The Sabbat

“Taken to the depth of hell, to bring it back and throw it at our feet!” Cries out a man dressed in a steel workers uniform holding a single dark unlabeled bottle taking its contents into his mouth between sentences. “Make it obey!” he cries again, “We have no masters, and this city tames us, it takes from us, it wants us.” He looks at his bottle and staggers slightly to step forward. He thrusts his hand forward pointing with his finger while still holding the bottle. “You know,” he continues, “we all do. This is the city that grows UP! And if it gets high enough we take an elevator to the top floor and grab gob by his throat and demand our absoluth,” he pauses unaware that he didn’t complete the sentence and looks at his bottle. “What’s it,” he asks addressing the bottle. His eyes change from the questioning glare to an accepted pose as if someone answered in his ear and upends the bottle in his mouth.

His body follows his head and falls backward hitting the ground evenly sending a dust cloud around his body earning a slight mutter of laughter from the surrounding guests. Everyone gathered at the foot of a construction site, a wooden fence surrounds a steel skeleton obstructing their actions from the street, but the neighboring buildings windows peer back at them in their after hours darkness. The grounds are littered with construction materials, and upon them sit various individuals with varying visages of demonic virulence.

Each gruff worker walks and talks with another or with what once could be considered a human. Their discussions are of many things and they often break for laughter or drink. A few, and on occasion there is a scuffle which is soon brought to a close by one or two voices, and drink.

A very androgynous individual dressed in an archaic tight leather uniform stands up from a make shift steel chair and walks amongst the more stout individuals. The small frame and drawn hands labeled her as an elder, but no respect befalls this one from those she walks around. Shoving matches interrupt her travels and she stops frequently to miss the oncoming bodies as they engage in their own social activities. The elder proceeds to a platform and patiently ascends the steps placing her head a few feet above the rest of the group. She turns her head emotionlessly looking over the crowd.

“As you all know,” she starts with an equally androgynous voice, “we have found evidence of several incursions onto our soil.” A sudden rash of shushes and the turning of heads comes about the audience and the crowd falls silent. “We have not found their holdouts, and we have not had many encounters with them.” Her head turns from side to side looking directly at them with its dark unblinking eyes. “We do not ignore such actions without making our position known first. To this we need the strongest of our kind to gang up and address the Gargoyle population that plagues the Gothic Revival the humans ignorantly indulged themselves in. The buildings corners, their roof tops, and the night’s skies have become plagued with them. Find them, and bring them down.”

A barrage of approval comes forth from the crowd yelling their words of praise to the act of subduing these creatures. They have made their position known to these creatures, but gargoyles do not care about them, nor do they find interest in dealing with vampires of any sect or clan. So it was war between them.

“Do not forget our bastard cousins, the kindred of the east. They encroach upon our territory as if they were entitled to these lands. They are not,” she impassionate pumps her hands shaking her entire body emphasizing the point, “to be welcomed, trusted, or humored in any manner. Kill on sight!” She closes the statement with a slow exhale of finality evacuating the air from her lungs.

The figure closes her speech with as much emotion as she started with, despite the singular impassioned display; she remains stoic towards any member of the Black Hand. These actions are simple as she moves about and usually does so with a strict sensibility that comes forth from an elder of any clan. Knowing the Sabbat, their leaders are only those they trust, and she acts as no leader, she simply does and they agree but not through her as she was the old Sabbat leader. No one addresses her by name or title; they simply carry out her words as if it were their own passionate visions.

The group is if anything, passionate. Their actions are saturated with their emotions and they carry out everything with a strong sweep of their intentions. Nothing is drowned in double meanings, or hidden agendas and they show this with their meetings. Members gather and talk about plans, events, and victories. Younger members drink, vomit, and splurge on mortal vices even here. Women are thrown around the group and taken to be bitten, if she is strong willed she cries little. Often these hunting creatures panic and run around looking for a compassionate soul to take her away, but she will find no one here. Only hungry beasts mock-hunting a caged prey for show teasing her for her mortal faults.

Expired victims gather in pits, herds mingle, and those who have had too much taken from them simply wonder away to rest. More experienced retainers and servants of their masters mingle with a mortal intent amongst their masters and masters’ associates. Sometimes these mortals gather to put on shows of sin to amuse their audience as the members still find humor in these mortal vices.

Laughter, comradely displays of friendship, and screams of terror fill the area as one distinct hum while everyone migrates into their smaller groups to engage in more private meetings. The act is less of a meeting as a place to show off ones standing within the Black Hand. But some are here to conduct business as there are matters that always need to be addressed.

The tall, out of place androgynous figure returns to a wooden table that was setup in her brief absence by a greater in girth individual. He sets out a simple and temporarily place setting for the two of them and opens a deep tinted wine shaped label-less bottle and retrieves two glass brandy goblets and sets them on either side of the bottle. Each of them sit in a wooden deck chair as a servant closes the picnic case and carries it away.

They sit and watch the night’s activities for a moment, paying attention to a single female ricocheting between the members and eventually falling to the ground. She props herself up with one hand while holding onto her soiled white dress fending the creatures off with fearful looks and pleading sobs. Her long reddish hair is grabbed from behind as one of them crouches down to whisper into her ear.

The thin leather strapped form raises the brandy glass to her nose and breaths in. The face she makes is not what one would expect when sampling brandy, instead it is a repulsed look as her eyes remain transfixed on the events taking place before her. The larger of the two drinks from his glass and as it remains in front of his face he beings. “There are rumors,” and then removes the glass watching himself as he places it onto the table, “the Camerilla has set up camp somewhere in the city. They have been asking questions.”

“Oh? What kind of questions?” she asks still transfixed as the glass is slowly raised for a long, continuous drink of its contents.

“They are under the assumption that there are deeper workings within the city, Ventrue style workings, but they seem to have little luck in locating someone.” He pauses for a moment letting the words digest as his companion takes in the scene along with her drink. “They will find none. There are no Ventrue encampments to worry about in our city.”

“We need to keep it that way,” she says only pausing from his long, slow drink.

“I have a ‘venture capitalist’ in our ranks that could quite possibly be of some use in this instance. I am in the process of working the two of them into a chance meeting, just to see what comes of it.”

“He,” pausing for a moment furrowing her etched artificial brows as she places the glass in front of her own face peering over the top of it with a pair of deep soulless eyes, “isn’t to young is he?”

“Post Civil War era.” He responds picking his glass up again.

“Ah, good.” The eyes squint over the glass in an extremely displeased manner. “Damned fools. Choice catch and they can’t enjoy it. To busy perfecting their peacock poses.” She finishes the remaining ounces of drink from the glass and stands up abruptly as the feminine form falls limp, naked, and pale onto the ground. “Even the Black Hand falls quickly to impatience.” She dangles the glass loosely holding it in her hand tilting the sculpted head to one side looking down her nose at the group celebrating their triumph over the woman. She licks her lips and states, “I need,” in a dry whispering tone as ghostly and hollow as her presumptive heart.

As if on queue, a womanly cry comes from the steel rafters above. The androgynous visage becomes that of a prime vamperical example of athletics and acrobatics as she easily ascends the scaffolding putting herself ahead of the pursuing pack. The aggressors were balancing themselves on the third floor, and the woman was attempting to climb up to the fourth with a ladder haphazardly positioned on the corner of two adjoining beams. The form was exquisite, majestic, but no one watched. The pursuing pack was to busy balancing on the thin steel construction beams, and the woman was too ignorant of who she was to perceive the threat.

“Thank you,” one could imagine the words coming from her lips as she was taken by the hand and lifted to safer ground. She clung onto the leathered form as soon as she could embracing the figure of security as the pack teased one another about their inability to pursue their prey because of their clumsy ineptitude. With that she took her into the shadows and allowed the buildings and stone facades to echo her gasps and yelps as she tried to decipher pleasure from pain while her body was ravaged in many ways.

“Boy,” calls the stout man after finishing the contents of his glass. The younger individual who carried the picnic case came forth and picked up the glass from the ground, wiped it off and quickly corked the bottle and put the contents away, focusing on nothing else.

“Pelonia,” A calm and patient voice came out of the crowd originating in a deep colored velvet cloaked man who stepped forward presenting himself formally. “I haven’t had the honor of meeting you in a more private setting. I hope you don’t mind me seeking you here.” The voice came out from under the hood as he continued advancing. Once at a more respectful distance, he removed the hood to reveal a pale individual with a head of deep onyx colored hair and rounded black tinted glasses. He reaches out a hand covered in tattoos and rings pushing it patiently forward with his long nails reaching towards the stout individual he addressed as Pelonia. “I hope you aren’t packing up to soon.”

He stood there with trepidation and looked at the hand that held the obvious Tremere symbols on its hands, “I know better than to shake hands with the likes of you.” He sneers at the man who respectfully retracts his hand.

With a smirk on his lips, “then perhaps I can offer you something more neutral.”

The rebuttal didn’t find patient ears in Pelonia as he wanted the conversation to end and the blood mage to be sent out on his ass. “No gifts, no money, no favors. Every thing you can give to me is tainted, and cursed. I want no bond with you.”

“Then perhaps our chantry,” He quickly snaps back. “We have agreed. A chantry that you set up so we can use. But we pick the location,” he adds with a retreating pose as he slides into the empty chair.

Pelonia sits next to him and motions to the boy to set the table up again. As the setting is made again with fresh glasses, Pelonia sits silently until the glass is poured and stops the boy from pouring one for the new guest with a glance that almost forces the bottle from his hands.

“How is Ecaterina?” the guest asks.

“Still a disgruntled bitch,” he says into his glass staring at the contents before he consumes them all.

“You know we can help you. Her age sets her a league apart from you.” He stops to lean into the table raising a finger in the air. “A thaurmatergest’s ability is not in its age, but its diversity. A chantry will afford us more powers, powers you can take advantage of if the need arises.” He retreats his hand and rests leaning towards Pelonia in the chair. “With Careme influencing your troops you have too few resources to push on two fronts. She is too displaced by you, ArchBishop.”

He sits there in short contemplation, “You can have your chantry, and we will be seeing you.” Pelonia motions for another glass. “So tell me, where have you decided to set up camp?”

“Southern Manhattan,” he responds without hesitation. “The view is nice there.”

“Very well,” Pelonia responds with a dry tone simply amused to conclude their business, and abruptly gets up to leave the table. Pelonia proceeds immediately towards an impressive vampiric form of a man and spins him around and looks upwards towards his eyes. Pelonia stares with a dire intent into them, “go find a group and proceed to Ellis Island, and watch for Camerilla scum.” He continues thrusting his finger into the muscular form, “Find, them, kill them, or make them one of ours.” He stops glancing over to the velvet figure still sitting in the chair and continues with a snarling tone, “and if you see any other Tremere kill them without hesitation.”

The larger vampire looked down at the archbishop jabbing a finger into his chest and grinned. "Shan't have nothing to worry about. Them easties won't be finding themselves a safe harbor on our shores tonight." He brushed the wrinkles out his suit jacket and looked around the gathered kindred. "I was growing a bit bored of the childe's play 'round here. 'been itching ta spill me some blood what ain't so weak" He unconsciously began to stroke a pearl handle at his belt. "We'll have ourselves a gran time if'n there be any ta'be found." With that Burton wandered off into the throng to gather the hunters.

Mingling into a circle of younger members tormenting a mortal, he watches their sport disinterestedly. Not speaking to anyone in particular, his drawling voice catches several ears. "On such a fine night as this, it seems wasted to be playing with such frail prey." Ignoring any glares that may be directed at him, the southerner lights a cigar and puffs a couple of clouds before continuing. "Now I mahself have a powerful urge to seek out them what be tainting our shores this very night. Eastern boys what think they can lay to claim to our city."

He rolls the cigar between his fingers evening the burn thoughtfully. "I intend ta prove 'em wrong on that count. Introduce them to the taste of American shot, steel..." he pauses savoring the moment, "and sun." The point is accentuated with a small flick of the cigar and falling ash. "Of course y'all are welcome to join me, if'n ya be hungering for something more challenging than that lass yonder." Exhaling smoke through a murderous smile Robert Burton appraises the vampires around him, judging their interest and ferocity.

Part 1
<S.T.> 6 people, all various forms of carnal physique, a Sabbat speciRobert Burtony, join you with a great deal of anticipation.
<Robert Burton> "Well then, shall we make our way to the Isle of Tears?"
<S.T.> The seven of you pile into three vehicles, your own and the rest split into the other two.
Ellis Island is a quick 45 minute unimpeded drive from the construction site.
<S.T.> Environment; The island is only accessible through a bridge that is often dedicated for public transportation. No one stays on the island for long, but they take people all night to process the masses at times.
At the entrance to the bridge is an encampment that holds people who are going somewhere or waiting for someone.
Your choice, proceed to the island or pilfer through the crowd
<Robert Burton> Deciding that it would be wisest to investigate the crowd first and avoid the possibility of an ambush, Burton pulls over on the side of the road
<S.T.> Letting your window down and pulling up slowly to the encampment you stare thoughtlessly into the crowd. Those that notice you see your intimidating poise and your piercing eyes.
Most eyes avert from your gaze and those that don't are oblivious of your approach.
In the crowd are many immigrants who speak little or no English, but nothing of merit.
<Robert Burton> Twisting his mouth into a scowl, Robert continues on along the bridge. Kicking up a bit of dirt as he revs the engine.
<S.T.> Like an angry caravan of violence, the other two cars bounce behind you yelling and carrying on. You can see them and hear them, their anticipation is at its peak, they are ready for their evening.
Crossing the bridge into the island the lights from its buildings glow dimly.
When you approach the road ends into a car port which circles back. With little choice you stop the vehicle and park it along the curb looking into the complex.
There are about 6 large buildings, two larger than the rest, and most others are smaller and function to hold staff and supplies.
<Robert Burton> Stepping out of the car, Robert stands up straight and tugs at his jacket. He eyes the complex picking out the larger buildings most likely housing the sad sons of bitches who think they have what it takes to be Americans.
He strides towards the nearer one, lighting a cigar while on the move and motioning towards the others to follow
<S.T.> In front of the car park is the major complex
To the right, the dock, further than that more buildings, to the left a water tower behind the building. The complex is large, the doors open and inviting, but people depart from it rather than enter.
Inside the building is an interconnected network of hallway mazes holding transient sleeping areas and a mess hall.
Puffing on the cigar you walk through the door and into the first complex.
People, people and rooms full of people.
As they leave more arrive and shuffle through the buildings.
Puffing steadily you look into the crowd. Knowing the tricks of the vampire you know that those who will hide will never make it so obvious.
Inside the crowd you gaze and you see one discontent face staring back huddling a woman and child.
The face is what gets your attention.
He stares back, not of humiliation and fear of the new, but of an expected furrow coupled with anger.
<Robert Burton> A feral grin stretches across Robert's face, wreathed in smoke. He begins making his way through the crowd. A dark haze begins to surround him, almost as though an extension of the noxious spirals rising from the cigar. A terrifying darkness meant to terrify and intimidate
<S.T.> Once you charge, the smoky trails leave your face and the dim lights flicker around your form accentuating your features as your eyes become a hidden black and your cigar a red glow of fury. The 'boyz' charge behind you as a pack of wolves towards it prey.
The humans in the crowd pick up and part in fear, covering their children’s eyes turning into fetal protective positions as the men cover them turning away from the rushing troop.
The target watching your approach turns and runs with the two in tow.
Your approach is hindered by the moving bodies and they do not all move out of the way as fortuitously as you would want. Your maneuvering is slowed, as his is slightly better.
His fleeing is swift, but not swift enough to evade your eye.
<Robert Burton> Laughing raucously, Burton charges forward thoroughly enjoying the chase.
<S.T.> You watch him stumble over enough people and make his way to the rear of the buiding and pushes out into the courtyard.
He pushes through and into the night, and a few moments later, you and your entourage make their way outside.
Once outside you stop, listen and wait. With two in tow you expect to hear noises of a woman’s somber cry.
There is nothing.
Looking around you do see a woman’s dress hiding behind a cement divider that leads into the courtyard.
<Robert Burton> With a glint in his eye, he puts a finger to his lips and motions the lads to spread out around. His hands find the pearl handles and lovingly grip them tight.
<S.T.> They disappear into the night divide and hide between the shadows of the lights and buildings façade moving quickly, silent towards the group.
You approach the hiding group. There sits the woman, the child, and behind them the man. Unfazed by the chase, and without a drop of sweat on his brow, he stares at you pulling a small blade out of his sleeve and readying it to do what he needs to do.
<Robert Burton> Standing tall and proud, he extends his arm out to the man. In his hand is a revolver. Robert thumbs back the hammer and eyes his quarry expectedly. "Not a bad night to be in America is it?" he quips.
"I'd know your name at the very least." His eyes shine and his arm lowers slightly, the revolver now aimed at the woman between the two of them.
<S.T.> He lowers his brow for an intimidating stance, one that only shows his worry for the woman.
Through that you see what his duty is. This woman is what is important to him, why who knows, to what mission he has, you most likely don't care.
He emits a guttural grow, his eyes red, as he pushes her down putting the barrel squarely on his body.
<Robert Burton> "Now that won't do at all" he laughs, raising the pistol up and aiming to smash the butt into the mans shoulder.
<S.T.> He pushes her into the ground as it swallows her, the impact of the weapon pushes him back. You hear the crack of his shoulder and see the pain on his face. He pulls at his face with his long fingernails and dashes quickly but clumsily away from you.
Like a pack of wolves one by one, the boyz strike out at him with painful cutting strikes.
Leaping out of the shadows unseen they strike at him as his persona squalls into a near frenzy state.
<Robert Burton> Not moving from the spot, for fear of losing the patch of ground she'd disappeared to, Burton sights and fires his pistol into the mass at his foe.
<S.T.> The weapon lets a round off with a deafening blow. A spark of fury flies from the barrel pushing the bullet into the crowd nicking one fellow Sabbat, and wounding the target.
The sound from the weapon shocks the attacking group and yellow glowing eyes peer back at you as the red eyes from the target narrow in agony.
<Robert Burton> Laughing madly, Burton fires again heedless of his mates . "I'll see bleed, by awl that dies I will! HAHAHA!"
<S.T.> Eyes wide with fury staring down the barrel of the weapon letting off another round. The weapon fires, a square hit blood spews from his back.
He begins to howl and pull back further being hit by the others, his body begins to change from the human form and shift to a gnarled monstrous form.
Hits from the others continue with every step he takes.
<Robert Burton> "Like hell ya'll be getting away with that shit!" He roars, pulling his other pistol out and unloading with both hands. "Send 'em ta hells gates lads! Ahahahaha!"
<S.T.> Shifting the perspective of the scene to a distance above the Frey, many individuals jumping in and out of the shadow of one protective and defiant Gangrel as they strike and wound him slightly but not enough to slow him down. One man standing as defiant as the enraged beast yielding two gleaming chromed weapons firing in a self induced rage with sulfur pops flashing across the scene as the creature is hit, over and over again.
The bullets wound it sending it to its knees resting in its tattered human form.
<Robert Burton> "Bind 'em. But we ain't quite done hee-ya. How many of ya'll have shovels?"
<S.T.> Two grab the mans hands and hold him to the ground as he bleeds slowly from the wounds. The rest look at the various weapons they hold onto and give no response.
One makes motion to go back to the car, as supplies were brought just for this purpose, but not tended in the heat of the moment.

“Take it easy boys" a stern voice comes from behind.

<Robert Burton> Robert quirks an eyebrow at the sound of the interloper
<S.T.> Three uniformed men stand a good twenty feet away, a safe distance from you recognizing that you are the obvious danger.
Their stance, nervous at the onslaught the may have just witnessed, or scarred at the bloody sight.
<Robert Burton> "Evening gentlemen." He grins and flicks his right hand over his shoulder resting the pistol. "Anything I can do for ya'll tanight?" A smattering of shadows seem to pulse and twist around his well-cut form, blurring the outline.
<S.T.> Their gusto seems to have left them. Their speechless stances only broken by the movement of their shifting bodies as they try to adjust their line of sight into a clearer view. They exchange glances with each other not knowing what to do next.
You peer into their forms, weaponless, but uniformed bodies of ignorant mortals.
<Robert Burton> "I think ya'll needed worry about all this. Just a private, friendly scuffle 'mongst us.
<S.T.> They have some authority but they never thought that anything would happen here that would warrant such violence. Between the three of them, perhaps a Billy-club is all they have to defend themselves. The three idle members become listless and creep forward.
<Robert Burton> Ya'll can just leave"
<S.T.> The three of them scuffle backwards and exchange one final look between themselves and turn and run.
<Robert Burton> "Now git to it. The nights a wasting."
He pauses to retrieve another cigar from a breast pocket and lights it in the darkness
<S.T.> A few moments later the one lone member returns with three shovels a length of rope and the rest begin to complete their tasks set before them.
After a few brief moments of waiting, and another cigar, one of them brings to you’re the sight of the female’s head they have just uncovered.
<Robert Burton> Crouching down, he brings his face closer to have a look at her
<S.T.> A dark complexion, with elegant clothing. Her eyes rest closed and motionless. If she is a vamp, she is in torpor. If she isn't, she's dead. But no one is likely to protect a dead body with such vigor.
<Robert Burton> He strokes her face lightly, thinking to himself. Weighing the dangers and contemplating her very immediate future.
<S.T.> The rest look at you with anticipation, and wonderment, "do we dig her up?" they ask.
<Robert Burton> "Do it. Put her in the back of my car. There should be another as well. The body of a child" He stands up stretching and looks at the sky.
<S.T.> You walk the grounds looking, searching, and waiting for them to complete their tasks. Some time later, a good 20 minutes or so they hastily pull her out of the ground with what appears to be a child in her arms. They heft her up and carry her stiff body along with them and drag their protector along with them as he limply obliges.
Once to the cars the bodies are deposited in the back, the protector in the trunk. The shocks of the vehicles bounce in reciprocation, but the power of the car will find this an easy haul. Weapons reloaded, another cigar flung to the ground you and everyone pile into the vehicle and begin your departure.

Part 2
<Robert Burton> "Well done lads. Let's git back" He guns the motor and starts pulling out from the car lot.
<S.T.> The trio of vehicles roar out of the lot satisfied with the days catch and proceed down the long bridge back to the mainland.
The vehicles travel quickly and you easily spot a pair of headlights pointing down the road most likely in response to your escapade.
<Robert Burton> "What awaits us now I wonder" he whispers to himself, no longer somber but once again feeling a vicious smile begin to pull at the corners of his mouth
<S.T.> As the vehicles pass, you count two people, the glimmer of the Irish blood thirst turned civil servant as their gaze peers back at you. The second vehicle is a repeat of the first.
'Cops'
Once the trio has passed them, the approaching cars lurch forward as they apply the breaks, turn their vehicles around and give chase.
<Robert Burton> "Well it seems like they don't want us gittin' home tanight doesn't it?" he asks of the vampire sitting next to him.
<S.T.> As you approach the 'T' intersection one of the vehicles pulls alongside you, tossing a shotgun into the cab. "Well give em a run," the riled member says as they turn their vehicle around to charge head first.
Loaded with buckshot and slugs three members watch as they stand on the road as the lone vehicle charges down the roadway.
<Robert Burton> "Hahahaha. That's the way to do it boys! Give 'em hell!"
<S.T.> Waiting for the right distance to attack the lone driver charges like a knight with his shotgun lance and his headlights dimmed. He aims the weapon over the hood of the car and lets off one round. The amber blast of led and sparks sends the lead vehicle into a hard turn into the oncoming lane as they turn to avoid the charging vehicle. The second car, to close to respond quickly slams into the car as both vehicles pivot into the air and come crashing down breaking every piece in the rear axel.
The lead vehicle swerves and slams into the guard rail as a wheel clips the edge and flips the car onto its side sending it into a slide stopping a few hundred feet away.
<Robert Burton> Robert roars with laughter, watching the carnage.
<S.T.> You stare into the darkened mass seeing nothing moving.
<Robert Burton> "Make sure there ain't nothin left of 'em boys!" Motioning to the others
<S.T.> The rest of the group divide themselves into the remaining vehicles and roar with celebrator cheers.
Alcohol is liberated from the second vehicles trunk as they drink to their success.
<Robert Burton> Robert indulges in a few sips of his own flask. Grinning in triumph
<S.T.> Each one begins a slobbering march towards the wreckage calming at the moment of the approach.
The bodies in the lead vehicle bloodied, but alive as one sends a few rounds of his small revolver into the crowd. A quick reply of a steak to the face from one of the members ends his retaliatory strike. The second vehicle has no survivors, no hope of retaliation.
In the silenced charging vehicle lies one bloodied and mangled vampire. Smiling, and asking for a drink too.
His body is wounded, his bones broken, but nothing he won't recover from in time.
He leaves the car in a slow painful shift of weight from one step to the other as he adjusts his self so he can maneuver with some comfort.
All individuals pile into the remaining cars as the road to the meeting place is a much quicker trip than the departing one.
<Robert Burton> Robert chuckles quietly to himself, making a mental note of the damned fool in the car.