A/N- I need a new title.

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"Yeah? Well, you know what I think, Mick? I think you're full of shit." Johnny leaned against the pool table, shooting his pack mate a derisive glare.

"Ha! Come over here and say that! Just because you don't have the guts to pull something like that don't mean I don't, Johnny-boy." The other Gangrel sauntered over, stopping inches from his pack mate. "You got a problem with that, Johnny-boy?"

Johnny just shot him a disgusted look and very deliberately turned his back on Mick's triumphant, fanged grin. "Yo, boss, your shot."

"Yeah, that's right. Big bad Johnny's afraid to take on one pansy Ventrue in a suit."

The pack leader glared up from where he was leaning over the pool table. "Can it, Mick. You've made your point. Or do you need me to drag your ass out back and beat some respect into you?"

"Nah, Kracken… I'm cool." Mick backed away hastily. Unable to resist one more smirk at Johnny, Mick sauntered back to his two-dollar hooker. Intent on re-telling his story to a more appreciative audience, he missed his pack mates rolling their eyes as the episode became more daring with each retelling.

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The car that pulled up in front of the run-down roadside bar wasn't the kind usually seen out here on the outskirts of the city. Sleek and shiny, it fairly smelled of big money. The man emerging from the back seat straightened his expensive tailored suit with a tug, his eyes flicking across the rag-tag assortment of bikes, rundown trucks, and battered cars. Nodding to himself, he strode confidently towards the door.

Of all the things they were expecting to walk in the bar at that hour, a high-class Ventrue in a thousand-dollar suit was near the bottom of the list. So they were understandably surprised when one walked in and put a fist in Mick's face.

Mick's head impacted the floor with an audible crack, and silence fell throughout the room. Ghouls and seasoned barflies stepped back, sensing the danger radiating from the Gangrel pack. The Ventrue's eyes swept over the pack, coming to rest on Kracken.

"My problem is with him, and no one else."

Kracken considered the Ventrue, noting the calm confidence in his stance, and the lack of fear in his eyes. A pool table stood between them, but no one in the bar had any illusions that it would so much as slow Kracken down. Neither's gaze wavered, even as Mick scrambled to his feet, holding a profusely bleeding nose and glaring. Nodding to himself, Kracken settled back on his heels.

Satisfied, the Ventrue turned back just in time to avoid being disemboweled. He blocked a jab to the face, and grabbed Mick, heaving the Gangrel over his shoulder and into the pool table. The sound of bone snapping was lost in the louder crack as the table collapsed.

Mick snarled and twisted himself around, getting his feet under himself. He lunged, and he and the Ventrue hit the floor in a heap, his pack mates circling around.

A few confused moments later the Ventrue stood, leaving Mick in a whimpering, mewling heap at his feet. He smoothed back his hair with both hands and carefully shook splintered remains of a chair off his now torn and bloody jacket. "For the damages," he said blandly, dropping a clip of bills on a still intact table. He walked out trailing blood, the ring of Gangrels parting for him.

Johnny broke the silence, eying the remains of his pool table with distaste. "So much for one pansy Ventrue in a suit."

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Marks stared at the Malkavian's back. Anahandros's long hair obscured his face as he dug a pack of cigarettes out. Uneasy, Marks half-turned to Anahandros's shrouded companion, keeping his eyes on the lunatic. "So what's his… you know… issue?"

Anahandros glared over his shoulder, coolly striking a match. "I don't have an 'issue,' idiot." Taking a drag, he continued. "My other personality, on the other hand, is schizophrenic."

"I don't know. I'd call having more than one personality a pretty big issue." Suppressed laughter tinged Will's voice. "Don't you think, Marks?"

The Malkavian slowly turned to face him. "I think you're really fucking annoying. In fact, I think if you open your mouth again, I'm going to remove your tongue. Preferably with a shotgun."

"Easy…" Recker reached out a clawed hand.

Anahandros swatted the hand away. "Why the Hell are we here, anyway? This place stinks. Literally, figuratively, and metaphorically."

"How am I supposed to know? Blame 'Zian… he was the one that insisted we come here."

"And you actually listened to him? Stupid fucking bastard." Anahandros glared at the Nosferatu. "You are aware he's insane, right? Hears voices?"

Annoyance crept into Recker's voice. "He was the one who warned us about the Sabbat."

"I reiterate: Stupid fucking bastard. You're talking about someone who thinks dead wizards talk to him."

"Hey man, wait… you're talking about yourself thinking your crazy because you hear dead wizards?"

"Hey man," mocked Anahandros, "Shut the fuck up. I don't fucking hear voices." He glared at Recker. "Stop fucking staring at me."

Recker turned to glare at Marks. "You're supposed to be taking us to see the Prince."

Staring at Anahandros who was glaring back, Marks stuttered, "Y-yeah… come on…"

The Malkavian ground out his cigarette with a boot heel. "Fucking pansy-assed wannabes."