A Night at the Lanes

by Parr Hesia
from an idea by amethyst


I wanted to do "Interview with the Vampire".  I thought I could.  I was
wrong...

I was to meet him at the local bowling alley, a little place that was
cheerfulling glowing in the night.  Inside there was a faint sense of decay;
all the plastic had yellowed, all the pictures had faded.  I set the tape
recorder down on the plywood table, a little barrier between me and the
unknown....the *Vampire*....

Coming twards me  was a very large man, with thin black hair.  A working man,
from the blue collar class that you see less and less of today.  He would
have been comfortable in Detroit.  At a football game.  Not exaclty what you
think of when you think of the Shadow Walker...

He puts his ball case down on the table and orders a Bud Light from the
bartender. Is he...? "Bobby" says the classic bowling shirt in italics.  So
does the slightly grayed and ragged towel he drapes thoughtfully around his
neck as we sit, silently looking at each other.

"Mr...Harris?"   I ask.  He nods.  "You said in your letter you had something
important to tell me?"

"Yeah" he rumbles, and his voice is low and gravely from years (decades?
centuries?) of drinking.  "Yeah.  You're a hot shot reporter, and all, but I
like you.  I know you've been stickin' your nose into Kindred buisness a lot,
looking around for another Louis or Lestat.  A nice, angsty vampire to fill
up a few booking contracts and make a name fer yerself.  Well, I got
somethin' better...somethin' better. "

My palms were sweating.  Tape?  Check.  Notes? Check.  Extra tape recorder in
my sleve? Check.  Auxlieraly tape recorder taped to my stomach? Check...

"Yeah...hee  hee... I got somethin' better... Let me tell you about a real
history event:...let me tell you about..."   he leaned closer, closer...I
stared feverishly into his eyes....*let me into that deep pit of despair,
that heart of darkness...tell me!* my mind screamed.  I gripped the table...

"the first Vampire Team to *ever* win the South Cleveland Bowling
Tournament."

"The....the....what??"

"Yeah, man, we were the best" grunted the portly Brujah.  He twisted a fat
gold ring off his finger.  "Lookit this.  Says right here "Midnight Brothers,
1977 Champions".  

I accept the sweaty, worn ring, my mouth drooping open.
"That was the year when we got it all togeather...me, Tom, Shaggy and Dwane.
 We'd been workin' on our form for a couple'a decades, but for some reason,
77, that was the sweet spot..." His eyes glaze over a bit as he speaks.

"Bobby, Bobby the Bruser, that's what they called me.  "Bruser" becuase they
couldn't say "Brujah" right.  Man that ticks me off.  Then there was Shaggy,
Gangrel, a real wild guy.  Man that guy could rip the top off a bud can with
his teeth.  He was allway's howlin' and makin' a ruckus, gettin us thrown
out."

"Tom , he was the weirdo of the bunch" continued Bobby, scraching his
polyester pant over his knee.  "A Ventrue.  'What's a Ventrue doin' bowlin?'
we says to him.  We didn't mix with him to much at first.  But boy, he had a
sweet arm!  And after a few brews he would even lighten up a little.  Still,
sometimes he missed practise, couldn't sneak away from the rest o' them.
 Like a husband sneak'in out on his wife." He shakes his head.  "Poor boy got
diablierized." 

The watress brings the Bud and some food.  I accept a greasy cheese-stick and
chew on it absent mindedly, staring at the Brujah's ring numbly.  He rambles
on.

"Dwane and me got along the best o' all.  He was a Nossy but he didn't know
nothin' bount nothin'.  Ugly as hell too, but he did cut quite a figure in
his polyester suit.  And he could Disco with the best of them."

Bobby looks down and pokes a bit at his beer gut.  "Yeah, they say the
predator fits in with the prey...it's true.  Lookit this.  Ever see a vamp
with a beer gut?  Yeah."  *wobble wobble*. He slicks his hands over his
balding head.  In his pocket is a crinkled box of Marblo cigs.

My expectations crumble in despair.  I leave Bobby at the smokey table, under
the slow ceeling fan, with the sound of strikes and the curses of misses
floating all around.  I leave him to remember, to remember 77', to walk the
land in perpetual search for another dream team...


And you wonder why I'm a Malkavian?

*light laughter*

-parr