|Gilead "Buster" Lafferty|
|Date of Birth||That's rude.|
|Covenant||Circle of the Crone|
|Coterie||I wouldn't want to join any Coterie that'd have me as a member.|
Well I hit a farmer’s bank in Topeka Kansas,
Then I knocked over another south of San Antone (whaaaaa-haaaa!)
Then I stopped on the border at the chapel of St. Francis,
Where the good Lord he told me he’d soon collect on his loan
I’ll run till I die! It's how I’ve survived
In the end, my soul will just keep rollin’
They’ll never catch me alive! I load that .45
Hit the gas pedal like that shit was stolen!
Rollin’ on down that line, whoa, down that line!
-The Bastard Suns, "Another Outlaw Song"
"That's the only 'hetero' thing I'd ever call [Buster]. 'Heterodox'." Vigouroux's player.
You can trust Buster with your life, but not your wallet.
...Or your phone.
...Or your car.
...Or your girlfriend.
...Or your boyfriend.
...Or your mom.
...Or your dad.
...Or your meemaw.
...But you can absolutely trust him with your life.
Oh, that guy's an asshole!
Buster Lafferty tends to present Princes with interesting conundrums. For instance, what do you do when a Kindred robs a bank but doesn't break the Masquerade while they do it? By the time the Primogen Council finishes arguing and someone comes up with a decision on what to do about it, he's probably skipped town.
Every now and again he'll roll out and randomly kill someone who deals meth. It tends to be a 'forget the bodybag, bring a mop' kind of murder.
Once, a Harpy tried to take a piece out of him, and Buster's response was to cover the Harpy's Ferrari in peanut butter and then summon a whole bunch of rats. Variants on the car treatment tend to happen to people who annoy him. In another city, it was tuna fish and cats. In still another city, he somehow managed to wake up every seagull in town and treated them to a hot dog buffet. It was the worst thing that could've ever happened to an innocent convertible.
Rumor has it he once took advantage of an Azerkatil being wounded after a fight, put it in an extra large hefty bag with cinderblocks tied to it and threw it into a bog. He seems to regret this one a little.
He has an alternate theory about the religion practiced by werewolves. It's a really good one. They hate it.
He doesn't believe his covenant is an actual covenant in any way that matters. He finds the whole 'Blood Mother' concept absurd. His concern is the Blood, and the power inherent in it. This tends to piss off a certain kind of Acolyte but it also makes him really good at practicing Blood Magic. If pressed, he classifies himself as a "semotician" but thinks most Acolytes who call themselves that take a wishy-washy approach to the concept. They want to call the gods "kinda" real to mollify the hardcore Mother's Army maniacs while still reaping as many rewards as they can, which makes most semioticians worthless to everybody.
And he absolutely will not rest until you acknowledge that he's a complete fuckhead and there's absolutely nothing profound or revelatory in anything he's doing. He's not trying to teach you dick. What are you, special?
In terms of his practice, Buster is what one would call a Chaos Magician. He denies the existence of an objective or singular truth. Belief is a tool to focus the will and all the gods and goddesses metaphors - or at best, spirits in the elusive Shadow that respond to faith and assumed the forms of the gods. To wit, if the gods are real, it is because man created them and the spirits responded by giving them form. The difference means everything, but also absolutely nothing. To Buster, the power is in the Blood, not in the ephemera. The Kindred is both Dark God and Dark Goddess, flush with stolen life; the blood is the life, the blood is the power; the life is the blood, the power is the blood. As Above, So Below; As Within, So Without. He embraced Chaos Magick in a direct slap in the face to his mortal family, who he has said were believers in a stern, objective religious truth.
Chaos Magick encourages a "whatever works" approach. Buster leans heavily on Ceremonial Magick to structure his practices, and for a guy who considers just about all accessories to be optional including clothing and dignity, he cuts no corners on Cruac and hates doing it on the fly. As he puts it, "If I fuck this up, I could DIE." Warm-up rituals such as the LBRP are common in his work, along with expensive working tools.
On Werewolves: It's perfectly fine to use mythology to exalt the job you're doing so as to motivate people. Just stop taking metaphor so fucking seriously. But then, werewolves take EVERYTHING seriously. As a race they don't know poetic irony from a god-damn milk bone.
On Vampires: You want to know what we are? I think whatever passes for the world-mind got tired of horrors from beyond the veil of stars trying to break in and fuck up its shit, so it produced some horrors of its own to keep them out. Sorry, Cthulhu, THE POSITION HAS BEEN FILLED. Unfortunately, somewhere down the march of the human race we lost the instruction manual.
On Faeries: Heeheehee. Look at them going on about how glamorous and wonderful they are while they rape the shit out of people's emotions to get a cheap cocaine hit of power. And they call me a monster. I mean, I am! But not like that. I drink people's blood, not their sorrow. Jesus Christ!
On Eldred: Maybe I could take him down; get the drop on him and ride the wave before he melts me into a puddle or goes all Freddy Krueger on me and makes me shit my pants in terror... but why would I put myself in that position if I had any other choice?
I can tell your future, it will come to pass
Do things to you, make your heart feel glad
Look in the sky, predict the rain
Tell when a woman's got another man!
I'm the one (yes, baby, you're the one)
I'm the one! (Yes, baby, you're the one!)
I'm the one, I'm the one
The one they call the Seventh Son (Called the Seventh Son)
-Willie Dixon, "Seventh Son"