Topic: No Bourbon for Old Hoodoo, Blood Strikes Black as Night
G.Cormac McLucus started this discussion 2 years ago#111,206
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Chapter IV
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A long time ago, in a city not so far away...
NEW ORLEANS, 1970. Nestled between the meandering Mississippi and the restless Gulf, the city pulses with an energy as timeless as the ancient oak trees that line its streets. The French Quarter, heart and soul of this vibrant metropolis, resonates with the raw rhythm of punk rock, its historic facades bearing silent witness to the revelry of nocturnal creatures.
Yet beneath the exhilarating symphony of music and laughter, shadows lengthen and whispers grow. An unseen storm brews in the underbelly of the city, a tempest borne of a world that teeters on the edge of darkness. A world where immortals roam the night, their hearts beating to the rhythm of rebellion. Their empire, once veiled in secrecy, braces itself against an inevitable confrontation, a dance with destiny that is as thrilling as it is perilous.
Strangers become allies, friends turn into foes, and monsters wear the faces of men. Rogue creatures, bearing their own cryptic agendas, emerge from the obscurity, their eyes reflecting the city's neon glow.
New Orleans, a city steeped in magic and music, stands on the brink of a performance that transcends the boundaries of human comprehension. An arena where the ordinary and the extraordinary meld into a breathtaking tableau, ready to challenge the coming storm, for this is not just a city, it's a battleground for the creatures of the night, poised on the precipice of a saga that is destined to echo through the annals of time....
Under the backdrop of a night sky painted in hues of dark violet and deep blues, the city throbbed with the steady rhythm of life. In the midst of a cultural transformation, an evolving tapestry woven with threads of music, diversity, and a creeping underbelly of darkness, the pulse of punk rock echoed through cobblestone alleyways, a rebellious heartbeat that reverberated off the antique bricks of the French Quarter.
Jesse Boone, frontman for the notorious punk band "The Night Crawlers," sauntered down Bourbon Street, his boots echoing off the pavement. His dyed black hair, pierced nose, and the thick streak of kohl around his eyes marked him as a countercultural icon in a city already steeped in eccentricity.
Though it was well past midnight, the city was wide awake. Jazz and blues mixed with the new aggressive tunes of punk rock. Neon lights flashed with tantalizing promises of spirits, spectacles, and the allure of the unknown. But underneath this enchanting lure, the city held a secret. Jesse himself held a secret.
An old proverb says that music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything. For Jesse, it was more than that. Music was his cover, his identity, his life – and his unlife.
Jesse Boone was a vampire.
His transformation had happened several years back, an incident shrouded in foggy memory and regret. Now, the insatiable thirst for blood was his constant companion, a ghost of his former human self. But the world of the supernatural was not new to New Orleans. Amidst the Mardi Gras masks, the city had always hidden faces of a different kind.
Unlike the vampires of old tales, Jesse and his fellow Night Crawlers didn't reside in decadent castles or ancient crypts. Instead, they dwelt in the heart of the city, hidden in plain sight amidst the punk subculture. They were vampires for a new age, trading coffins for graffiti-covered lofts and capes for leather jackets.
To Jesse, this city was a place inhospitable and cold in its way, full of unseen dangers and stark realities. It was a place where the odds of survival were low, yet where individuals, like him, found the will and the means to persist.
Tonight, though, something in the city was different. The air was denser, heavy with anticipation, like the calm before a storm. Jesse had walked these streets for years, but now he felt a chill crawl up his spine, a silent whisper that things were about to change.
Rounding a corner, he came across a mysterious figure, shrouded in a duster coat like some character from an old western. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a visage shadowed, the only visible detail a pair of piercing blue eyes. It was an incongruous sight among the punks, goths, and tourists that populated the city’s streets.
The man looked up, and their eyes met. There was an age to those eyes, a weight of centuries that echoed cold determination. Jesse felt an unknown connection, a thread of fate being tied between them.
He knew then, his life – or rather his unlife – wouldn’t be the same again. The stage was set. The players were taking their places. The show was about to begin, a grand performance under the twinkling lights of New Orleans, where punk rock and vampirism were about to dance a deadly waltz.
Jesse, caught in the weight of the stranger's gaze, found himself unable to move. He watched as the figure drew nearer, his heart pounding like the driving beat of a punk rock song. The stranger, noticing his apparent unease, tipped his hat in acknowledgment.
"Evening," the man said, his voice graveled with age yet tinged with a hypnotic rhythm. "You're Jesse Boone, ain't ya?"
Jesse's eyebrows knitted together. "And who's asking?" he retorted, maintaining his air of punk nonchalance.
"The name's Eli," he extended a gloved hand. "Eli Masters."
Jesse didn't take it. "And what does Eli Masters want with me?"
Eli chuckled. "Straight to the point. I like that." He paused, eyeing the darkened street before continuing. "I've heard a lot about you, Jesse. About your...band."
Jesse stiffened. The underlying emphasis wasn't lost on him. "What about it?"
Eli's cold gaze bore into him. "I think we have some common interests."
It was a game of chess now, and Jesse wasn't keen on becoming a pawn. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Eli simply smiled, revealing an unnaturally bright set of teeth. "No need to play coy, Jesse. I know what you are, what you all are." He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "And I think we can help each other."
A chill ran down Jesse's spine, colder than any he'd ever felt. This man, this Eli, knew their secret. The veil they'd carefully maintained for years was in danger of being torn away. Jesse's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, the noise in his head almost as deafening as the music that usually marked his nights.
"Fine," Jesse said, meeting Eli's gaze head-on. "Let's say I believe you. What's your offer?"
Eli's smile widened, and he motioned towards a nearby bar. "Why don't we discuss it over a drink?"
Jesse knew better than to trust easily, but his curiosity was piqued. After all, the stranger had made the first move, but the game was far from over. "Lead the way," he responded, setting in motion a series of events that would send ripples through the streets of New Orleans, echoing in the annals of both punk rock and vampire lore.
As the two figures receded into the dimly lit bar, the city held its breath. The underbelly of New Orleans, once concealed beneath jazz tunes and punk rock anthems, was stirring. The night was still young, and the crescendo was yet to come. Unseen by the mortal denizens, the dance of the Punk Rock Vampires had just begun.
In the heart of the French Quarter, amidst the crumbling beauty of historic buildings and the hypnotic cacophony of punk rock anthems, lay 'Voodoo Vinyl', a bar known only to a select few. A blend of old-world charm and modern recklessness, it had become a sanctuary for the city's outcasts and nightwalkers, including Jesse and his crew.
Eli led the way, the pair weaving through the crowded streets, away from the neon flashes and into the maze-like back alleys. The raucous chaos of Bourbon Street faded into the distance, replaced by the intoxicating mix of hushed whispers and vinyl records playing from unseen speakers.
The inside of Voodoo Vinyl was as enigmatic as its patrons. Gothic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows on the scarred wooden floorboards. Graffiti, like abstract hieroglyphics of the modern age, adorned the walls, giving the place a unique, rebellious charm. The far end of the bar was dominated by a makeshift stage, currently empty, but bearing the echoes of many an explosive punk rock performance.
Eli chose a corner booth, the worn-out leather couches providing a modicum of privacy. The pair slid into the seats, the atmosphere between them thick with unspoken words and wary anticipation.
A waitress, a petite brunette with a Nosferatu tattoo crawling up her neck, arrived, her eyes flicking between Jesse and Eli. "What can I get ya?" she asked, her voice a husky melody over the low drone of the bar's ambiance.
"Bourbon for me," Eli said, tipping his hat at the waitress. His eyes, however, never left Jesse.
Jesse simply nodded, his standard order well-known to the bar's staff. He watched the waitress retreat before turning his attention back to Eli. "Alright, you got me here. Now talk."
Eli leaned back, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'll get straight to the point then. There's a storm coming, Jesse, and I'm not talking about the kind that'll flood your bayous."
A frown creased Jesse's forehead, his hands tightening around the edge of the table. "What do you mean?"
"I've been around a long time, seen things you wouldn't believe," Eli began, his voice a solemn rumble that clashed against the punk rock vibrations of the bar. "I've seen empires rise and fall, watched the world change and evolve. But through it all, one thing has remained constant – the struggle for survival."
Jesse held Eli's gaze, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. The stranger's words, though cryptic, were starting to form a picture, one that Jesse wasn't sure he wanted to see.
"Vampires, werewolves, witches, we're all part of a bigger universe, Jesse," Eli continued. "And that universe is about to strike back."
Before Jesse could respond, their drinks arrived, breaking the tension. Jesse thanked the waitress, his mind racing. Eli's cryptic words were like a punk rock song, a chaotic mix of noise and emotion. The trouble was figuring out the melody.
"So what does this have to do with me and my band?" Jesse asked, his words cutting through the veil of smoke that hung in the air.
Eli picked up his bourbon, swirling it in his hand. "Everything, Jesse. Whether you like it or not, you and your band are key players in this upcoming battle. The question is, will you join the fight, or will you stand by and watch your world crumble?"
Eli's words hung in the air, a tangible presence in the dimly lit bar. Jesse leaned back, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, his heart pounding like a bass drum. This wasn't just a crossroads; it was the precipice of a war, a struggle for survival that would echo across the realms of the supernatural.
It was the moment the Punk Rock Vampires truly stepped into the limelight. Their dance was about to become a fight, their melody a battle cry, under the somber night sky of the Big Easy.
Jesse stared into his drink, his eyes reflecting the flickering lights of the bar. Eli's words echoed in his mind, a haunting melody that promised a storm on the horizon. But he was a frontman, a leader. He knew he couldn't just stand by while his world threatened to crumble.
"Alright," Jesse said, looking up at Eli. "Let's say we're in. What's our next move?"
Eli seemed to relax slightly, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. "We prepare. We gather allies."
The front door of the bar creaked open, drawing their attention. Two figures sauntered in, their swagger contrasting with the hushed atmosphere of the bar. One was a hulking mass of muscle and tattoos, his hairy arms hinting at a beastly nature. The other, leaner but no less intimidating, had a glint in his eye that screamed trouble.
They moved with a confidence that drew the attention of the bar's patrons, a pair of rogue wolves stepping into a den of vampires. Jesse felt a chill run down his spine as he recognized the duo. Werewolves. He'd had run-ins with their kind before, and it had never ended well.
Eli, however, merely chuckled. "Speak of the devil, or should I say, wolves." He raised his glass towards the newcomers. "Jesse, meet our potential allies."
Jesse's eyes widened, his gaze flickering between Eli and the werewolves. "You've got to be kidding me."
Eli shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Strange times make for strange alliances."
Before Jesse could respond, the duo approached their table. The larger one extended a hand towards Jesse. "Aaarrgh. Aaaarrr Aaaarrrr AArrgh."
The leaner one, sporting a devil-may-care smile, added, "This is Chompy, and I'm Rex Duodeaux. We hear you're gathering a crew."
Jesse exchanged a glance with Eli before turning back to the werewolves. "And who told you that?"
Rex merely grinned, tapping his nose. "A little birdie. Or should I say, a bat."
The punk rock rogues, wolves in a vampire world, was a sight Jesse never thought he'd see. But here they were, as strange as it sounded, and as bizarre as the situation was.
The words hung the air like the final chords of a punk rock anthem, reverberating with the promise of alliances yet to be formed, battles yet to be fought, and a city on the brink of a supernatural war. As the punk rock vampires braced for the storm, one thing became clear - the empire was striking back, and the night was about to come alive with a symphony of chaos and rebellion. The dance had turned into a battle cry, and the stage was set for a performance the city would never forget.
And that's when the ice began to fall, and hurricane gusts of unnatural horfrost chilled their blood. By morning the city would be the whitest it's ever been, none of them had ever seen the streets like that. All white. And the smell, was completely gone. Usually you could smell the swamp, like it emanated from the tarry blacks stuck to the streets from overflows of mississippi river mud. Jesse turned to Eli staring off into the distance, "is that dawn coming? at this hour?"
"No," muttered Eli. "They found us. Imperial Walkers..."