Shattered Masquerade

Bonaparte watched as the doors opened and the Cainites started to come in. Seeing it through the eyes of someone like Alain, the dark-skinned Anarch would allow himself to grant how someone could consider them to be rabid animals. To Bonaparte, who knew better and understood these Cainites better than most, they were like long-lost brothers and sisters. He could feel their nervous energy that was awaiting just the slightest push into a wild Frenzy of animalistic celebration. He also knew that depending how the next few minutes went, he might even be a part of it.

The mortals hanging from chains- fifteen, Bonaparte knew from helping to hang them- hardly made a sound. One of them, struggling to come out of unconsciousness, groaned softly. Each one dripped a few droplets of blood from pre-existing wounds, and the Cainites marveled up at them. Some stuck out their tongues (which were cut, or pierced, or even normal depending on the desires of the Cainite that owned it) to catch the precious drops as an appetizer for what was to come.

Bonaparte licked his lips, the Beast within him roiling a bit with a muted version of the excitement that he knew the Cainites were feeling now.

He saw packs of these Cainites- the last of the Sabbat- playfully fighting each other, hanging off each other while they told wild stories of the shit they got up to. They had outfits ranging from the serene to the wild, hairstyles from reserved to old-style punk.

Caine, it was almost like being at home.

One group started shoving another, shouting and arguing about nothing in particular. Then punches were thrown, hard bone fists thudding against faces and sending flecks of vitae and teeth out onto the floor. That nervous energy finding an outlet.

Archbishop Mateo Dominguez stood up. Though he had a shorter frame than Bonaparte (and indeed more than a number of the Sabbat remnant there), his presence was amplified by his voice. It boomed throughout the warehouse and immediately grabbed the attention of all- including the Cainites that were mid-brawl.

“Brothers and sisters!” The voice boomed. It had to with Cainites. With the traditional Sabbat power structure gone, with the lack of basic mind-warping tools like the vaulderie, you were in charge because you earned it. And Dominguez was clearly no slouch, just coasting on based on his title or his name. The warehouse brawls and raucous cheers lowered to a murmur. The Beast was yet again chained.

“I know you all are looking forward to tonight’s festivities!” Dominguez was more restrained, but no less audible. “You’ve all earned it, making sure this city knows we’re here!” There’s cheering at that, loud whoops and hollers and claps as the Cainites celebrate… well, something. Bonaparte didn’t bother to ask. “Making sure that the Camarilla know we’re not going down!” More cheering as Dominguez gets into it more. “Making sure that everyone knows the monstrous Sword of Caine will never die!” The whole building starts to shake now with the intensity of the acclamation for this cry. A voice in the back starts it, but like wildfire it catches throughout the warehouse, echoing throughout the rafters and taking on a life of its own.

“Praise Caine! Praise Caine! Praise Caine!”

It’s infectious. Bonaparte can’t help but join in, and Andrew too, standing by and slightly behind him.

Again, Dominguez calls out for silence. “But!”

The cheering continues, though with less fire than before.

“But!”

Back to a murmur.

“Before we begin the real fun, I want to introduce you to some special guests. All the way from the Anarchs—”

Dominguez, even with his magnetic presence, couldn’t have prevented what happened after. Imagine going to a bar in South Boston and telling them that the Red Sox are cheaters and that Curt Schilling is a cheat and a druggie. Imagine going into President Trump’s office and telling him that he is permanently banned from Twitter. Imagine going to a police station in northern Idaho, with its sizeable Christian Nationalist population, and telling them that Satan is king and that Black Lives Matter. Put together you could approach the disdain, the anger that the assembled Cainites were hurling towards Bonaparte when that word came out.

“Bootlickers!” “Pawns!” “Fuckers!” The insults dripped with hatred and were coupled with whatever else could be thrown. A couple of shoes. Empty cans. A rock, thank Caine, fell short and hit the floor at Bonaparte’s feet.

Dominguez smiled over as it carried on. If there was any doubt of the weight of the decision that Bonaparte was making, the Archbishop wanted to underscore it. Fuck up, he had basically said (though with far more sexual references than Bonaparte was quite ready for), and you’re dead.

Finally, he took in the reins again. “of New Orleans! But my good friend El Butcher de Baton Rouge…” He paused again and the angry energy dropped. Bonaparte would never pretend or claim his name held any sort of mythic status among the Sabbat, but it seemed to at least help here. “… he says there’s some chances to have some of the good fun we like here in Miami! Do you want to hear what dear Mr. Big Bad Butcher has to say?” There were some cheers and chants, though it was muted.

Dominguez stepped back and smirked. “Remember what I said, sugar daddy… they like their delicate flower.” As though that wasn’t enough, he made a quick thrusting motion on Bonaparte’s direction.

Andrew had been taking most of this in and leaned forward to whisper in Bonaparte’s ear. “Do I want to know, Brother?”

Bonaparte shook his head briefly and stepped up. At least he was taller and could see most the sea of the Sabbat. Now it was only a matter of winning their trust. He wasn’t sure what would work, but had a general plan.

“Brothers and sisters!” He tried to project his voice in the same way that Dominguez had. It wasn’t easy. He decided instead on the theatric, and as he spoke he willed what shadows there were towards him, making sure to darken his features and make himself look larger and more menacing than he otherwise would be in a dark suit.

If he had a heartbeat, it would be intense.

“I know you love to party. I can see it here… you’re all just waiting for the word to let loose, let the Beast out and just revel in being who you are. But I know even more, deep down, you love to war. For too long we’ve had to watch as city after city fell to the Ivory Tower and their little bootlickers. We’ve had to wait and see when our time might be, when we were free to lash out with fang and fist to show those prissy Elders who’s boss.”

He paused. There weren’t any cheers yet. Some murmurs that could definitely be taken advantage of. He walked out into the crowd of Cainites, trying to engage them more on their own turf. Talking down to them doesn’t work like it would for a Cammie.

“Now the bootlickers are fighting back. They’re waking up now to just how foolish they were throughout Florida and beyond. And they’re showing spirit, ready to take the fight to where it’s always belonged- to the Elysiums. To the courts of the Elders. And oh boy, are they afraid.”

He looks up at the mortal he was standing beneath; blood dripped down from a gash on his forehead. This is the one that had moaned earlier as he started to come to. Caine, please help this mortal make it awake, and soon.

“But they don’t know how to fight. Not like you. And they sure as shit don’t know how to party. Not like you and not like Archbishop Dominguez. They don’t know how to really get those Elders to know fear. It’s not witty one-liners. It’s not jokes on the radio. It’s fist and fang! It’s the snarling of an unchained Beast that’s come to take what’s due!”

Come on, you fucking weak mortal. Wake up. The shadows darkened around Bonaparte as he was getting into it.

“You’re the ones who can show them how it’s really done. Lash out and strike fear into the hearts of the Tower! You’re the ones who are going to show them how to party. I know how the Anarchs seem here. Wanna-be Princes with their courts and their titles. Telling you how to run things according to an Elder’s way. That’s not how it’ll be. You show us how to take Florida. Show us how to fight, how to exist, how to live up to the power of the Beast and then you come here to all the Blood Feasts you can handle!”

There was a bit more sounds of agreement coming now. A smattering of “fuck yeah”s and “’bout times” that helped him along. Not that Bonaparte needed help with that. He was getting more and more into it. He wanted to see that just as much as they would have. He wanted to taste the vitae of an Elder, drinking them down to their souls. He wanted this Blood Feast to begin just like the rest of them. He wanted to get to the point as much as they wanted him to at this point.

Finally, by the grace of Caine, the mortal’s eyes opened. He wasn’t quite all there yet, but he knew enough that he was hanging funny. And he knew enough that when he saw Bonaparte, the shadows around his cheeks, his eyes, his jaw that he was looking at a monster. He started to squirm against the chain bonds as Bonaparte reached out to grab his throat.

“He… hey, what’s this… hold on, what are you doing?”

About time.

“This is fucking fear. This is a caged animal, removed from anything that makes him strong, knowing he’s about to go down to a superior creature.” The mortal’s eyes did indeed get wider. “Wait!” Bonaparte popped his fangs out and snarled at him, summoning the Beast and the shadows move.

“This is what you can show the Tower. This is the might that Archbishop Dominguez can bring to bear in Florida and beyond. This is the fear the Elders will know when they see you, fighting with Anarchs, showing them the true masters of the world!”

Now they were getting more into it. There were some cheers. Whoops. Cainites clapping their hands, stomping their feet, gnashing their teeth. It was the rhythm of the Beast. The monsters had awoken now, the thrill of the fight and the revelry of the coming party driving them. Driving Bonaparte too.

“Fight with us and fucking unlive like kings!”

It was too much for Bonaparte. He believed it, he was unliving it. Fangs out, holding the hapless mortal, Bonaparte bit down on him. Blood flooded into his mouth with the Kiss and the mortal moaned in response. The fear, the adrenaline were strong spices against his tongue. The roar around him- such that Bonaparte could hear- increased. It was party time. And the Butcher- not just Bonaparte but the monster that gleefully burned a city- pulled back, licking his lips as blood sprayed out over him from the wounds in the mortal’s neck.

“What do you say? Show us how to fight, to party, and to be real monsters!” The mortal struggle as the blood continued to spray around. Bonaparte reached down to rip apart his shirt, pulling that and the blazer off. His chest was bare as the warm blood hit him and ran down. “Let loose the beast!”

The Butcher let out a loud, triumphant yell. He hardly noticed the throng around him clapping his shoulders as the other Cainites dug into their feast with the blessing of Dominguez. He hardly noticed the slight look of concern on Andrew’s face at this display. What he did feel as the primal energies of the Beast within, the Beasts that roiled and roared out from the other Cainites, the heat from blood as it rained down from the mortals hanging from the ceiling, whether it was from slashes or fangs.

It was a blur of pleasure, an orgy of free expression, a raging of the Beast. Bonaparte fed on mortals. He licked the blood as it ran down the chest of Cainites with intricate tattoos and groaned in the pleasure of others doing the same to him. He roared with the rest of them. He stamped his feet and pounded his fists. These were the modern tribal drumbeats of warrior monsters, which deep down they all were. He lost track of time and self.

Later, countless hours after diving headfirst into his old ways and old life, he found himself again. He was on the floor, covered in congealing blood, laying in the middle of a pile of half- or even fully-nude Cainites as bloody as he was. Standing above him with a smile on his face was the Archbishop himself, still dressed in his relaxed suit, his shirt open and displaying a tattooed and branded chest. Andrew was off in another corner, not nearly as bloodied but having enjoyed himself all the same.

“Well, Mr. Butcher. Looks like you impressed the vatos. And finally had some fun yourself, yeah? I guess you got us now, sugar daddy…”