discord.gg/ydnYFQynZ2
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Vampire Rule N°: Keep your friends close, but your blood bags closer.
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"There is truly no rest for the wicked." John had to physically stop himself from cursing everything and everyone involved in this clusterfuck.
The night had started well enough, with a minimal amount of paperwork and a maximum amount of blood extracted from an all too willing assassin.
Copperhead was happy to unwind after taking care of a rather unruly up and coming drug lord who saw Brideshead being cleansed and thought he struck gold, free real estate up for grabs.
He came in strong with good packages and strong muscle, and lasted no more than thirty minutes before someone with a quarter and some sense called Reginald and informed him of the situation, the man himself only needed half as much time to get a solid estimate of the enemy's numbers and inform his vampire liege.
What followed was the quick decapitation of a growing criminal organization, the assassination of the boss and his lieutenants was so much easier than the looting of his meager estate.
All in a single night's work.
John was content, his blood reserves were full and he was hemorrhaging less and less money to keep his legitimate business and human resources development activities going, the streets were talking less and less about the so-called monster as he took a step back from his midnight walks.
It was for the better, that particular identity was starting to become a liability now that he secured Brideshead, it was also too close to both his public identity and vampiric nature.
Something that just wouldn't do.
'It wouldn't take long for someone to realize that the monster of brideshead had something to do with the upstart lad cleaning up that hellhole. And it would take even less time to understand that both he and the monster are never seen in the sun,'
It might be a bit paranoid, but he lived in Batman's territory.
He would need to craft another, more suitable mask for his less subtle involvement in the future. One that wore something more resistant than leather, and used more refined weaponry than some stolen guns and his own claws…
But he had all the time in the world for that.
Unlife was good.
Or so he thought…
Before the shitfuckery started.
The nightmare began when Bubbles entered with a stack of documents that needed signing, income sheets to be studied, propositions and deals to be validated and some curated information about territory, the city as a whole and the world at large.
He was dangerously clueless about the latter.
Business as usual for the vampire and ghoul, Reginald would usually do at least half-a-dozen runs like this one on a regular night.
Growing pains, his accountants told him, they just need to consolidate power; get some competent managers ready, implement a system of checks and balances on his subordinates that didn't involve directly utilising his big vampiric stick.
Then his more straightforward ventures will practically run themselves while he indulges in endless feeding, fighting and other words that start with the letter 'f' and make unlife worth it.
But till then, he would face the paperwork with dignity.
Dignity that was challenged by the world's unexpected attempts at doing him like Marcellus Wallace.
The issue was a simple observation made by some taxi drivers who worked for him, something rather innocent at the moment.
An increase in non-descript high end cars and security details.
Now in a metropolis like Gotham where wealth disparity was bigger than the grand canyon, it was nothing of note.
But said cars were moving in a convoy toward the less privileged parts of town.
Still, John had dismissed it as some foolish child of a crime family eager to flex his inherited muscle in front of the peasants.
But the reports kept coming about increased police presence, high end businesses either closing shop for the night or preparing to do so, limousines and private jets taking off one after the other in a rush for no obvious reason.
"Boss, I got another call. Now it's the construction crew by the arbor who saw something fishy, bunch of glow in the dark fuckers hanging around." Reginald had said, making the vampire sigh for yet another time.
It was annoying, having enough influence to know that something was stinking, but not enough to locate the bag of odorous excrement.
He would've sent Copperhead out to snoop around if she wasn't useless at recon and intel gathering, usually being served most of it on a silver platter by the cartels or the client, or at least enough for her to start tracking her mark.
Yet another weakness he ought to snuff out.
"It's the fourth time tonight," John rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Call up our guys and tell them to go back home, something ain't right."
"All of them?"
"All of them," John nodded, "Tell them they'll be paid regardless, better lose some money than solid workers."
"Will do," Reginald said with a proud but amused smile, the one he gave each time John did something morally right.
His feelings were appreciated, but it was far from enough to unfuck the situation they were in.
At least, he wanted to know what on earth was happening so he could act accordingly, being left in the dark was unbearable.
He would soon come to regret that sentiment.
*beep* *beep*
The ghoul's brick of a phone rang, and after bidding him answer, John felt a thousand and one things going wrong with his servant.
First was his blood flow almost stilling, then his heart rate going crazy, the sweat glands on his body activating at once, his eyes dilating as his body was given a fully natural shot of adrenaline.
But none of that could compare to the sheer wrongness he felt when his superior hearing picked up exactly what was said.
Not even the realization that it was sweet Vicki's voice doing the reporting.
The Joker broke out of Arkham, and has already been sighted committing multiple counts of grand theft auto, arson, mishandling of dairy products, and multiple counts of very enthusiastic murder.
Harley Quinn was sighted alongside the clown, but was apparently violently thrown off their speeding car onto police vehicles during his escape, they still managed to lose her somehow.
Citizens were urged to go home and lock themselves inside, call the authorities if they see, hear or smell anything suspicious. Avoid drinking tap water, showering or leaving their homes until the suspect is apprehended, or the water supply properly secured and tested.
For a moment they both stood there, like any regular Gothamite would upon hearing the news, minds racing yet going nowhere.
Until Bubbles broke the silence.
"Shiiiiiit,"
John agreed with the sentiment.
Shit indeed.
So much shit it would soon be hitting the fan, along with everything else.
The next ten minutes were a frenzy of phone calls and orders, information was shared and commands given, all in a desperate attempt to overcome the lack of sophistication of John's circle.
East End had yet to recover from the changes within, and now on top of the inner struggles of addicts and criminal trying to turn their life around, the danger of greedy men and organizations eager to reverse what they've accomplished just to make a few bucks, the cops and politicians feeling restless when things got better without, if not because of their lack of involvement, the district might have to endure whatever madness the Joker had planned this time around.
John couldn't let that happen, it would set him back entire months, his constantly changing seven years plan to clean and healthy blood supply would be all but ruined.
But he couldn't go out and break the clown's head like a grape either, if not due to the physical risks of something like him touching the Joker's blood, then because the guy's boyfriend was just too darn good at finding and beating stuff he has no business beating.
Sicking Copperhead on him was also a no go, for obvious reasons.
So he'll have to do it the good old fashioned way, by standing vigil and using that utterly abominable cocktail of Dominate and Presence and maybe a couple drops of blood on some lesser enemies, before throwing them at the Clown Prince of Crime if he ever shows his pale arse grinning face this side of town.
Part of him could sense a disturbance in the forces that shape his fate, like the sound a thousand zippers being opened, the rising spirit of broken men who fell prey to the temptations of the hoes, crying out for him to somehow seduce Harley Quinn and drink the ecological hazard that is her blood.
Make her addicted to the bite as a blood doll, eager to please, so long as she gets that ecstasy, even if it means bleeding her dry.
Or ghoul her, making an already big problem worse for everyone else, boosting her crackhead levels of strength and durability even further beyond.
But he was wise to the ways of the hoe, and thus repeated the rules of his blood.
'Do not sink your fangs in crazy, lest you catch an STD.' John nodded sagely, grabbing his coat as he left the room, but not before leaving Reginald with some very precise instructions.
"Don't fuck up," He said, then ignored the long string of rather colorful curses that came out of the older man's mouth.
"Where are you going?" Reginald asked, holding a cumbersome mobile phone heavy enough to knock out somebody, "Please, tell me you're going to put down that son of a gun, serving as a blood bag might just be the only decent thing he'll ever do."
"Crime alley, gotta pick me up some new meatbags…I mean, associates." He answered while opening the window, looking with more than eyes for any would-be observer, "And no, there is no world where any fluid that came out of the Joker or his crazy girlfriend would ever enter my glorious person."
"Not a fan of Quinn? She's got some nice booty from what I've heard," The man smiled wistfully, the chaos forgotten for a precious few seconds.
John looked at him blankly, electing not to mention the amount of children she has murdered, the man earned his dirty thoughts.
And truth be told, she did have a nice bum.
"I was talking about Batman, but Harley works too."
Just like that, he was gone, falling off the fifth floor window while his first retainer laughed his ass off.
He had long shed the lingering human fears that told him it was a bad idea to act so recklessly, that he would collide with the ground in an explosion of meat and bones, becoming one with the pavement.
Now there was only the thrill, the slowed perception that allowed him to enjoy every sensation, every microsecond of the scenery only the most foolhardy could experience.
Without thinking, he knew what to do, when to do it. Knew to slow himself down ever so slightly by grazing the building's wall with his palm, knew to contort his body in such a way that he could grab onto the emergency staircase, launch himself above and over a neighbouring low rise.
Then, it was only a matter of staying vigilant, keeping his sense extended and primed to pick up on any masked stalker while he ran faster than humanly possible, jumping from roof to roof, all under the cover of the night.
In the distance, he could almost hear the sound of gunshots and police sirens, of a mad cackle that would haunt the dreams of many.
A haunting laugh, one that promised great pain, endless tragedy and a glimpse into the twisted psyche of a cruel genius.
It took less than half an hour for John to bend the minds of two dozen men of dubious virtue, half as much to send them armed and ready to Brideshead, and twice as much to realize the Joker was not coming.
The city got off relatively unscathed, with nothing but a high amount of business being wasted, money disappearing and a couple dozen dead, injured and otherwise disappeared men and women who had the worst day of their lives.
The clown did break into a covert military research lab, presumably to gather components to spread his Joker Toxin through the city, but the bat stopped him before the worst case scenario could happen.
Two days later, the media were done reporting on it, instead favouring the next big investment gala, celebrity scandal and political empty talks.
One week later, he was taken to a court of law and judged insane, sent off to Arkham Island and promptly forgotten about.
Murders still happened, corruption kept going, smuggling never stopped, the drugs flowed in and out of the harbor and into the needles of thousands of junkies who did their part in feeding the economy.
Wine was drunk, hands shaken and deals made for the betterment of the few and the misery of the many.
Through it all, the vampire kept watch, steadily carving out his own little world amidst the madness. A sliver of control, which he jealously guarded, bettering the lives of dozens, hundreds, thousand of citizens.
Dollars were gathered and allowed to flow, never hoarded in inflated stocks and offshore coffers, not a dime leaving his little world unless there was truly no other way.
Every day people made their cases in front of accountants, lawyers and assistants who compiled all the complaints, wishes and propositions for their machine to study and evaluate.
Investments were granted to even the most unseemly of goat fuckers, the most damaged of junkies, the most unlikely of felons.
Many failed, some did not, but a new game was being played where crime had once ruled. Steadily overtaking the old ones, cappers were traded for labors, nights of smoking and drinking turned into meetings and community college courses.
There was peace, paid in blood.
But as violence subsided and life became quieter, people were starting to take notice.
They saw the possibilities, the interests being threatened, the wealth that could be made in the now revitalised streets, they sought to bring back the old game, or change the new one.
Unaware of the beast that lurked within, whose violence faded into obscurity as more corpses were made and blood spilled.
But that was fine, life was just one big joke, after all.