Vampire in DC

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

We got some cool pics (including MC's) on our Discord! I didn't forget that bonus chap either, you're 25% there.

Link here: discord.gg/U88u4S3j

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Vampire Rule #17: Money may not buy happiness, but it does buy silence, secrecy, and a nice coffin.

… … … … … … … … …

John Harker leaned back in the plush leather seats of the newly acquired black Lincoln Town Car, the engine purring softly as he took in the sights of the city.

It was a far cry from the crackhouse he used to call home, a place that had been as much a reminder of his precarious situation as it was a shelter...well, shelter might be a big word for that place, four walls and tons of problems is more fitting.

'But that was all in the past, I gotta think about the future,' John thought.

Now, with half a million dollars of dirty money tucked away, the fledgling vampire was ready to take the next step in his journey. The world didn't stop turning just because he'd clawed his way out of the gutter, and there were still plenty of challenges on the horizon.

He'd been making moves, slowly but surely turning his ill-gotten gains into legitimate enterprises. The metal waste collection and repurposing gig with Bubbles had been his first foray into the world of above-board business.

It had started small—just a couple of trucks, some reliable drivers, and a knack for finding value in the city's discarded scraps. Old car parts, rusted metal, and abandoned vehicles all found their way into John's growing empire of junk. It wasn't glamorous, but it was steady, and more importantly, it was legal.

In a city like Gotham where cars are stolen, crashed, burned then abondoned every single day, this field was pretty lucrative for people with the means and manpower.

Bubbles, his only real employee, had been a complete mess when John found him, just another junkie with a knack for scrounging when he wasn't playing games on the few people naive enough to trust a junkie.

In Gotham, that was a very small part of the population.

But now, after rehab and some serious training, he was shaping up to be a solid lieutenant. John had plans for him. Big plans. The Lincoln was part of that—a gift to mark Bubbles' transition from street rat to ghoul, and soon, he'd be managing the operations that John couldn't oversee himself.

But John's ambitions didn't stop at scrap collection. He'd been holding meetings with people who had potential, folks who owed him and who could use a financial backer to get their own businesses off the ground.

Carl, for example, had a knack for construction and an eye for detail. A home development company with him at the helm could be a goldmine, especially in a city as volatile as Gotham, where the demand for housing was always high, and someone was always willing to pay for discretion.

Then there was Don, a guy with a gift for flipping cars. He could take a wreck and turn it into a ride worth tens of thousands. The car flipping business would be a lucrative venture, and with John's backing, they could expand their operations far beyond the local chop shops.

Max Black, John's first blood doll, was also part of the plan. She'd always had a dream of running her own cafe or bakery. It wasn't just about the money for her; it was about making something of herself, and John was more than willing to help her do that. A cafe with her at the helm would be a perfect way to further launder some extra cash.

And with how profitable and entertaining his nightly bouts of vigilantism were getting, John was pretty sure he'd need all the laundering he could get.

'Now that I think about it, a laundromat is a pretty good front.' He thought, and added to the list.

Finally, there was the hostel. It was something John had been thinking about for a while now, a place for the homeless, the down-and-out, the ones who'd been kicked to the curb by society.

But it wouldn't just be a charity case.

Those who stayed would work, contributing to the upkeep of the place and, in turn, gaining some semblance of dignity. And in return, John would gain their loyalty, their trust, and, in some cases, their blood put in nice, compact bags if they were clean and healthy enough.

It was a long-term investment, one that could pay off in ways most people wouldn't even think of.

The Lincoln rolled through the streets of Gotham, John couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction. He was making progress, turning the chaos of his life into something that resembled order.

He might have been a monster in the eyes of many, including himself, but he was a monster with a plan, and that counted for something.

The car came to a stop outside a nondescript building in Brideshead, one of the many places he now had business in. The city didn't know it yet, but John Harker was here to stay.

The old power structures in Gotham had no idea what was coming. Some must've heard of the Monster of Brideshead, the one who'd driven the biggest drug dealers into hiding, right there in the Dope Capital of Gotham City, but they didn't know who or what he was.

And that was just how John liked it.

He stepped out of the car, straightening his jacket as he surveyed the building. It was time to see what the next step would be, to figure out how to grow his influence even further. The night was young, and there was plenty of work to be done.

…

They were finished.

That was the general sentiment amongst those who made their fortune off the insanely profitable drugtrade in Brideshead.

Everything was going so smoothly, the bat had been busy dealing with problems bigger than folks getting high and other folks gladly helping, they were rolling in dough making so much money even the usual sitck-ups and bribes barely put a dent on their inflated profit margins.

Then everything came crashing down.

That monster woke up and decided to ruin everything for shit and giggles, taking their money and their dope then burning the whole thing for all they knew, the street loved speaking and nobody said a word about someone selling drugs or showing off his gold.

It made no sense.

That's why they all came here, to make sense of it all and try not to get devoured by the vultures playing the same game they did, the bastards taking their market shares, sellling to their fiends and even nibbling small parts of their territory.

They didn't know what kind of beast waited for them.

The backroom of the rundown warehouse in Park Row might look rough on the outside, but the inside was as well furnished as it could be, all it needed was a couple scantily clad ladies and it would have everything a gangster loved.

Booze, food and the smell of money was everywhere.

Alas, the people inside couldn't possibly enjoy it.

The thick stench of cigarettes and stale sweat hung thick in the air, mingling with the tension that crackled between the men seated around the battered wooden table. This was a gathering of Gotham's most ruthless retail drug dealers: men who were used to being in control, barely forced into cooperation by their shared fear of losing money.

At the head of the table, or rather, where the head of the table should have been, there was an empty chair. No one dared sit there, not after what had happened to the last man who tried to assert himself as the leader of this troubled alliance.

Instead, the seat of relative power had shifted slightly to the right, where Hungry sat.

Or rather, slumped.

The man who had once been a force of nature in Brideshead, feared and respected, was now a shadow of his former self. Bruises still marked his face, remnants of the brutal beating he'd received from the Monster during the raids that had shaken their small, violent world.

His defeat had cost him not just his reputation, but also a small fortune in bribes and legal fees to keep himself and his men out of jail.

Across from him was Blue, a wiry, sharp-eyed man who had taken advantage of Hungry's fall from grace to expand his own operations.

His icy blue eyes scanned the room, assessing, calculating. He was a man who thrived in the shadows, known for his ability to vanish and reappear when least expected. Tonight, he was particularly watchful, aware that Hungry's recent humiliation made him unpredictable.

The other men around the table were a mix of old heads and ambitious up-and-comers. Among them was Slim Tony, flashy in his tailored suit, a symbol of his connections to the East Coast mafia. He leaned forward, his fingers drumming nervously on the table. "We're all getting squeezed here," he said, breaking the uneasy silence. "That Monster's making it impossible to move product in Brideshead. We can't keep this up—we need to take him out before he does more damage."

Hungry grunted, wincing slightly as he shifted in his chair.

"Easier said than done," He muttered, his voice hoarse from a combination of exhaustion and the residual pain from his beating. "I've faced tough bastards before, but this one… he's something else. Hit us where it hurt, left us scrambling. My men… we barely got out, and it cost me more than any of you will ever know."

"Looks like you lost more than just your pride, Hungry. But you're right. Rushing in won't solve anything. We need to be smart about this—strategic." Blue's lip curled into a slight smirk.

Blue went to communty college, so he was practically a scholar within these walls, with the appropriate stick shoved up his arse and a dictionary down his mouth.

One of the older dealers, Old Man Dario, his face lined with years of experience and bad choices, nodded in agreement. "We need someone who can deal with this without drawing too much heat. We bring in a big name, and we risk more than just our business. The Bat could get involved, and none of us want that."

"What about Deadshot? Or Deathstroke? I know people who could get them on the line. They don't come cheap, but they get results." Slim Tony leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips.

The suggestion was met with a murmur of approval, but Hungry scoffed, shaking his head.

"Deadshot's gonna bleed us dry just for showing up. And Deathstroke? That man's got an ego bigger than this city. We can't afford either of them—not after what we've already lost." He said with derision, this was a kid talks.

Lucky Lou, a middle-aged dealer known for his sharp suits and sharper tongue, chimed in. "How about setting a trap? Make it look like a juicy target, then ambush him. We've got the numbers, we know the streets better than anyone. He's just one guy."

Blue exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"You think he'll fall for that? The Monster's no fool. But… it could work if we play it right. We just need to make sure the bait is irresistible." He said, shaking his head.

"We could always pay off some cops. Let them do the dirty work for us. We keep our hands clean, and if something goes south, it's on them, not us." Greasy Pete, a portly man whose sweat-soaked shirt clung to his rotund frame, leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial.

"Nah kid, bad idea," Old Man Dario shook his head slowly. "Cops are a gamble. They take our money, sure, but there's no guarantee they won't double-cross us. And if the Bat gets wind of it, we're all finished. No, this has to be handled in-house."

Slim Tony shifted in his seat, leaning closer to the table. "What about calling in a favor from the cartels? They've got the muscle, the firepower. We could make a deal—let them move some product through Brideshead in exchange for taking care of our Monster problem. It's not ideal, but desperate times, right?"

Blue frowned, clearly not thrilled with the idea.

"Bringing in the cartels? That's a whole new level of risk. Once they get a foothold in our territory, good luck getting them out. They'll bleed us dry and leave us fighting over scraps. And you really think they'll send their best to deal with some local problem in Gotham? They've got bigger fish to fry." He argued.

Hungry, despite his weakened state, straightened up slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered the suggestion. "The cartels could be useful, but only if we play it right. We can't afford an all-out war, not in Gotham. But… if we push them into a corner, make it seem like we've got no other choice, they might be willing to take the risk. Or at least send someone who knows how to deal with problems like this."

Old Man Dario, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. "A war is the last thing we need. But we don't have to fight this Monster ourselves. There's someone out there who's fallen on hard times, someone who's still got the skills but is desperate enough to take a risky job for cheap. No need for the cartels, no need for an all-out war. Just a simple transaction, no questions asked."

The room fell silent, the dealers exchanging glances as they tried to figure out who Dario was talking about. But he offered no more details, just a sly smile that hinted at a plan already in motion.

Blue tilted his head, curious. "Who you got in mind, old man?"

Dario's lips curled into a sly smile, his eyes glinting with the light of dangerous secrets. "Someone who knows this city well. Someone who's been off the grid for a while but hasn't forgotten how to handle a job like this. Let's just say… she's got a venomous touch."

The others around the table tensed, realizing Dario was talking about someone serious, the kind who could be both a solution and a problem.

"We do this, we do it right. No mistakes, no loose ends. The Monster's going down, and anyone who gets in our way…" Hungry spoke up, trying and failing to keep his bruised ego from showing.

He didn't need to finish the sentence though. The room knew what was at stake.

Old Man Dario nodded, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous resolve. "Then it's settled. We'll make the arrangements. And if all goes well… we'll be rid of this Monster for good, and we might not even need to pay all that much."

The dealers exchanged wary glances, knowing they were treading dangerous waters. But with their backs against the wall, they were ready to take the risk.

The Monster of Brideshead was about to face his deadliest challenge yet—one that would either end his reign of terror or plunge the city into even deeper chaos.

Or so they thought...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Yo! It's Hamtaro!

Chapter is 2600 words long, not including the author note, so you guys better drop thy stones, leave a comment, drink some water and hug your moms.

Again, I appreciate the support, I kinda stumbled my way into this story and expected a whole lot of roasting like only fanfic readers can dish them out. (I do like a good roast though.)

However, you guys have been insanely supportive, so I wanna thank you for that.

I hope you all have an awesome day!