Well, I don't do LARP myself, being a table-topper at heart, but I did see
something last weekend that probably qualifies as a bad LARP experience.
There was an article a couple months ago in a local entertainment insert,
"Get Out" or something like that, about some Masqueraders that have been
LARPing around over at the Biltmore, kind of a fancy mall/nightspot in
Phoenix just south of Camelback Mountain. It wasn't much of an article,
notable only in that one of the pics with it showed two vamp chicks in a
bit of a lip lock - one of them identified as a 15-year-old. I expected
this might cause a bit of a fuss, but fortunately I guess nobody reads it
for anything but the movie schedules.
I go over to the Biltmore myself every once in a while since some of my
friends are into hanging around the coffee shops there, and I'd seen
ankh-wearing goth-punk types around, so I figured those were probably the
ones in the insert. Last Friday evening the coffee-shop friends wanted to
meet there since they had some time to kill before some Pink Floyd light
show that started at midnight. I'm not real big on Floyd, but I was in
the hanging-out mood, so I went.
We were sitting around the coffee place - the other three sucking up
various exotic coffee concoctions and me with my usual iced tea (with a
shot of cherry something-or-other). A James-Brown cover band was funking
away groovily on the front patio and between spurts of conversation I
checked out the moderately large crowd.
It didn't take too long to spot the LARPers down along the side mall.
The guy with the cape was kind of a giveaway. They were milling around,
and some of the more normal looking ones were hard to distinguish from
bystanders without close inspection, but I guessed there must have been a
half-dozen or so, a smallish group. Every once in a while, one would
stalk, prance, or otherwise dramatically disappear down the side mall
towards the interior shops, or a new one would boldly stride into the
scene from the same direction. There were undoubtedly others congregated
in a different part of the mercantile labyrinth.
Closer to the front patio, with their backs to the LARP troupe was a trio
of cool-cat types. Sunglasses at night, lots of leather (in contrast to
the more vinyl LARPers), cell phone on each pair of hips. Had to be
waiting for their table at the Planet Hollywood down the block. They had
too much of a moneyed look to be part of the troupe, but you could see how
they might be mistaken for such.
I looked them over a little more and moved on to other tables. Seated
farther up toward the front patio were a couple of young guys who really
didn't belong there, gawky, clean but plainly cut, white button-down
shirts, dark slacks, backpacks. I looked out to the sidewalk. There they
were - two rather utilitarian bicycles chained to a lamppost. I glanced
back at their table - a lemonade for each. Crisp, clean, no caffeine.
If you've lived in the Near West, you know what I'm talking about,
missionaries. Rather odd place to see them, but it was an odd crowd.
The band had started into a more soul-ish tune, the lead singer's
dreadlocks swaying slowly to the beat. A few people were dancing. My
iced-tea was about hitting bottom when I looked back to the goth tables,
and saw the cape-wearer slinking around a potted palm. I saw what he was
after. Should I shout a warning? Grimace painfully in anticipation?
Just sit and watch? The other LARPers seem too absorbed in some dispute
to notice the imminence of his faux pas. Then he lunged... right for the
tempting white neck of cool-cat number 2. I couldn't fault his choice;
she was a looker. I figured that was probably against their rules even if
the target was part of the group, but this guy didn't really look like he
was completely in phase with things anyway.
Even with the shades, you could just about see her eyes bulging from where
I was sitting. The caped crusader had locked his teeth onto the back of
her neck, along with a good rope of her coarse black hair. Her screech
nearly interrupted the music, but it does take a lot to rattle a bar
band. I guess most people just assumed it was some kids messing around.
I remember I was thinking how a real vampire would have had the sense at
least to bite towards the front of the neck where the carotid and jugular
are accessible. Comically, to my surprise, that was exactly what the
woman did in response.
She twisted around like a stream of quicksilver, clamping onto the
assailant's caped throat in the same motion. She was not particularly
tall, as well as pale and slight, rather Winona-Ryder-esque to name the
celebrity of nearest resemblance. Her two male companions were taken
aback, their expensive earrings swaying beneath immaculately feathered
hairstyles as their heads turned. The white-shirt-duo at the next table
were nonchalant about the unfolding drama though. They must have been
waiting for something to happen; no one goes there for the lemonade.
At this point, the rest of the LARPers had ceased excitedly making odd
gestures at one another and were beginning to take in what was happening.
Plastic fangs hung agape.
On the other side of the incident, the white-shirts were hurriedly
extracting various items from their cheap polyester backpacks, which
they'd earlier stowed beneath the table.
The fellow in the cape squirmed on the ground gurgling as the pale woman
bit into his cervical region. The two men with her, one a tall
brown-haired anglo and the other a short but trim hispanic, looked at each
other in confusion and then started trying to pull her off. From my
vantage, I couldn't hear what was being said, but the tall one hissed
something at the other, who then abandoned the dragging effort and
sprinted for the parking lot.
The tall man's efforts became even more futile when the white-shirts piled
on him from behind. He tossed one off, but the other thrust a large and
evidently heavy silver crucifix into his face, impacting the man's
well-proportioned nose in the process. He bent over in pain, clutching
his face. The other white-shirt had by then recovered and was succeeding
somewhat at separating the two on the ground with the help of a similarly
large and heavy silver cross, which he applied as a prybar. Several of
the LARP troupe had also joined in and in concert, they finally pulled her
away, along with a fair bit of blood and various of cape-boy's tissues.
The woman stumbled backward and the first white-shirt pinned her down,
thrusting his crucifix towards her face, which she evidently found
objectionable, as she squirmed in response and forced his arms back with
her hands. The second white-shirt was worriedly waving his cross at
various fanged LARP participants who seemed to be equally leery of him.
White-shirt #1 and the counter-neck-biting woman seemed to have reached a
stalemate until an odd grin came over her face. Attempting to ward him
off with one hand, she reached down with the other and flipped up her
loose shirt. A look of shock came over the gangling white-shirt and he
reflexively averted his eyes. It was just enough distraction that she
could kick her knee up into his groin. His whole body clenched and he
curled over. She slid back lithely, stumbled up, and grabbed her
companion, who was still bent over holding his nose, from which black
blood trickled. The caped LARPer lay on the ground in a similar state.
The white-shirt who was still standing looked desperate. A few of the
troupe had sneaked around him and were tending their fallen comrade, who
seemed to be sobbing at this point. On the other side of him, the woman
was stepping backward towards the parking lot. She was propping up her
companion and oddly hissing back at the whole lot of them though a set of
what were, given the state of modern corrective orthodontics, unusually
jagged teeth.
Momentarily, her second companion pulled up in a tricked-out Shelby Cobra
and flung open the passenger door. The two dove in as best they could,
and the car sped through the parking area as various pedestrians sprung
out of the way.
"Man," one of my companions remarked as it disappered around the corner,
"did you get a load of that '65?"
"Wicked," I replied.
The white-shirts had apparently settled on a similar course of action.
The uninjured one quickly unlocked the bicycles from the lamppost. He had
little trouble mounting and making his escape, though the other winced in
pain throughout the entire operation. It was an uninspiring getaway, but
no one seemed particularly interested in pursuing. Indeed, surprisingly
little notice had been taken of the entire skirmish on the side mall.
The LARPers seemed more embarrassed than anything. The band had finally
taken a quick break, so many of the coffee sippers had now turned their
full attention to the hubbub behind them. Sheepishly, the LARPers helped
up their disconsolate caped friend, whose bleeding had mostly stopped by
that point; I suppose she hadn't gotten too deep into his fleshy neck.
Then the troupe slowly faded back into the depths of the mall.
Of course, the mall cops showed up about fifteen minutes later to check
out the alleged disturbance, but they saw nothing and did even less. As
we were leaving, I passed by the table where the cross-waving white-shirts
had sat earlier. They'd dropped a few things in their haste to evacuate.
Reaching down, I picked up a strange pointed wood shaft, maybe six inches
long or so. Stenciled on the blunt end were a stylized beehive and the
inexplicable phrase: "Camelback Stake."
