Path of the Vampire forum

The thrill of the chase is often more exhilarating than the actual capturing of the prize. Once the fox has been cornered, the deer snared, or the salmon hooked, what happens next? The hunter's task is effectively complete, except for the meaningless kill. The real excitement is in the pursuit, in pitting the cunning and skill of the tracker against the guile and tenacity of the prey. If the task is too easy, then the game rapidly loses its appeal. Shooting fish in a barrel will soon bore even the most inexperienced marksman. Would bloodthirsty pirates sing rum-fuelled songs about the time that they plundered the unarmed canoeist? Can you imagine mighty Viking warriors regaling heroic tales in their mead hall of the victory over the defenseless milkmaids? Of course not! The true thrill, the adrenaline junkie's dream, is to be challenged.

Grant Stonehouse was bored. A string of simple, unadventurous burglaries had left him seeking a fresh test. If he continued in this vein, it was only a matter of time until complacency set in. Mistakes would undoubtedly be made as the well-organized criminal took his eye off the ball. Alternatively, the grey fog of lethargy, slowly choking him like a poisonous gas, would make the businessman blend into the shadows even more that he already did. Stonehouse was at a crossroads, deciding which way to turn next.

The entrepreneur was currently trading stolen goods, pillaged from numerous warehouse raids, and making a tidy profit, but he needed an injection of enthusiasm. Rather than choosing to hit yet another office block that was lacking in adequate security measures, Stonehouse had been carefully tracking the progress of a new target - a moving target.

For several nights in a row, a large white truck had been transporting expensive, high-end electrical goods across the city. Laptops, iPhones, and gaming consoles, normally housed in a maximum-security factory, were ripe for the picking. Elaborate alarm systems, CC-TV units, and armed guards with ferocious looking dogs patrolling the warehouse perimeter, would make an attempt to break in and steal the loot somewhat foolhardy, if not totally reckless. However, once the gates of Mordor were opened, and the truck left the sanctuary of the urban fortress, it was a different ball game. The lorry was effectively a mobile refrigerator, jam-packed with a feast that could feed the five thousand.

Stonehouse had been meticulously monitoring the movements of the mobile goldmine, plotting its progress, reciting its route over and over in his mind until he knew each and every turn that the truck would make. The mental map was imprinted on the looter's mind. He was like a student, revising before an end of year examination, planning for success. One big haul, like a trawler returning to port with bulging nets full of succulent fish, could set up Stonehouse and his shady business ventures for months. Everything was in order; the roles had been cast, the stage was set, and tonight was show time.

The play in question contained three supporting actors: the driver of the truck, who appeared utterly focused on the job, and glued to his seat; a young man with a phone permanently attached to his ear, apart from when he was loading and unloading the vehicle; and a middle-aged security guard, probably an ex-cop, or maybe military. Act one was uneventful and laborious. The lorry would leave the haven of the warehouse castle, follow a preset route, and arrive at a much smaller building - some kind of distribution centre - roughly fifteen minutes later. Act two was even duller, as the empty truck would disappear into the night, not to be seen again until the next evening. It was the bit in between that really appealed to Stonehouse, the interval, when the goods were on display.

The unloading procedure usually lasted for about twenty minutes, a little quicker if the driver could be bothered to get up off his fat arse and lend a hand. A fourth actor would appear during the intermission, a stocky man with short-cropped black hair and a fondness for heavy metal T-shirts. Stonehouse thought that the evening temperature was far too chilly for short sleeves, but the depot worker seemed to enjoy showing off his biceps. Surely he was just an extra, trying to land himself a more prominent part in the next production?

Obviously, Stonehouse would play the lead role in the big budget production. He had the looks, the style, and most importantly... the plan. There were several options that swirled around in the burglar's mind, different flavours teasing his thieving taste buds. He could try something bold and meaty, go in all guns blazing and drive away in the truck, dragging all the loot with him like a caveman taking down a mammoth. There was the daring, spicier option of hijacking the lorry before it reached its destination, eliminating the fourth member from the equation. The final possibility, the one that Stonehouse settled upon as his plan of action, was far sweeter, like liquid chocolate that would flow smoothly. He'd let the goons unload the bounty into the storage depot then take down the lone worker once the road crew had split the scene. Ok, ok, so technically that meant that he was no longer hitting a moving target, and it was suddenly resembling a more routine breaking and entering scenario, but Stonehouse was the director, and it was his prerogative to alter the plot line!

The scene was set. Stonehouse, dressed from head to toe in black, including a slightly itchy balaclava, was huddled behind a group of bins adjacent to a sewer entrance. The underground network of damp, dark tunnels was still proving to be the stealthy Englishman’s preferred pathway around the city. He had learned each tortuous twist and turn of Harper Rock’s hidden maze, using it to appear and then vanish like a midnight magician. He kept his equipment for the job to a minimum: two compact rapid-fire machine-guns, in case the **** hit the fan; a pair of short-blade daggers, ideal for silent, close-quarter assassinations; and a couple of smoke grenades. Everything else that he required was stored safely in his head.

The powerful growl of a diesel engine, followed by a crazy beeping sound of the truck reversing, announced its arrival, like an ice-cream van playing a mechanical nursery rhyme to attract the hungry children. It was time to get the show on the road, or rather get the treasure off the road. Just as Stonehouse was about to make his move, a strange flash of red danced around in his peripheral vision. Was somebody else here, somebody else hiding in the shadows?

Grant Stonehouse loved to party, at least the original, human version of the businessman did. Stonehouse Mark Two, the vampire who had kept his reincarnated upgrade hidden in the background of society, was a little more reserved. Fancy dress used to be a particular favourite of the flamboyant reveller. Costumes and imagination could lead to fantastic fun and sensational scenarios. Whether it be a 1920’s Great Gatsby and gangster extravaganza, cartoon character inspired chaos, or a good old Ancient Greek and Roman toga party, dressing up and assuming the role of an alter-ego was guaranteed to generate enough stories to last for years.

A particular favourite soiree that always stuck in Stonehouse’s creative mind was a Pirates of the Caribbean themed event that was organized by one of his work colleagues. The men were dressed as suave swashbucklers and boisterous buccaneers, while the woman were transformed into crafty cutthroats and busty wenches. Mock swordfights with plastic cutlasses took place in the kitchen and back garden of the host’s house, and people merrily glugged back rum based cocktails. Perhaps mojitos weren’t quite historically correct, but nobody seemed to be bothered, especially after downing their fourth or fifth glass. Somebody even brought along a couple of toy boats that were set sail upon the fishpond. The coy carp were probably not enamoured as partygoers threw pebbles at the pretend galleons in an attempt to sink them.

Needless to say, frivolity ensued, and much loot was plundered by Johnny Depp wannabes. It was equally fair to say that many folk felt like walking the plank the day after. Why is the rum gone? Because you drank it all, you bloody fools!

As Stonehouse gazed outwards from the sanctuary of the shadows, he was both stunned and amused at the situation that was unfolding. He couldn’t help but recall the pirate party, and wondered if one had just been held right here in Harper Rock. If so, where was his invitation?

A woman, with striking bold streaks of glorious crimson and black hair, had inexplicably attacked a security guard. She wasn’t quite adorned in the usual outfit of a seafaring brigand, choosing tight-fitting jeans and a waist-high leather jacket rather than a full-length doublet coat and tricorne hat, but there were distinct similarities. A bird was perched upon her shoulder, not exactly a parrot, but certainly giving the same visual effect. One arm appeared to be missing, as her sleeve hung loosely as she charged at the guard. Presumably her hooked-hand had fallen off earlier in the evening? As Stonehouse smirked, he wondered if the crazy woman had a wooden leg stuffed up her trousers. He’d ask her later.

The entertainment factor was quickly replaced with an increasing level of frustration. As much fun as it was to witness this act of bravado, it was going to totally ruin Stonehouse’s meticulously planned robbery. The perfectionist had spent hour upon painstaking hour carefully writing the script to his burglary screenplay, and now someone had burst onto the set, and was ad-libbing like a goofy gatecrasher. Stonehouse’s ship was taking a broadside from Captain Crimson’s cannonballs.

Maintaining a low profile had generally kept Stonehouse out of harm’s reach. If you don’t trouble Trouble, Trouble won’t trouble you. Yet here was a woman who was displaying a total lack of regard for her own safety, not to mention potentially drawing a huge amount of attention to herself, exposing her to the humans. Stonehouse had made an instant assumption that Captain Crimson was a vampire. Her lightning speed, her brute strength, and the giveaway sign - the craving for blood - indicated to the astute businessman that the urban pirate was one of his own kind.

The burglary would have to be put on hold until the current clusterfuck was resolved. The question running around in circles like a headless chicken in Stonehouse’s annoyed brain was what to do now. Should he intervene and get drawn into the scuffle, or would remaining hidden from sight be a far better option?

The security guard was flailing uncontrollably as his throat was torn to shreds by the brutal assault. His time on this earth was numbered, and he now offered little resistance, but the driver and his assistant were still very much in the game. There was also the potential that the fourth man would spring out from the warehouse at any second, as he always did, shifting the odds away from the solitary huntress. No matter how powerful you think that you are, four against one is a tough call.

Suddenly, the driver, the one who was usually lacking in animation like Frankenstein’s Monster before the switch had been flicked, dashed towards the cab of the truck, pulling a hefty looking crowbar out of the footwell. In the meantime, the driver’s right-hand man, Phone Boy, did what all young kids seem to do nowadays – he pointed his phone directly at the guard and his ravenous assailant, and began to film the event. **** helping out a dying man, a YouTube post was definitely going to be a more fruitful course of action.

“Bollocks!” muttered an angry Stonehouse from his secret bunker. “Get rid of that bloody phone.”

In many ways, a smart phone was far more dangerous than an iron crowbar. A video clip showing a violent murder of a security guard would be the equivalent of trying to run a marathon with a sharp stone in one’s shoe; painful and potentially crippling. The Internet is a powerful tool, and there were already a bunch of weird and wonderful stories floating around regarding strange occurrences in Harper Rock. Maintaining secrecy, preserving the so-called “masquerade” which kept mortals oblivious to the existence of their immortal cousins was often a hot topic on Crownet, an anonymous messaging board. Graphic evidence would be a possible nail in the vampire’s coffin. Stonehouse’s hand had been forced.

Nestling into position, Stonehouse took aim with one of his semi-automatic weapons. The marksman gently held the handle of his firearm, caressing the trigger as if it were the cheek of a lover, and squeezed off a single round. The phone fell to the cold, unforgiving floor of the street below, cracking its delicate screen, followed a second later by the dead body of its former owner, a hole through his temple beginning to ooze fresh blood. Reluctantly or not, Stonehouse had now joined the pirate’s party.