution to fight on and live. The battle came to a close soon after. I presented myself to the new Primogen of D.C. and told them of my troubles and my successes, and have been accepted into their Domain.
Which brings us to the here and now, bucko. I've told you my story, I've seen what you've done. So hopefully you'll understand why I've got this gun against your head. It's nothing personal.
*BANG*
