The car dropped you off a block away from Fremont street and three blocks from the Silverado. You can hear the crowds of gamblers bouncing between casinos and other fun seekers searching for the seedier pleasures that are much easier to find, and much cheaper downtown.

Then you hear a scream. Several screams from Fremont street.

By the time you make your way to the source of the noise, the noise of the crowd has been drowned out by a pair of motorcycle engines roaring away.

A terrified b-girl gasps “it was like they were animals! Are the cops coming?” She is staring down at a pale white trunk and the severed head that has been roughly cut from it’s head. The head has a slightly defiant snarl on its face, and two tell-tale fangs jutting out of its gums. A Kindred has met its final fate. You recognize him. A goofy Malkavian Beatnik named Jepko. Harmless and fascinated with Nil. You’d seen him at the Silverado’s Elysium a few times before. You obviously won’t hear from him again.

“Did you hear what they said?” asks an inebriated Elks Club member. “Those biker freaks said this town belongs to them. Whole country’s going to hell in a hand-basket if you ask me. Ever since that Elvis punk started gyrating in public nobody knows their place.”