here's a sample post:
Rain had passed in the night and filled the hollows and dips in the road where the tar had been lifted by so many trucks clenching their brakes; their cargo lurching and the line of vehicles behind squealing to a halt as obedient as steers following the chute to the slaughter. Likely, Dante had arrived to Hoboken aboard a ferry out of Manhattan as many did if they had business at all in that soot-caked pile. It was a town who sleepily stares across the Hudson at its glittering cousin, apathetic even to envy like a pauper, awaiting the tram, watches a limo pass.
The grey water of the river was muddled with runoff from hundred of miles up and even if nothing in the water reflected the dour blanket of clouds, the twain of the two surfaces mirrored like facets to a kaleidoscope. The Hudson ran out to the ocean and the sky followed till the two planes found another at the horizon and their colors were entirely alike.
Hoboken. The barges teetered in the lapping waves of the river and diligently took their cargos to the Big City's markets, restaurants, dining tables. Long and thick bellied tankers drifted into the harbor with their diesel motors running so low and powerful as a volcano's rumble or a train humming on the rails. The air was thick was the smell of sooty exhaust and the tint of sulfur. A moisture clung to everything as a slime, perhaps thinking to wash away, but instead wicked up the filth of the town.
They knew of him. Wyatt Johnston had gone by many other names, but this one had been his first and it was the one he choose to use again. It was a name registered to an apartment in Hoboken although details of employment were not mentioned.
A man wasn't going to fire a shot in this town without someone noticing and they had noticed. His kind did not waste their time with suppositions. They did not attempt to empathize with the motivations of others. Wyatt did not care to inform himself about the 'culture' of his dark cousins, but the man was quite certain that compassion was a uniquely, human trait.
Dante was not well informed of this target. Save the information his brethren provided him, the agreement had somehow left out any collaboration from the other side, and even the information provided was scant or entirely frivolous. It'd leave a lot to wonder.
Wyatt Johnston was last recorded as Willard Owens Army private, 3 division, etc. etc. believed lost at sea, 1944. Again as Augustin Crane Army private, etc. etc. MIA Belgium, 1918. He had once lived in Hoboken as Willard Owen, and was recorded as being a butcher on ____ St, which was not a breath from the bar Dante now sat in. That the wolf should revisit and even reclaim a previous life, which was well documented in both human and the vampire's records was no less foolish than leaving a kill so blatantly unconcealed and so no-logic to no-logic as odds added to odds manifests a calculated, first step.
The pub was a narrow affair that stretched between a brick faced bank and a mechanic's shop. It was narrow, but its opening to the street was a tall stack of green framed windows, which ran all the way up the wall. Even in the heavy overcast, the room was filled enough by natural, diffused light that the proprietors had not turned on the electric lights. The bar was a handsome stretch of rolled copper atop carved rosewood, whose expense seems wildly out of place for a coal and industry town as this, but the world was always so full of pleasant surprises.
"that'd be fief'ty sents, sir." the bartender said as he deposited the pint before Dante. He was a splotch faced, stout man in white shirt sleeves and an apron. His hands were ruddy as his face and they were fat as sausages or cigars, with rings for tagged collars. The man's nose was pugged and rosacea with too much drink; it forced his eyes into dark narrows. His palms were leaned on the polished edge of bar as he waited for either payment or a request for a tab.
Amid the hang of cigarette smoke that found no where to exit, the light of the day faded as it progressed into evening. The electric lights switched on and the bar was a pleasant incandescent glow.
At about six o clock, the door sounded and Wyatt entered. Wyatt was a tall man, indiscernible in his age that one could guess any odd number between thirty and forty five. He wore a hatched, charcoal grey cap and a sandy, brown tweed suit. The evening edition was tucked under his arm and he paused at the door to take off his cap. His brown eyes were still, hard edged facets at once drawing, but when found were no more expressive than the alert attention of a hawk's stare. He had a rugged complexion and a short, lantern jaw that suggested an Irish heritage.
The man had turned his gaze on to Dante's back and he dallied at that door for a moment longer than he would normally. Yet he did not leave. Instead the man continued on to his normal perch at the bar and dropped his cap atop the copper. The news paper followed with a distracted gaze over the headline. "same 'ol, Michael. thankyou." he said as the bartender approached. He snapped the paper open loudly and turned it inside out to follow the headline. The man had not taken his seat, instead remained standing at the bar.