“We switched the signs. Got the music going. Neon’s bright. Soon, the blood will fill our cups.”
You’re lost. At midnight, the roads all seem to tangle. The street signs are hard to read – did that one have mud on it? Doesn’t it contradict the other one you saw, about five miles back? No gas stations out this way that aren’t closed up husks, just silhouettes against the dark night. But then you see it: a roadhouse, just down the way. All lit up like a beer-advertising Christmas tree. You think that, well, maybe it’s time to ask directions. Maybe grab a road beer, too; the wife won’t mind, she’s asleep next to you. You go in. But you won’t come out. Your wife, maybe she’ll live. Maybe they’ll let her live. Then again, maybe not. See, some Gangrel don’t like to go out and hunt. Why should they, when they can make the prey come to them? The world is home to countless pockets of isolation: lost highways, ghost towns, depressed economies. Places where people go astray, usually on accident, sometimes on purpose. Those of the Mabry blood, well, they just set up shop and wait for the blood to start trickling in.
