The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Murder always finds its way as art. It’s everywhere, it’s twisted, and it hangs deep inside every man. Murder had now set inside the blocks of the alleyway of Taylor Street. Three police cars, a dozen policemen and women plus a lining of police tape were free admission spectators at the impromptu gallery.



A fourth car rolled up and spat its contents before sputtering away. The abandoned contents; both from the tailpipe and the one from the passenger side; shrugged up and moved on past the rejection from the vehicle. The tailgate contents named Smoke, nickname Exhaust, filtered away bored. Where as the passenger side contents named Rita Pena that decided to stay, though unwillingly really, merged with the rest.



When she had finally shuffled over past the few curious citizens and homeless with nothing better to do then rot in this part of the city by the theatre, she was met by familiarity. The familiarity of sickness. The familiarity of sickness was very mean really. It often punched her in the stomach then proceeded to mug her of her nerves, leaving only a clam sweat and stammering behind as compensation. One didn’t expect to lose one’s stomach in San Francisco unless they took Knob Hill. That experience was reserved for New York or Washington D.C. but there it was.



There it was as the other police officers asked the new member of homicide what she thought.