The Walox
11-13-2012, 04:24 PM
Lovecraft Nevada, 10:30 P.M. October 23rd 2072.
“This is channel 51 news with a breaking story. Billionaire debutante Baxter Baker has been found dead alongside Titan’s Highway. Marsha in the field has the details, Marsha?” The image on the screen switched from the pencil mustachioed anchorman to a blushing young reported with a trendy flapper haircut.
“Thanks Hank! I’m here with police at the sight of the crash. Details are a little sketchy so far but I have confirmation from a forensic analyst at the scene that Baker died of decapitation due to sever lacerations to the neck, back to you Hank.”
The Orkish cameraman switched his camera off and began replacing the lens as the pretty young reporter pulled her overcoat closer. As the two pulled away in shining new news van the police began the real work.
A haggard troll crouched next to the mutilated body in the rolled Mercedes. “I’ll tell ya’ll somethin’” he said between drags on his soggy cigar. “No way in hell this punk died in a roll over.”
“What the hell makes you say that Thompson?” snorted a woman who didn’t even reach his armpit.
“Well Carletta, this bum is the tenth case like this I’ve seen in the past three months. Some fool getting’ his head cut clean off r’ his heart pulled out in some unfortunate accident.” He lit up another cigar, this one not soggy, “I don’t like this. It’s got those old money freaks written all over it.”
Priscilla’s Café, 10:35 P.M.
‘Hey Betty! would ya turn that depressing nonsense off?” The willowy elven waitress, with a haircut much resembling that of the reporter Marsha, flicked off the streamlined set. Priscilla’s Café was on the edge of Lovecraft’s most fashionable district. Nestled on a brightly lit corner by tow skyscrapers and the elevated monorail track it serviced a wide variety of the cities citizens.
Modeled in the classic diner fashion the patrons ether sat in booths by the windows or at the counter.
Either way it wasn’t the best location for private individuals. Despite this Diocletian Darkchaple, aka Jeeves, aka the personal butler to one of the most powerful men in the world, sat in the back corner sipping his coffee. Decapitation? He had heard rumors of such things, rumors that led him to believe the worst.
That in this shining new place, full of hopes and dreams, ancient beings from times best forgotten walked among mortal men. That vampires had made a nest here and were thriving. That he had some work to do.
“This is channel 51 news with a breaking story. Billionaire debutante Baxter Baker has been found dead alongside Titan’s Highway. Marsha in the field has the details, Marsha?” The image on the screen switched from the pencil mustachioed anchorman to a blushing young reported with a trendy flapper haircut.
“Thanks Hank! I’m here with police at the sight of the crash. Details are a little sketchy so far but I have confirmation from a forensic analyst at the scene that Baker died of decapitation due to sever lacerations to the neck, back to you Hank.”
The Orkish cameraman switched his camera off and began replacing the lens as the pretty young reporter pulled her overcoat closer. As the two pulled away in shining new news van the police began the real work.
A haggard troll crouched next to the mutilated body in the rolled Mercedes. “I’ll tell ya’ll somethin’” he said between drags on his soggy cigar. “No way in hell this punk died in a roll over.”
“What the hell makes you say that Thompson?” snorted a woman who didn’t even reach his armpit.
“Well Carletta, this bum is the tenth case like this I’ve seen in the past three months. Some fool getting’ his head cut clean off r’ his heart pulled out in some unfortunate accident.” He lit up another cigar, this one not soggy, “I don’t like this. It’s got those old money freaks written all over it.”
Priscilla’s Café, 10:35 P.M.
‘Hey Betty! would ya turn that depressing nonsense off?” The willowy elven waitress, with a haircut much resembling that of the reporter Marsha, flicked off the streamlined set. Priscilla’s Café was on the edge of Lovecraft’s most fashionable district. Nestled on a brightly lit corner by tow skyscrapers and the elevated monorail track it serviced a wide variety of the cities citizens.
Modeled in the classic diner fashion the patrons ether sat in booths by the windows or at the counter.
Either way it wasn’t the best location for private individuals. Despite this Diocletian Darkchaple, aka Jeeves, aka the personal butler to one of the most powerful men in the world, sat in the back corner sipping his coffee. Decapitation? He had heard rumors of such things, rumors that led him to believe the worst.
That in this shining new place, full of hopes and dreams, ancient beings from times best forgotten walked among mortal men. That vampires had made a nest here and were thriving. That he had some work to do.