Tag Archives: LARP

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!”

Decomposition Book

No shit, there I was…

This was in spring ’98 or ’99, I think. I was running a LARP at ConCave, a small local convention in deep rural southwest Kentucky.

I was minding my own business at my registration and logistics desk when a pack of prospective players staggered into the room in what was either a Fleshcrafted gamer-centipede mass or a consensual close-order formation of mutual support for upright locomotion. It was just past three in the afternoon and I could smell the liquor and questionable decisions from across the room.

“Heeeeey,” one slurred, fumbling in his pin-festooned leather vest for what I hoped was not a weapon. “I heard yer runnin’ a Vamfire game.”

Trepidatiously, I responded in the affirmative.

“Awesome.” He located the object of his search and withdrew, to my rmingled relief and slowly-rising dread, a small wad of paper. As he unfolded it like some non-Euclidean eldritch origami horror, I recognized it as a character sheet. It appeared to have been used as a placemat for last night’s pizza and this morning’s coffee, and under the layers of organic debris, the owner’s pen had left no dot behind. “I wanna bring in my home chara… chiro… character. I call ‘im ‘Roadkill.’ He’s a Samedi wererabbit Abomination.”

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.