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The Case of The Haunted Stripper.

So, my friend mentioned to me that he was going to run a tabletop rpg using this RPG rules set. I am pretty sure that he will be using other setting material as well. 

Anyway, I looked it over and was intrigued by the idea of the Wicce PI, a private investigator who maybe has some spooky powers, but is mostly a detective, she gets the really weird cases, possessions, vampires, and so on.  

I came up with a middle aged former Homicide Cop: Moira Alma D’Jeanne, who gets her 'gifts' later in life, she was raised in 'the tradition' so understands what she has, and how to use it, but is uneasy about the change this brings her life. This story is something of an origin story.... Whether this sticks to the game mechanics or whatever is moot, for me, it's backstory, and the character creation is just the germ of who the character is.

This story takes place before Moira leaves the force, and hangs out her PI shingle. She's more Columbo than Sherlock Holmes, More Jim Rockford than Columbo, and she can exorcise the damned!


The Case of The Haunted Stripper


As the giant cake was being wheeled in to the homicide squad room, just narrowly fitting in the door, the lights were doused and Detective Sergeant Moira Alma D’Jeanne closed her eyes, absently making the sign of the true star in the air, as if sculpting the air like clay, slow, thoughtful, but unnoticed by anyone else in the dark. Like a Catholic crossing themselves it was a habit, as a rare ‘mundane’ born to two of the highest ranking Wicca in local region, Moira had learned the sigils, runes, and words of power, studied magic theory like it was chemistry class. But her gift or gifts were so small that she always failed the practical arts. though she could make a potion as well as any alchemist or brew crafter, she couldn’t add that little enchantment that each potion needs to truly be a magic potion. She knew the invocations, but had no power to fill them.

She flashed, here at work having the closest thing to a birthday party as she had ever had really, back upon her life after she left the coven in the burbs: she had built a solid career as a cop, never giving in to the corruption that goes on in most big city police departments. There was room for the ‘good cops’ too, and the folks treading the dark side had long ago given up trying to include her. As she opened her eyes to see the inevitable ‘Hot Cop’ Or ‘Hot Fireman,’ or even ‘Hot Pizza Delivery guy,’ which her fellow detective Linda Wang, was on the embarrassed  end of just last month.

Moira was grinning at the memory of that not very spicy and kind of chubby ‘pizza stripper’ and wondered if Linda was still dating him. But as she opened her eyes fully and adjusted to the red siren lights that ‘the guys’ insisted on using for party situations in the office, she realized she was seeing more than she should, or was meant to, or something. Moira could see the angry frowning ghost that had possessed this lithe 20 something obviously classically trained ‘Hot Cop’. 

She again made the symbol of the star, this time on her forehead, carving, an eye in the centre of the star with her thumbnail. She only drew a drop of her own blood, which was really all she needed, and everyone else was caught up with the hooting and hadn’t seemed to notice. Moira was lost in her very first truth seeing. Most Wicce have these experiences as pre teens, or teens, seeing their first ghost, or demon, usually calmly living with a mundane person, hitching a ride into the world, where likely they would cause the person much misfortune, or often just as transport, until they found the soul they were looking to destroy. The supernatural hold grudges. 

Moira redoubled her efforts to concentrate and wield her gift as she was trained so long ago. This ghost was in the host it was looking for. Like a zombie Martha Graham the ghost writhed and jiggled along with Sgt Hot Cop. It was almost beautiful, the ethereal energy of the ghost bubbling almost through the blue green spectrum, with lumps and worm like strands of the Host’s soul being wound around the ghost, making it the dominant presence in the body, and definitely in the squad room. tendrils of goopy bubbling green, that scented of death and decay were starting to encircle the others in the room, stealing nibbles of the Homicide Detectives souls, ‘such as they are’ she chuckled to herself, almost losing the sight. 

She furrowed her brow and again made the sign of the true star, along with the true moon, and she spoke some words aloud that went unheard as the Hot Cop’s boom box tinnily blared a remix of “It’s Raining Men.” Moira had gotten her sight to the point where she was ready to try to exorcise this ghost before her squad lost what little soul it had left. Obviously she had never been able to get this far in her studies, but she felt one with her wicce faith and the star and the moon. The clove them together the sigils, with a stomp of her foot, and what probably sounded like a hoot to the crowd, but was in fact an order from the heavens to the ghost to vacate the premises.

The ghost made the dancer polka walk over to the birthday girl, as it finally noticed that there was a divinely inspired exorcist hitting it with ethereal sticks so to speak. For all intents and purposes, the dancer/ghost was lap dancing the guest of honour. She spoke the ancient words like spiked clubs raining down upon the stinking death writhing in pain within the sweat drenched dance student/stripper for hire. The g-string finally gave way to the viagra/ectoplasmic induced boner, that was waving in Moira’s face now like some deranged lollipop with a mind of its own. She chuckled a bit as the ghost slapped her cheek with the dancer’s penis. Moira cupped the dancer’s balls, making the sign of the true star, with the true moon hidden at it’s centre. The dancer bellowed in joy, covering perhaps the screams of the ghost who was forced up, and almost out of the top of the rubbery dancers head.

Recalling one of the last lectures she had ever attended at the coven, Moira made the sign of the pitchfork, spoke ‘the words,’ and sent the ghost straight back to limbo, halfway to hell in a blaze of blue ectoplasm, that clung to the dancer as he missed a step, sliding on the floor and landing on his bum, hitting his head on the side of her desk. She got up, motioning for someone to turn off the music. She looked the stripper in the eye and spoke the words, again. He looked at her quizzically, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”  she smiled, and spoke clearly, like a cop, “I asked if you are all right, is your head bleeding?” His turn to smile, “No, there is a bit of a lump, feels like, my butt is bruised though I think, and my pride. not exactly the climax to the dance that I had planned!”

She laughed and helped him up. Staff Sergeant Dennehy, he of the giant moustache, threw the day glo red ball sweat soaked G-string towards them, and it bounced of Moira’s face, before fell into the stripper’s hand. He slipped it on, moaning as he stretched his gluteus. He grabbed his pants, and kit, and made to collect his money from Captain Vance. The Captain with his pomade hair and slightly out of date suits was everything that you would want in a 1970’s TV Police Captain, thought Moira, as Cap slapped the kid on his bruised butt, and gave him a piece of the actual cake, from the bakery down the street. “Closest ol’ Moi (he called her Moy, much to her chagrin) has come to gettin laid in a Coon’s age, kid, good work.”

Moira blanched as she always did when the guys harassed her about her sex life or lack thereof. It was harassment, she often mused, but had given up that particular battle early in her career. It was easier to get resect now as a veteran cop with all these years under her belt, but still as Cap often said, “boys will be boys.” Uggh, she was thinking, but, “It’s okay Cap, I had a taste, that will hold me over ’til the Christmas party when I fuck one of the new guys on the copier.” She was about to turn her back on the whole bunch and go to the rest room to cry, process suddenly having the power she should have had her whole life, when she noticed how Cap’s eyes were glowing red like a wolf. Everyone was laughing at her salty retort, except the two new guys who looked nervous. Well, crap, she thought almost out loud, Captain Vance is a Vampire. Crap. Crap. Crap.

She walked carefully to the ‘Lady Cops’ rest room. That is what it said on the door “Lady Cops” in 14 k gilt. On the men’s frosted door window, it just read: ‘Cops.’ This used to bother Moira, and she had had a lot of arguments with the Captain over it. Vampire Captain, she reminded herself. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck’ she mumbled through the tears that were coming now as she tried to compose herself in stall number 3 down at the end. She pulled at the toilet paper roll and came up with slightly less than a square. Divinely inspired to exorcise ghosts, and slay Vampires, now but can I get a whole square of TP? No.

After a minute or two more of quiet meditation, and drawing of sigils on the door in front of her, she came to some peace with it all. She knew that if the Captain was a real danger, she would be feeling compelled to kill him. Maybe it was line of sight. Would she fly into a divine rage upon exiting the Lady Cop room? Her clad in iron detective gut, and her enhanced new approach to her faith told her no. There was more afoot here that she was really ready to deal with. She finished her business, not feeling refreshed, at all, even after splashing some water on her face, and getting that smidgen of blood off her finally opened third eye.

She exited the bathroom, and made for the cake before everyone but the birthday girl got a piece. She was stuffing the black forest cake into her mouth in a decidedly unladylike fashion, when the Vampire Captain winked at her, and arched his neck towards his office, motioning her to join him there. Waiting for the holy fire to return to her brain, she followed, grabbing a cold PBR from the cooler set up on her desk. That was going to leave some nasty watermarks was all she could think of as she followed her Captain into his office. She popped the can, and took a slug. uggh, not so cold as she thought, piss warm, she had a flashback to that ghost encrusted penis that had been screaming like the damned in her face a few minutes before.

The Captain stood, behind his desk, but motioned her to sit. “So - I guess there’s no subtle way to broach this, D’Jeanne, are you going to kill me, and why haven’t you tried before given the Holy Gifts that you displayed during that kind of sad dance routine.” He grimaced, gripping the back of his chair a bit too hard for a human. She somehow knew that he was holding back his fangs, sensing danger. He was she realized, with her heightened sense, displaying more control over his nature than she had learned was possible. She was also digesting the fact that she had been working with and 'almost' friends with an actual Vampire for over a dozen years, Since James Vance first became Captain of her squad.

“Believe it or not Jim (it seemed the time for first names) this evening was the first time my gifts have manifested. I am Wicce, but my gifts have been dormant or maybe not there at all. It feels like I have been called, called right now to do righteous work, like saving that boy from a hungry angry ghost.” Moira was shuddering inside but like Jim, she had her Cop Face on the outside. 

Speaking almost for her, the captain finally say in his chair, leaning forward; “And like me you are wondering why you aren’t being directed to not only see me as the abomination that I am, and why isn’t your divine gift burning me to ash right now?” She made to speak but couldn’t find the words, so he continued, “having time to sit here and make an assessment of the ‘new’ you, Moira, and I can see that your Lady Sherlock Holmes like mind is turning this whole thing over, and you will be any figuring out soon, that you aren’t being directed to see me as a threat, because well, I am not a threat, at least not to you and whatever your mission might be. Rare a case as it may be, I am not the Vampire you are looking for. In fact, I think we can be of great help to one another, as long as the hand of your god isn’t pointing my way.”

Moira leaned back in her chair as much as he was leaning forward, symmetry, truth, logic, he was right, though maybe not about the reasons. She might be pushed his way if it came to shove, and the longer she sat here, the more she realized he wasn’t just any vampire, he was very old, perhaps fifteen or twenty times older than his apparent suave 50ish. And he is no threat, not to anyone, apparently. all Moira’s education focussed on destroying Vampires, and other creatures, whose only sustenance was to prey on the mundane.

“But what do you mean I can help you? In what way, other than how I already do, as one of your detectives?” She straightened back up in her chair, and had a searing vision of the contents of the wall safe behind the Captain. Her eyes narrowed. So did Captain vance’s eyes, but he was smiling. 

“Yes, there are some cases, especially here on the night shift, that require ‘special’ attention, and well, you might in your line of work, be directed to them anyway. I think it’s right to shift your case load to what we like to call unofficially, “Special Branch.” He pressed a button on the underside of his desk, and the safe opened. He grabbed a few files, and displayed them in front of her. “Mostly other Vamps,” The captain let out a sigh that she hadn’t known he was capable of. “It’d be nice to not have to kill so many of my own kind, you can call it on the job training. She realized that maybe the Captain was some kind of good vampire, or at least one that was refined enough to want to thrive in the Mundane world, as opposed to preying on it. Civilized maybe?

She grabbed up the files into a stack, squeezing out the warm beer, before crumpling the can into Cap’s wastebasket. “Cap, how old are you, really?” he smiled, and she could see even more lines around his eyes, which were now their usual golden brown. “I turned 1267 years young, just last wednesday.” She smiled, tucking brown sweat curls behind her ears, “Well Happy belated, Cappy, and um thanks, I guess.” She went to her desk, locked the folders in her own cabinet, grabbed a bottle of red wine and danced the twist with Sgt Dennehy, until he got all handsy and she had to punch him.


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