textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0658.txt

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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #658
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888           "AN OPEN LETTER TO SCOTT ZIBBLE"   
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8
    888     888 888      888 888    "                by RottenZ
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               5/22/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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        NOTE: This is not, in any way, an open letter to Scott Zibble.  It
 is the first chapter in a "humorous" story that I started to write for no
 good reason.  The reason that Scott Zibble's name is invoked is that this
 story is based in the world of VAMPIRE: THE MASQUERADE, and Scott Zibble
 loves to make fun of me for writing about vampires.  Or anything else.  I
 would mention that the humor is in the style of Douglas Adams, but that
 would probably raise your expectations to unacceptable levels.  Just read
 it.


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 Chapter One


	Roland sat quietly in his chair and fidgeted while the dealings of
 the city went on merrily about him.  Roland was a grand fidgeter.  If
 fidgeting had crowned some sort of champion, Roland would have been in the
 running, so long as the listlessness competitions were not held the same
 day.  Roland was certainly known as a fidgeter in the town, but he was also
 known as something  slightly more important (emphasis on "slightly").  He
 was the Gangrel primogen.  It wasn't really a knock against the Gangrel to
 say that sort of thing, and even if it were, it would be doubtful that one
 was around to take offense to it.  This city's specific problem lay in the
 limited amount of Gangrel who were actually in the city at any one time.
 Usually, there were two: Roland, of course, who was always off somewhere,
 presumably fidgeting, and Alex Ramirez, a kindred who was so staggeringly
 private that even the tele-marketers didn't have his number.  So Roland was
 it; the go-to guy.  He wouldn't have minded the extra power if, indeed, the
 prince had ever been willing to give him any.  He did mind sitting around
 in meetings for hours, but the prince also insisted that he do this, too.
 In Roland's estimation, the prince was a right bastard.

	So Roland sat in the same cold, high backed chair that he had been
 sitting in for the last three hours and fidgeted.  He would twiddle his
 thumbs occasionally, or maybe play out the beat to one of those new songs
 (which were so bad that they could do nothing else but completely and
 totally take over one's mind) with his hands and feet.  Or maybe, and this
 was only on a rare occasion, mind you, he would pick up the quill pen that
 sat in front of him, the same quill pen that had been provided for taking
 notes in case any of the primogen had been so inclined to do so, the same
 quill pen that had sat in front of Roland for these last ten years and was
 considering suing him for neglect, he might take that pen and draw a
 careful, simple circle on the blank paper in front of him.  Roland was a
 fabulous drawer of circles, by his own estimation, at any rate.  They were
 perfect and round, the way real circles were, back in the good old days.
 When he reached this point in his thinking, he would realize how utterly
 stupid he was being, quietly place the pen back in its well, and resume
 whatever fidgeting he had been in the middle of before the detour.

	Tonight's meeting had been a long one, as exhibited by the three
 neat, almost perfect circles that lay on the paper in front of Roland.
 Malek, the prince, had been going on and on about something or other, Roland
 couldn't be sure what.  Oh, he tried to pay attention.  He really did.  He
 would sit and listen to every word that came out of Malek's mouth.  The
 trouble was that the words seldom stayed together as they were supposed to.
 They would begin to meld in Roland's ear, and then pair off and dance about,
 eventually going home with each other only to part ways in the morning with
 a hangover and a nasty guilt complex.  Concentration was not one of Roland's
 strong suits.  In fact, it could be said that it wasn't one of his suits at
 all.  It was more like that musty pair of trousers that always sits in the
 bottom of one's drawer that only sees the light of day when one has a
 particular urge to paint something.  Roland rarely had such urges.  In fact,
 the only urge he currently had was to get the bloody hell out of this
 office.  Unfortunately, that was not going to be possible for some time.
 The prince had started the evening with a fiery dialog about something or
 other, and that was bad enough.  Traditionally, when the phrase "bad
 enough" is brought into play, it means things are only going to go south
 from there.  And south they did go, quickly, happily, without even stopping
 to pack.

        The trouble began, as it usually did in these meetings, with A-Bomb,
 the Brujah primogen, deciding to add his two cents to whatever the prince
 was talking about.  Roland couldn't understand the conversation, but he was
 at least bright enough to know that A-Bomb's two cents could be converted
 into about eight dollars and change for everybody else.  And if A-Bomb was
 going to speak for a long time, then it was always a solid bet that Tianna,
 Toreadore Primogen and practitioner of what had to be the silliest art in
 the known universe, would want to express her side of the story.  A-Bomb
 and Tianna were never, ever on the same side of an argument.  Together,
 Roland fancied that they made a perfect quarter: she was Washington and he
 was the stern looking bird with a fist full of rockets.

	So, on this three-ring circus would go (although the rings were
 clearly not as nice as Roland's circles).  On into the night.  He would
 steal occasional glances toward the other primogen, hoping that they would
 look as bored as he was, but unfortunately they were always staring
 intently at whomever was speaking at the moment.  People would just have to
 understand that this whole listening thing was inherently against the
 nature of the Gangrel, who's primary actions were wandering around until
 they found a comfortable place to nap.

	Roland was beginning to feel concern that this meeting might last
 well into the daylight hours, which would have made it exceedingly
 difficult to get home (if you counted a patch of dirt in the empty lot
 behind a Denny's Restaurant "home".)  But as quickly as all the bluster and
 billowing started, it suddenly ended in a swift edict from Malek, that,
 while he didn't get the gist of, at least Roland could understand was the
 final word on whatever damn fool thing they had been arguing over for the
 last six hours.  Not everyone looked happy (in fact, no one really looked
 happy except for the Prince, which was par for the course whenever he
 settled an argument, which was pretty much all of the time).  But everyone
 knew what was coming soon, that being fiery death at the hands of the
 burning sun, so everyone was pretty quick to clear out.  Roland himself was
 the first one out of the door once the Prince dismissed the meeting.  At
 least, he would have been, ideally.  If Malek had not requested that he
 alone stay and have a chat.

	A "chat".  Roland's blood dropped from room temperature to the room
 temperature of  a place considerably colder than the one he currently sat
 in.  Vampires didn't have "chats".  They had spirited debates or
 ass-kicking sessions, and Roland doubted very much that Malek was so
 impressed with his dynamism that he wished for a private debate between the
 two of them.  That left for only the other option.  Malek was a celebrated
 ass-kicker. If ass-kickers had crowned a champion, it would be him.  In
 fact, they had. He had it hanging on the wall in a lovely frame.  Roland
 didn't consider himself to be weak.  Not in the strict sense, anyway.  But
 the same position as a virtual non-entity within the city that had helped
 him avoid any of Malek's wrath would certainly not go to any great lengths
 to shield it from him.  If, indeed, any wrath was forthcoming.  It was
 perfectly concievble that the prince truly did want to talk about something
 other than Roland's violent and untimely death.

	"Roland." the prince said, once they were alone.  Oh, so dreadfully
 alone.  He said it in that cold, detatched voice, that didn't sound like
 fingers running across a blackboard but rather somebody describing fingers
 running across a blackboard.  Roland cringed, predictably.  "I want you to
 tell me something."  He rose from his chair and kept on going.  Roland
 estimated that Malek was around eighty-seven feet tall.  "It's not that I
 mind, really, that you sit here, at this table. my table, year after year,
 and draw careful circles instead of paying attention to the business of my
 domain." here he stopped, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase dramatic
 pause.  This pause was so dramatic that it might have opened on Broadway to
 favorable reviews.  Roland sized up the situation.  Malek did not sound
 happy, and when Malek failed to sound happy, other people in his proximity
 tended to be in a very bad way.  Still, Roland could think of nothing that
 he had particularly done wrong, except of course for the aforementioned lack
 of attention, but Malek had already excused him for that, albeit in a
 sarcastic and thoroughly belittling way.  So if he could simply defend
 himself in a calm and intelligent manner to whatever the fuming prince was
 about to bring up, then he would come out of this all right.

	Upon reaching that conclusion, Roland realized that all was lost.

	"It's not that I mind that I give you feeding grounds and status and
 a say in city politics and all you give me is circles, Roland." Malek
 continued, his voice actually softening a bit.  A good comparison to this
 softening that would be steel suddenly turning into jagged cement.  "What I
 do mind, Roland, is that when a trusted member of my city forms a close,
 personal relationship with a member of the Sabbat."  Roland, at this point,
 knew that he was screwed.  There might as well have been a long, sharp
 sword shoved right through his chest.  In fact, there was.  The prince had
 just put it there.  No, wait. not the prince.  Someone next to the prince.
 Someone coming out of the shadows.  Oh hell. it didn't matter, really.  The
 only thing that mattered to Roland, right now, was that there was a long
 sharp sword shoved right through his chest.

	"I don't know what you're talking about!" Roland weezed as he bled
 onto the thick black carpet of the meeting room.  He meant it, too.  He
 didn't talk to too many people, or rather no one really ever talked to him.
 He couldn't understand exactly what was going on, but he did understand
 that he wished it to stop.  This new "bleeding" hobby of his wasn't very
 entertaining.  He very much preferred drawing circles.

	"Your denial is all well and good." Malek said, leaning down next to
 Roland and yanking the sword out of its wound, then placing it gently
 against Roland's neck.  "But I have it on good authority that it is
 contrary to the truth.  Do you know who has "good authority", Roland?"
 Roland shook his head, at least as much as he could without slicing open
 his throat on the sword pressed against it.  "Well, it's not you, Roland.
 It's not you."  Roland had gathered that.

        "Look, I'm sorry about this whole ordeal, but you know. some times,
 life is a bitch."  Malek punctuated this statement by swiftly and neatly
 chopping Roland's head off.  If Roland could have thought something at this
 point, it probably would have been: "Please don't chop my head off."  Or
 something close to that.  As it was, however, he didn't think that at all,
 the prime reason being that he had ceased to exist.

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!   HOE #658 - WRITTEN BY: ROTTENZ - 5/22/99 ]