Old timey music blared through the speakers in the compact room, it stank of something foul but that stench stopped affecting the occupant of the place. On one of the walls a black and white film played, the actors in it long since dead. A vintage projector emitted the film as it sat in the center of the room on a small table, as dusty as everything around it. The reel turning gently as the film neared its conclusion. As the characters onscreen conversed, the pale man watching the film laid back in his seat, focused completely on the motion picture in front of him. 

Trask had been gifted the old recliner years ago, it was worn out and creaked whenever he moved it, the once fine leather was heavy with cuts and marks. But he couldn't complain about a gift, if anything life in the sewers had mellowed his once fine tastes. His predatory yellow eyes stared at the screen, lips pursed in a comfort filled smile. 

[i]"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."[/i]

Then the trumpets blared as the film ended, Trask watched all the way up to the final screen. His eyes hovered over the sight of the Warner Bros insignia, he had starred in some of their films. He was dwelling in nostalgic feelings, a tear would fall from his undead eyes if he still could get himself to cry.

"You ever gonna watch anything from this century, you old fart?" Another malformed vampire said as he leaned against the opening to the small room. 

He had watched the last few minutes of film, rolling his eyes the whole time. George was one of the more recent Nosferatu that lived in the sewers with Trask and the other outcasts. He mostly meant the comment in a joking way, but it always amused him how much Trask enjoyed these old outdated pictures. The old vampire's room was a testament to that love, worn out film posters, film reels on a shelf, it was a funny thing to see.

"You know I prefer the classics." Trask replied in his low, dark tone of speaking. 

His voice had dropped in volume during his transformation, nothing on him had been saved from mutilation. A single long, skeletal finger reached out to turn off the projector, then Trask rose from his comfortable position. He stretched out his unnatural frame, cracking his knuckles and bones as he did so.

"Are you heading off somewhere?" George asked as he approached Trask, tapping his fingers together impatiently. 

"I'm going to have a drink in the lounge, and meet a friend there." The elder Kindred said as he walked to one side of his room, over to a dusty wooden dresser.

The dresser door came open with an creak, then Trask pulled some clothes from the inside of it. An old grey Dodgers' hoodie and a pair of knockoff sunglasses. He remembered when the Dodgers played in Brooklyn. It was strange for him, another flashback to a better life. He went to few games back then, hadn't been to one in decades, for well, obvious reasons.

"You have friends?" George inquired jokingly.

"Yes, aren't you one of them?" Trask replied as he dug through the dresser.

"With that face of yours I'm sure some pretty lady will love to have a drink with you while you're there." George said sarcastically with a wide smirk, showing his sharp teeth as he made himself laugh. 

"I'm not going out for women, asshole." Trask said affirmatively as he walked past George, a long middle finger raised towards the other Nosferatu.

"I know, just playing with you. Don't get yourself killed up there Trask. All us uglies will miss you down here." George called out with another smile as Trask left his humble dwelling.

He stepped into the knee deep waters in the tunnels outside of his den, the discolored, stench filled liquid shaking and moving with each of his footsteps. He had to try his best to avoid ending up to smelly from his familiar walk through the tunnels. His looks were enough to turn away others, he didn't need to stink in an overbearing way to accompany that. Trask was silent as he strolled down the sewers which were now his home, his own disgusting little refuge.
[hr]
A manhole cover in a back alley slowly shook, then with one final push was set aside as the source of its movement climbed up from the final steps of the ladder. Trask stood under the moonlight for a brief moment, taking in the sights, sounds and smells of the surface world. Bugs chirped above him, a dog barked in the distance and horns sounded in the streets. His stance was unusual, more akin to a stalking animal than a man. He left the manhole uncovered, hoping that no one would fall down it. They'd be in for a world of surprise, the thought bringing a smile to his scarred face.

A homeless laid amongst a heap of dirty blankets and old newspapers, Trask could hear the man's snores. As he walked towards him silently, his eyes instinctively went to the man's neck. He saw a dirty grey beard sprouting from the penniless fellow's lower face. The vampire briefly considered quietly lower his fangs down upon the man's neck, and having a little drink before he went into the lounge. Then for some reason decided not to, instead he reached into one of the pockets of his pants and pulled out a crumbled ten dollar bill. The monetary piece of paper wafted in the breeze as he unfolded it between his pointed digits.

With a smile the Kindred slid the money into one of the man's hands, then closed his fingers over it. The money wouldn't last long, and it was likely he would just waste it on booze. But Trask could not exactly walk into a McDonald's and order the vagrant a burger. The homeless reminded him of himself in a way, outcast. At the bottom of the totem pole in society, looked down upon by many. Ever since his transformation he'd felt a strange bond with those types of mortals, the losers of life. Even if during his own mortal life he was at the top of the chain.

The back door came open with a creak as Trask's elongated fingers gently squeezed the door knob. He had his hood up, and his sunglasses on. He also tried to walk more like a human, forcing himself upright in his stride. The Lounge was a neutral ground, most of the vampires here wouldn't give him shit for being a Nos. The occasional crude comment or insult he received stopped fazing him long ago. Still, just some of the looks he received from the others in the past when he had come to this place unhinged him. 

It was like they pitied him for not being one of the beautiful undead. He hated those types of looks the most, even more so than gazes of mocking. They weren't all beautiful Anne Rice type vampires, only those Toreador scumbags got that lucky. That was why he always charged them more for information, made them crawl through his disgusting, rat infested sewers and seek him out personally. It made him laugh when they did that, like they were dragged down to his level. It was the small joys in life like that.

Trask ordered himself a Jack on the rocks. Then slipped into an empty booth in the darkest corner of the room. He ignored any glances aimed his way, just kept his head down as he took a sip of the whiskey, swirling the straw between his fingers. Sinatra loved Jack, and Trask loved anything that reminded him of the past.