Ryk Oakwine, Elder and Primogen

A Brujah's Story

(by Rick Aucoin - Fall '96)

  NewYork, 1976 AD

The streets stank with the refuse of the millions who called this city home. It also reeked of the trash who called it home...

Stumbling down the alley, toward the entrance to the club, he could barely make out the multi-colored mohawk of the door guard. When he saw who was watching the door to the Armpit tonight, he leered. "Hey man, I have somethin' for you. And I gotta talk to Sammy to get some more. It's good stuff." He passes a small folded paper to the punk at the door. The door guard grins, "Killer! Go on in..."

He staggers through into the screeching madness of the club, the band on the stage blaring noise out to the mob. "Mucus Membrane. Huh. What kinda sh** name is that?"

Making his way through the tattooed, pierced, shaved, multi-colored throng to the back of the club, to the bathrooms, he is barely aware of the crowd around him. It's all just a bunch of crap, window dressing. None of it matters. All that matters is getting to Sammy, to get some more...

The bathroom reeks with urine and vomit, but he doesn't even notice. It's just a place, one of many. "Hey, Sammy! Look man, I got the money you wanted, here, 200 dollars, like you said. Had to cut up this little bitch uptown to get it." He laughs, the other scum in the bathroom laugh too. "Well, then here you go. Think about her bleeding everywhere while you shoot this up." Sammy hands him the needle that the men have been using to bump the heroin. As the needle slides into his thin arm, he plunges the drug into his veins. "Aw yeah man... hmmmm." At least something good was coming from his trouble with that bitch in the park. She should have just given me the money, then I wouldn't have had to kill her. It's her own fault...man, this is good sh**.

As he staggers from the backroom into the club, he falls toward the dance floor, lurching about, trying to stay standing. Most of the others who are in this barely controlled riot are simply doing the same, trying not to be knocked to the floor, trying to push others down. The band just keeps doing the same riff over and over again. "Hey!! F*** YOU!"

Man, these f***ers suck... He reaches for a beer bottle, and grabbing one, throws it at the singer of the band. It shatters against the man's forehead, putting him down as if axed. "So F*** WHO?" he laughs uproariously, the rest of the band looking out at the crowd, trying to find who put down the singer. They spot him. They come for him, pushing and dodging through the crowd. "Man, we're going to f*** you up, you a**hole!" He bolts out the front door of the Armpit, staggering out into the alley, lurching through the confused crowd at the door. Running down into the darkness, he makes his escape.

Nights later, he walks the streets of New York, looking for another victim to rob for heroin money. Walking along the storefronts, he barely notices the black van that passes on the street, doesn't notice when it stops, and backs up toward him. Doesn't notice the painted green scrawl on the side of the van until the door of the van opens and the 4 toughs inside jump him, bearing him to the ground, dragging him into a nearby alley. They start to beat him, with fists, with clubs, with chains. As he blindly strikes out at them, the last thing he remembers is the name on the side of the van...

"Mucus Membrane"

************************

Part II

Ryk lies in the alley, blood dripping onto the filthy concrete. Barely conscious, he painfully turns over, looking up at the clouds in the night sky. How did I get here? What went wrong?

He is in 3rd grade. A small child, with a smart mouth. That's why he is laying in the sand of the playground, with the larger child on top of him, punching him in the face, while the other boys stand around and jeer...

He is 12. Still small for his age. Still with the big mouth. Another boy has dared to pay attention to a girl that Ryk has thought of as his. The other boy meets Ryk out front of the school, after classes. He pushes Ryk. Ryk lashes out, punching the younger boy in the face, but the boy seems unaffected. Ryk is scared, he runs, the other boys chasing him. He's on the ground again, blows raining down upon him...

He is 16. An outsider, with no friends. He makes his way through each day, stumbling along, not even looking his classmates in the eyes. But, in his heart, he starts to hate... and the hatred gives him strength...

He is 18. Smoking pot, doing speed, Ryk finds a group that he can fit in with. The other outcasts. Each alone, but better to be alone with others, than by yourself...

He is 24. Years of drugs have already taken their toll on him. He is gaunt, looking older than his years. The need for money drives him to kill for the first time...

He is 28. Addicted, robbed of any dreams that the young boy may have ever had. Wondering how he finds himself bleeding to death in a nameless alley... wondering if he would do anything better if given another chance.

Rage at the path he has followed swells in Ryk's heart. Furious that he is going to die, that this is all that there is to his life. No, this can't be all. It wasn't enough! It can't be too late. No! NO!!

Lying there, his eyes looking up at the clearing night sky, he rages impotently, shouts of ire only bubble out of his blood stained lips. His unbroken left hand clenches into a fist, as if to strike out at the Grim Reaper, who is surely standing nearby.

Ryk struggles to breath, continues after it is pointless, rage consuming him. His old hatreds, his old anger, they serve him well in this, his final hour. Rage makes him breath, rage makes the blood pump through his veins. But, he grows tired.

He can't see the stars anymore. He hears footsteps, coming down the alley. He turns his head, painfully, slowly. It's the Reaper, in his black robe, coming for him.

*************************

PART III

Stalker walked the streets of New York, one last night, before he must return to the Old World. This place is so strange to him, yet it seems to bristle with a rage that calls to his Brujah soul. There should be more of us here, he thinks to himself. The Ventrue keep too close a reign on the Brujah here, my Franklin can only do so much. But I dare not stay. Thinking of Franklin gave Stalker a reason to smile. He felt almost like a father to Franklin, though it had been over 200 years since Stalker had embraced him. He still felt a certain pride in the accomplishments of his most recent progeny. Truth to be told, this fatherly attachment to Franklin was one of the reasons that Stalker had not turned any other in the two centuries since. It was a weakness, one that could be exploited by Stalkers many enemies. Still, he felt the need to leave some part of himself here, in this city, perhaps to help Franklin...

He opened himself to the anger and the passions of the city. He stood there on the nightwashed street, his eyes closed, feeling, sensing. Drinking in the hate and the rage. It called to him, pulled at him.

He finds himself at the mouth of an alley, looking into the stygian murk between two tenements. There is something here, something that has called him. He knows what this is, he fights it. No, I will not. I need not. Franklin doesn't need help, he can fend for himself. But...

He walks into the alley, winding his way through the debris and trash that cover the way. There, laying in the blood, there he is. Stalker looks down at the broken body at his feet, some nameless thug, bleeding, already dead. No, he turned his head, looking up at Stalker with blurry eyes. Stalker can feel the faint rage in the soul of this one. He is amazed, considering the weak fire of the mortals. The man at his feet manages to raise his left hand, clenched into a fist. Stalker dispassionately begins to turn, not wanting to go any farther down this road, not wanting to curse his clan with another who was not worthy. But before he can turn away, the man croaks out something barely audible with his last, supreme, effort. Pure distilled rage, that is what pierces Stalker, the power of anger, of a cry of hatred. Damn you childe, you have sealed your fate now. Your last words will be remembered...

Ryk raised his fist to the Reaper. The dark figure only stands over him, taunting him with his indifference. With his last energy, the last of his rage and anger, Ryk manages to speak one last time. The last words he would speak in this life.

"F***........you......"

And then he sees the Reaper bend to take him... Fangs flashing in the moonlight...

ŠJoseph Micheal Linsner

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Last revised: August 24, 2000