Ol' Smithy sighed as he kept walking through the alley. He mentally checked his daily task list before continuing. He had done the requests on his workshop, bought some grub for the halfbreed kids, and some blood for himself which he promptly drank. He had done his daily meditation and training, as well as fixing some radio that had been giving trouble on a strip club. The old vampire was still bored, as the hours crawled slowly through his mind. He had briefly considered pulling a prank on Bastian, like slipping a whoopee cushion on the proud werewolf's chair. Or on one of the vampire elders. Although a better idea formed in his mind. He hated a lot of the guts of his kin, but he could still appreciate the flavour of a good blood-laced drink.

He looked his reflection in a puddle. He was a bloody hobo. It could get tricky to get in The Zone to pick up some drinks and conversation... It looked like the night was going to be boring.

And then he wished he hadn't thought that, as a loud explosion brought him to his senses. "Er, i didn't mean this kind of fun tonight. Damnit." He cursed under his breath, watching the events unfold. The Zone was part of the Blackbloods turf, so whomever did this was aiming big or was just an idiot.  Several of the survivors crawled out, and then some ninja-slash-car busting-slash-vigilante knockoff guy arrived at the scene, taunting the vampires. He normally didn't deal in Blackblood turf nor he took sides, but hey, those three girls looked like they needed some more help. The guy was packing quite some worrisome bladed weapon. 

He decided to step out of the alley. "Good evening." He said to everyone involved. "I heard you've got a bad case of a dancefloor exploding and killing people, followed by raining mysterious people who like to taunt ladies while they're down. Do you need my assistance, Blackbloods? I recycle [i]trash.[/i]"