Name: Steven Robert Jameson II
Gender: Male
Age: 56
Apparent Age: 21
Place of Birth: Seattle, WA
Species: Vampire
Coven: Enashe

Appearance: Most seem to think Robbie’s just a teenager with too much money and too much of an attitude. His messy, light-brown hair and grayish blue eyes add a bit of color to the deathly pale tone of his Caucasian skin. His lanky form stands five-foot-eleven and is usually adorned with silk button-down shirts left untucked, the collar and cuffs undone, as well as a pair of Affliction-brand men’s designer jeans. If his feat aren’t bare, they’re in a pair of steel-toed harness boots. He wears a silver Rolex on his right wrist and often dons a pair of Ray Bans when out in public. If you saw him at a party, every girl would know his name; he’s the kind of guy who gets around even when no one knows him.

History: Some people are born for something. You might not know it at first, or maybe you do, but it’s often not what you were expecting. Some people were bred for war. Some were born to shop. Still others were born to write, or to play a guitar. Then there are the people that seem to have nothing going for them until they day they die. In most cases, that’s the end of the story; they lived their lives blandly and died like a goldfish in a toilet bowl. Some aren’t that lucky – or unlucky, as the case was with the bored kid living in a crack house just up the street from an abandoned fast food joint whose name had long been forgotten.

Robbie grew up with nothing, and that’s being nice about it. There’s no reason to lie, really; he wasn’t happy about finding a nickel lying in the street. If he did, he wondered why it wasn’t a dollar. If he found a dollar, he wondered why it wasn’t a five. His father left around two months before he was born; his mother refused to talk about him unless she was drunk, and then all Robbie ever got out of her was a string of cuss words fit to make a sailor run for the hills. The motel they lived in had interconnected rooms; it had been a duplex that was poorly built on to and eventually turned into the shithole Robbie ended up growing up in. Cocaine, heroin, hookers, and hustlers were common sights for the kid as he tried to get through school as painlessly as possible; that was made difficult by Kendrall Tanner.

Kendrall Tanner was a Scottish kid who hated anyone that didn’t have as much muscle as he did. Actually, it was mostly fat, but no one was brave enough to tell him that. Of course, he was completely innocent by the time any teachers showed up, but the fact was he liked to give swirlies as much as he liked candy corn – and that was probably his all-time favorite food. By the time he was ten, Robbie started getting wise to the idiot and started ducking him every chance he got; he got pretty good at it, too.

Then came high school. He was popular with the girls and hated by the guys, but he was more of a joker than anything else. He always had a witty remark. He’d come a long way since running from a kid who undoubtedly bench-pressed P. E. teachers for fun. In any case, he started stealing car stereos when he was fourteen. He was stripping cars clean by the time he was fifteen. When he was sixteen, he stole his first car. It was an ’82 Ford Escort and it was a piece of shit, but it ran well enough. Over the next two months, he was able to steal what he needed to turn it into one hell of a street racer. Apparently, he caught someone’s attention.

A guy went poking around a certain empty lot no one was using except Robbie one afternoon and found him putting in a spoiler. He’d managed to learn what he needed to learn from car magazines at a local library and get what he needed from the auto shop near the high school. They knew they were being stolen from, but they didn’t know by whom. Robbie got to talking with the guy and ended up selling the car to him for around eight grand; Robbie figured he must’ve been doing something right if he’d managed to get that much out of it. He never did find out why he managed to haggle so easily with the guy, and never did learn his name. What he did know was that he suddenly had eight thousand dollars from a car he’d stolen half his neighborhood to build. That’s really how he got started.

The first thing he bought was a broken-down ’82 Camaro that looked like something pulled out of an junkyard for around six grand. He didn’t like wasting that much of his hard-earned cash on something so ugly, but he figured he could cut corners if he needed to. He’d done it before, after all. Getting arrogant about the amount of money he suddenly had, he spent a lot of money very fast to get what he needed. Then he put it together. By the end, he realized he was going to need to start stealing again – or thought he was, anyway. It worked out all right for the most part, though. When he finally got it running, which involved a lot of work and some stolen gas, he took it into a shop and got the body straightened out. The rest of the work he did himself. It still didn’t look that good, but it was something to show he wasn’t just a pretty face anymore. He might’ve been the life of the party at school, but off-grounds he was a nobody. Using what little money he had left, he stocked up on gas. The minute he pulled up to the curb, people started noticing.

Robbie basically stole his way through high school after that and got away with it. He was arrested at age nineteen for stealing some tires, but he managed to talk the judge into letting him off with community service. He ended up picking up trash on the side of a highway for fourteen months. Then he turned twenty-one and that’s when everything changed. He was all right for two months, other than his Camaro being stripped the way he used to do. But in mid-March, he got jumped by what he thought were just an ordinary bunch of idiots trying to get their hands on what little cash he had. Boy, was he wrong.

He woke up in a dump that he would’ve considered a palace when he was a kid. The rotting sofa he was on seemed to have been ripped apart by rabid hyenas and there was so much dust in the place it was a wonder the dilapidated building was still standing. He found that he could see clearly almost immediately, though there was an odd hunger pain in his belly. Stepping outside, he found an old table with a couple people seated around it in chairs that looked about ready to fall through. They were having what he thought was wine, but the smell was driving him mad. They offered him one and he took it, drinking ravenously. It was only after that he found out what he was.

His newfound power was quickly tested when they took him into town. He was in Toronto, not Seattle, and the neighborhood was apparently just as bad. But when he hit downtown, that all changed. He was given the keys to a ’55 Dodge Coronet to fix up so he’d have something to do when he was awake during the daytime (which he immediately found out he couldn’t go outside during). When it started looking beautiful, his new “friends” let him keep it. But they also kept a close eye on him and he basically did what they wanted him to – until he decided it was time to take things to the next level. He started testing his powers, and this pissed his new “friends” off. They told him to take his car and get lost, so he did – straight for Demaitre. He’d heard them talk about the city a few times, saying something about there being vampires “all over the place up there”. When he finally found it, he settled in pretty quick.

He started out with a simple apartment, not sure where to begin his new life as a vampire alone. Before, he’d had people to rely on; now he had no one. Naturally, he hit the first neon sign he saw. It wasn’t long before he’d talked a girl into his bed for the night. When dawn came, all the shades pulled to avoid the light, the girl was dead. He knew he’d have to get rid of her soon enough, but he’d deal with that when the sun went down. He slept for about six hours before looking up some call girls in the phone book. Once they came over, he trapped them and made sure they wouldn’t scream. He had work to do that night.

It was a few days later that feds came to Demaitre. Apparently, they didn’t like the fact that a bank from a nearby town had been robbed of over $1.4 million without so much as a stirring from the guards. They never did find the man responsible, either. Meanwhile, said man was buying a lake-side house bigger than any he’d ever been inside before; a total of eighteen rooms including four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a den were a dream-come-true for the newly-turned vamp. A four-car garage meant plenty of space, too. From then on, it was a shopping spree the likes of which only someone with a blank check could get away with. Designer clothes filled his two walk-in closets. A twelve-car garage was built off to the side of his home opposite his four-car garage. A huge work shop was built onto each so that he could modify, maintain, and repair his cars as necessary. Several classic Mustangs and a couple of Harleys suddenly found their way onto his property. Investigations turned up only legitimate earnings from a night club he purchased.

For once in his life, things were going good. He even started up a street racing gang, the members being some of his richest clients at the Checkered Flag (his club). Within just a few years, he’d become one of the richest vampires in the city – but he was also one of the youngest and flashiest vampires. Needless to say, this gave him more than enough attention; some of it he didn’t particularly like. When the Amman showed up at his club one night to discuss his nocturnal activities, he agreed to back off – but only insofar as the shopping spree was concerned. He had the clothes and the cars he’d always wanted, so it wasn’t a big deal to him. But he still ran the street racing, even participating in most occasions. He also ran a high-end garage for his fellow racers and anyone else who had a “classic” car or bike. He kept his nightclub.

The Amman watched him closely, but he was true to his word. He stayed out of the public eye for the most part, becoming camera-shy and elusive despite his sudden wealth and power. He loved the night life and was glad he’d practically been ripped apart. It meant that things were finally going his way for once. Since that time, he’s grown into one of many local legends. Some people aren’t even sure if he exist, but that’s exactly the way he wants it. Still, an adrenaline rush from the roaring engine of a ’58 T-Bird isn’t something he’s going to be passing up any time soon.

Most recently, he’s been seen with several members of the Enashe. Apparently, he was allowed to join the coven and thus come under their protection so long as he held the occasional Enashe-only party and give members special discounts. He’s more than happy to, for he’s got more than enough money now – something he could never say before he was turned.

Robbie's Cars & Bikes