Jason Strange

    “Come on now Jerry. Its sleep time.”
     The old bum, covered in enough dirt that a passive onlooker wouldn't have been able to tell what shade of brown his skin had been to begin with, mumbled to himself. His scraggly hair, palpable body odor, and the inummerable stains on his torn clothing told a story seen all over the nation. The liquor bottle in his hand was almost empty as was shown by the zigztagging stagger. There had been a couple of fires in downtown Annapolis recently and Jerry Wilshire knew how to get into the burned out buildings for a safer temporary squat. Safer at least than anywhere else in downtown Naptown.

     Jerry slid between the plastic sheeting on the outside of the building. He knew that the Annapolis police only went by this part of the city once an hour. He'd watch the one patrol car nearby pull out of the neighborhood before he'd even walked down the street.
    “Cursed dark. Can't see a goddamn thing.”
    That's when the floor crumbled underneath his feet. Jerry awoke still very drunk atop a bedframe. He groaned in agony from new bruises and what could be a broken arm. It was hard to tell how bad it was through the booze. There were some bricks and broken boards around and under him. He realized that as he attempted to move around and they clattered around him. Jerry felt something warm running down the side of his face. In the fall he'd gashed his head slightly.
     “Damn fool. Yer lucky you didn't kill yerself.”
     The old bum reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. He pulled one out of the pack, put it between his lips and sparked the lighter. As he took the first couple of puffs, Jerry held the lighter up. Maybe it was just the booze but there was definitely something strange about the room he found himself in. It was walled with black stone bricks that he couldn't identify. Most of the famous buildings in Annapolis were made of basic red bricks aside from the terribly fancy places like the Capital building. The room itself was about 20' x 30'. Candleabra were spaced every five feet. On the walls in between them were old horror movie posters spaced out from the monster black and whites all the way to several of Vincent Price's best performances in the 60's, 70's, and 80's. One small door was the only entrance or exit to this room. Jerry rotated around the room, eventually coming back to rest on the pile of brick and broken boards. Well, this place seemed good enough to sleep in for the night.
     “Don't worry Jer, my son. We'll find our way out in the morning when there's more light.” He began to pull the rest of the boards and bricks off of that bedframe he'd fallen on. After thirty seconds of cleaning it off, Jerry stopped and squinted. “No, not a bedframe. Just a mighty big box.” Now with his curiousity piqued, the old bum walked around it. “By gor, lookit that!”
     Across the lock was bound a large silver crucifix. He knew that if he pawned it he'd be in hooch for at least a week. Top shelf too! Quickly, Jerry pulled out his knife and cut the ropes that held the crucifix to the box. Taking a puff on his cigarette, he absentmindedly touched the gash on his head. It was still bleeding having not closed up due to his exertions.
“Damn fall. Well, least the arm's not broke.” Between the booze, the bleeding and the cigarette, Jerry felt a bit nauseous. “Better sit down for a minute.” the old bum muttered to himself.

Blood... Fresh, not of a high quality... but still something. Copper vapours coiling in my nostrils.  HUNGER.

       Behind Jerry, the forgotten box silently slid open. If Jerry had been looking at it, he would not have seen the pale shadow slide out of the box behind him. The only thing that kept the old bum alive was the silver crucifix in his hand. Even unbeknownst to him, the fiery eyed creature in the darkness saw it and stayed back. Its mouth coiled in a hiss, its pupils were but dots in a great sea of gold and red, it hungrily watched the blood dribbling down Jerry's neck.
       Jerry began to feel sick, some kind of strange pressure setting his head to pounding. Almost like a hangover, but somehow worse in different ways. He slumped forward to his knees, the crucifix slipping from his hand to bounce away somewhere in the darkness. He thought he heard a footstep, someone crunching in the dust and debris.
Impossibly strong arms curled around his and his head was twisted to the side. There was a brief flash of pain and then he was higher than he'd ever been. Somehow his headache turned into a fifty dollar crack rock's effects. He mercifully passed out. As Jerry's heart slowed down something more intelligent appeared in the eyes of the vampire holding him up. The creature let him drop slowly to the floor instead of finishing him of.

Now I know what I am. But who? And, where? It thought to itself.

     The vampire's hair was dirty blond with natural red highlights. He was taller than average, about 165 pounds, and thin but not gaunt. His clothing was a motley assortment of 80s punk and sophista-goth. He turned back to his coffin. Inside was a leather journal. Something about the symbol etched into the cover made him want to pick it up. As he opened it, a small card with a picture and some words printed on it fell out. He stooped to pick it up.

“Maryland Driver's License. Jason Strange.”

On the first page of the journal was a note.

“Dated, June 1st, 1987.
Jason, pay attention. That's you by the way. Something is wrong with your memory. Every night you wake up and do not remember what happened the night before. I, that is you, have hidden journals like this one all over Annapolis and Baltimore. They're written in a cypher that you have to find at least three of the journals to be able to break. Inside of them is all the information about you that we, you and I, have been able to find out about ourself. Yes, I am you and writing you this note. You have to figure out why we are unable to remember anything. One more thing, something you should know. You are a vampire of the clan Gangrel, part of the Camarilla. Also inside of this journal are all of the rules and laws of the Camarilla, known as the Traditions. You must follow them or you will end up dead. Keep this journal safe or you will die. Inside of it are known places of Elysium. That means its a safe place to go and find other vampires. Got it?
-J. Strange.
     P.S. I know you're going to want proof of this. There is a black sun tattooed on the inside of your right forearm. “

     Jason pulled up his right sleeve. Sure enough, something that could easily be said to resemble a black sun was emblazoned on his arm.

     “Well now. I guess I need to find some shelter and some other vampires.”