Pop Squally and Loupgarou
– The Vampire Lawyer Convention

A tale told by Nicky Butler beside a campfire somewhere in the Atchafalaya Basin

Now I ain’t sayin’ Pop Squally and the Loupgarou saved New Orleans from a vampire lawyer convention… I’m just sayin’ nobody’s seen those lawyers since Mardi Gras.  And that seems worth mentionin’.

Now before we begin, if you’re one of those people who needs every story to be fact-checked by three universities and a committee of anxious accountants, you might want to go on home.  This story contains several things science has not yet approved of.

It started two weeks before Mardi Gras. Which is a dangerous time already. The veil gets thin. People wear feathers they can’t afford. Trumpets begin speakin’ in tongues. And the dead get curious.

Pop Squally and I were sittin’ outside Anthony and Evie’s Seafood Eatery over in New Orleans. Pop was fryin’ chicken.

The Loupgarou was asleep under the table. Or appeared to be. You can never tell with him. A creature that can become a wolf, a man, a shadow, or occasionally a pelican ain’t required to explain himself.

A black Cadillac pulled up. Out stepped a man in a white linen suit. The kind of suit that says: “I own three cemeteries and a jazz club.”

His shoes cost more than my Volkswagen. His smile cost considerably less. He approached Pop. “Jean-Baptiste Dupré,” he said.

“People call me Pop.”

“Indeed.”

He handed Pop a card.

The card was made of something that looked like paper but felt suspiciously like skin. The card read:

MONSIEUR LeBLANC
Attorney at Law
Contracts • Estates • Eternal Arrangements

“I am hosting a convention,” said LeBlanc. “A gathering of distinguished legal professionals.”

Pop sniffed. Then sniffed again.

The Loupgarou opened one eye.

“You smell that?” Pop asked.

I did.

It smelled like mildew. And old money. And somebody else’s bad intentions.

“They ain’t lawyers,” said Pop.

LeBlanc smiled.

“They are indeed lawyers.”

“No,” said Pop. “I mean they ain’t alive.”

The Loupgarou growled.

The Cadillac left.

That night Pop couldn’t sleep. Which is unusual.

Most people think wisdom brings peace. Actually it mostly brings indigestion.

Around midnight Pop lit a lantern. “The grease is nervous.”

Now that may sound ridiculous. But if you’ve spent enough time around Pop Squally you learn not to argue with the grease. The grease knows things.

The next day we learned what was happening. An old jazz club near Basin Street had been rented out. Private event. Invitation only. No photographs. No mirrors. No garlic bread allowed. Which seemed suspicious.

Pop looked at me. “Nicky.”

“Yeah?”

“Sounds like lawyers.”

By the third day rumors spread.

Musicians were disappearin’. Not permanently. Just… forgettin’.

Songs vanished from memory.

Lyrics disappeared.

Entire melodies evaporated.

One trumpet player forgot “When the Saints Go Marching In.” A crime so severe Louisiana nearly declared martial law.

Pop finally stood up. “The Forgetting.”

The Loupgarou immediately sat upright. His ears flattened.

Now that’s when I got worried. Because there are many things in Louisiana that can scare a man – Gators. – Hurricanes. – Insurance adjusters.

But very little scares a Loupgarou.

That evening we headed toward the city.

The moon hung over the swamps like a silver biscuit.

The Loupgarou ran beside us. Sometimes wolf. Sometimes shadow. Sometimes something older than either.

We reached the club after midnight.

Music poured from inside.

But something felt wrong.

The notes were perfect. Too perfect. Like they had been drained of every mistake that made them human.

Inside sat hundreds of lawyers. All pale. All smiling. All wearin’ white linen. Every one of them drinking something red from crystal glasses.

At the center sat Monsieur LeBlanc. Beside him stood a giant ledger. The size of a church door.

Names filled its pages. Thousands of names. Musicians. Storytellers. Dancers. Teachers. Grandmothers. Accordion players.

“What is that?” I whispered.

Pop’s face darkened. “That’s where they’re storing the stories.”

You see, these weren’t ordinary vampires. Blood gets old after a few centuries. What they wanted now was memory. Culture. Songs. Language. Everything that made a place itself.

Every signature in that book gave them ownership of a piece of somebody’s soul. A song here. A story there. A recipe. A fiddle tune. A prayer. A language.

The Loupgarou’s fur stood up. He hated people who stole belonging. Because once upon a time something had stolen his.

LeBlanc raised a glass. “To progress.”

The room cheered.

Pop looked at me. “Nicky.”

“Yeah?”

“Go distract them.”

Now I want to state for the record that this was an extremely poor plan. But before I could object Pop walked into the room carrying a cast-iron skillet. Still hot. Still sizzling.

Everybody turned.

“Evenin’,” said Pop. “I brought chicken.”

The room laughed.

LeBlanc laughed hardest.

Then the smell hit. Lord have mercy! That chicken smelled like every Sunday dinner you ever loved. Every family reunion. Every grandmother. Every second chance.

The vampires froze.

You see, Pop’s chicken contains a dangerous ingredient.

Belonging.

The aroma rolled through the room.

People began remembering. Old songs. Old stories. Old dances. Old promises.

The ledger started shaking.

Names began disappearing from the pages.

LeBlanc screamed.

The Loupgarou exploded through the ceiling. One second wolf. One second moonlight. One second righteous fury.

Lawyers scattered everywhere. Through windows. Under tables. Into legal loopholes.

The Loupgarou chased them through the French Quarter.

Pop followed with his skillet.

I followed because apparently I make terrible decisions.

By dawn the convention was over.

The ledger burned.

The stories were free.

The music came home.

A trumpet player on Royal Street suddenly remembered an entire song he’d forgotten. A grandmother remembered a recipe. A little girl remembered a lullaby. A fiddler remembered why he started playing in the first place.

LeBlanc vanished. Some say he escaped. Some say he dissolved into paperwork.

Hard to know.

As for the vampire lawyers? Nobody’s seen them since Mardi Gras. Though occasionally you’ll spot one near a luxury condominium development. Looking pale. And hungry.

That evening Pop sat beside the swamp.

The Loupgarou beside him.

The moon reflected in black water.

“Think they’re gone?” I asked.

Pop shook his head. “Nah.”

“Then what did we accomplish?”

Pop poked the fire.

The skillet hissed softly. “We reminded folks who they are.”

The Loupgarou nodded.

And if you think about it… that’s how most monsters lose. Not from bullets. Not from magic. Not from violence.

They lose when people remember.

Now whether any of this actually happened… I couldn’t tell you.

But I know three musicians, two grandmothers, and one retired priest who swear it’s true.

And frankly… that’s enough evidence for me.