I wrote this a couple of years ago to get it out of my head. Occasionally, I consider submitting it to my current employer’s University Honors Program to see if they’ll let me teach it in place of my occasional disaster preparedness seminar. Lightly redacted to remove contact info and other potentially-incriminating items.
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Hell Comes to Cave City
Another ConCave, another unfortunate encounter.
In this instance, several of us had decided we were hungry and the hotel diner was overpriced. But that vaunted mecca of civilization, Cave City, was nearby! And our hero protagonist victim had a car! Thus it was that four people squeezed into my ’99 Mitsubishi Eclipse, truly the gothiest of goth rides, to seek sustenance.
Two of the witnesses shall remain nameless. The third passenger, he whose reputation burns in infamy even today, shall be called WB, he who sometimes was called “Wookiee” for his stature and lack of a volume control. WB was about 6’6″, not a small man in width, made mostly of metal from the knees down, and aggressive in asserting his identity as Louisville’s largest and most notorious Jewish goth punk gamer bookmonger.
So it was that the four of us sauntered into a combination Long John Silver’s/A&W (i.e., the Fish&W) restaurant. I was attired fairly nondescriptly, as was my habit. My companions… had only brought Vampire LARP costumes to the con.
Needless to say, we attracted some attention on this fine Saturday morning. Our kind was rarely seen in Cave City. There were murmurs of outrage and consternation.
I, being attuned to the ways of incipient redneck unrest, was uneasy. My unnamed companions, alas, were more sheltered. And WB… WB was aware of the attention and was feeling provocative.
As we dined, WB’s volume increased. Every French fry brought forth another bloody tale of in-game vampiric horrors, presented out of context for the Barren County public’s edification. I began gauging the distance to the exits.
Finally, our trays were empty. Could we escape without incident? Alas, WB had one more arrow in his quiver. As we discarded our waste and headed for the exit, his voice boomed out: “Hey, Clayton, you know the best thing about this leather jacket?”
I cringed. “No, WB, what would that be?”
And as the door swung shut behind us, the last thing the good folk of Cave City heard was WB’s proud declamation: “A little rain water washes the goat blood right off it!”
The Twilight: 2000 Avatar Game
Back in the day, my World of Darkness group occasionally dabbled in what were then called “avatar campaigns” – porting the real-world players to the game’s character model. I’ve seen this done in a number of other settings, usually with results as grim and dismal as ours were. Off the top of my head, the only published systems that are designed for it are Outbreak Undead and its SPEW-AI assessment quiz, and possibly Legendlore (it’s been a while since I glanced at it).
During a discussion elsenet about Twilight: 2000 campaigns, someone commented on players who feel that their real-life military experience should entitle them to command roles or better character traits in play, regardless of the normal character creation process or results. I was inspired to provide something to… help… those folks. These, then, are my pre-alpha-test notes for running player-history-based characters. This should work for any edition of the game.
Step One
Bring to the table printed copies of the following:
- your latest medical examination up to, but not later than, your nation’s official entry into combat (November 1996 for American players in most editions)
- if claiming military service, your DD-214 or equivalent
- if claiming education, transcripts from all postsecondary education attended
- if claiming workplace experience, copies of income tax records for each year claimed that clearly show claimed occupation for that year
Step Two
Assign attributes and skills appropriate to your verifiable personal history up to November 1996 (or equivalent).
If you had no military service history prior to November 1996, assume you were drafted and apply additional skills appropriate to the training an infantry conscript would have received in your nation in 1997.
Step Three
Pass your personal history documentation and character sheet to the player on your right.
Using your choice of red pen, X-Acto knife, or Zippo lighter, audit the materials you just received and correct the character sheet as you deem appropriate.
When done, pass that character sheet to the player on your right. Continue this process until your own character sheet returns to you.
Step Four
Roll 1d20 and consult the following table:
- died in transportation accident or enemy attack during deployment or troop movement
- died from small arms fire
- died from artillery
- died from air strike
- died from other kinetic effect (e.g., minefield, heavy weapons fire, destruction of vehicle)
- died of strategic nuclear strike on critical infrastructure or military installation
- died of tactical nuclear strike
- died of radiation poisoning
- died of untreated chronic medical condition (either existing but previously-undetected or caused by wartime conditions)
- died of animal- or insect-borne illness
- died of foodborne illness or accidental toxin ingestion (e.g., eating the wrong frog)
- died of respiratory illness
- died of dysentery
- died of dietary deficiencies (e.g., scurvy, rickets)
- died of starvation
- died of dehydration
- died from medical error (e.g., incompetent surgeon, contaminated or incorrect drugs)
- died of environmental causes (e.g., heatstroke, hypothermia, drowning, snakebite)
- succumbed to despair and self-terminated in a manner of your choice
- survived to enter play
Step Five
If you rolled 1 through 19, contemplate the yawning abyss that is your own mortality and the inevitable triumph of entropy over everything you’ve ever been, done, known, loved, created, or experienced. Take two drinks.
If you rolled a 20, do the following
- Roll a number of d20s equal to the number of edits the other players made to your character sheet. Add the total of all rolls. This is your starting rads.
- Multiply your starting rads by 10. This is your starting budget for selecting equipment.
- Roll 1d4-1. This is the number of promotions you earned after November 1996 (or equivalent). Record your new rank, then edit it off your sheet because it doesn’t matter any more.
At this point, you’re probably the only person at the table with a surviving PC. Good luck! You’re on your own!
This is intended as satire and should not be used for actual campaign setup. No grognards were harmed in the making of this post.
The Cocaine King of Barren County
Back in the ’90s, the western end of Kentucky had a surprisingly lively World of Darkness LARP scene. No one ever could explain why Bowling Green (40,000 people and four last names) was a major strategic focus for the Camarilla and Sabbat, but hey… nerds gonna nerd. But interactions with non-players were always interesting because this was not generally, shall we say, a progressive or well-read region. No, friends, this was – and is – a place where Justified is a documentary.
At the time, there was a regional sci-fi/fantasy/horror convention, ConCave, so named because it always ran in an old, raggedy hotel adjacent to Mammoth Cave National Park. It was a small con, a peaceful con, a con at which the old SF/F fandom could relax, reminisce, and spouse-swap. At least… it was peaceful until Vampire: The Masquerade LARPs became a thing and the region’s LARP community was looking for a con, any con, at which to gather.
All names have been obfuscated to protect the damned.
My comrade FB was playing a Setite drug lord. FB was decked out in his finest business attire. FB also went all-in on props. Including a briefcase. A briefcase full of sealed bags of powdered sugar.
About 0200 on Saturday morning, the first night of play was winding down. Due to a con hookup – not his, more’s the pity – FB found himself locked out of the hotel room he’d arranged to share with another player. Disgusted and sleepy, he staggered down to the hotel’s pool room, dropped his briefcase on a ping-pong table, threw all of his other props into it, and crashed under the table.
Unfortunately, he left the briefcase open.
Because of con shenanigans in previous years, this hotel had hired a local sheriff’s deputy as night security. Around 0300, Deputy Toothless was making the rounds when what to his wondering eyes did appear but the largest drug bust in the history of Barren County. Doing his due diligence as an officer of the law, Roscoe P. Coleslaw roused FB and dragged him and the “evidence” down to the night manager’s office to await an on-duty deputy. And perhaps the DEA. With a news crew or three. And a promotion. Maybe even a future run for the sheriff’s election!
So there FB was, somehow not handcuffed, in the manager’s office. The night manager was horrified. Deputy Toothless was giddy and accusatory. The sheriff, when he arrived, was skeptical – and not amused at being called at home at 0300. FB was tired and cranky and his back hurt from trying to get comfortable on the floor.
I am informed that the conversation with the law amounted to this:
FB: Look, Sheriff, you can run a test kit on it if you want, but if I had this much cocaine, would I be staying in this f’ing fleabag?
S: You’re free to go, son. Deputy… we need to have us a talk.