Anthony "The Shrimp" Stromboni

(Unwilling) Mobster Accountant


Blood & Earth
Height: 5’ 9"
Weight: 109
Kin: Helen “A Thousand Ships” Stromboni (Sister)
Birthplace: Chicago, IL
Birthdate: November 23, 1906

Agility: d10
Smarts: d10
Spirit: d6
Strength: d4
Vigor: d4

Charisma: 0
Parry: 2
Toughness: 3
Sanity: 5
Corruption: 0

Knowledge – Accounting (Sm): d10
Streetwise (Sm): d4
Stealth (Ag): d10
Shooting (Ag): d10
Guts (Sp): d6

Dark Secret (-2)
Small (-2)

Trademark Weapon (+1 Shooting – “Chicago Typewriter”)

Classical Literature (Greek & Roman Epics)
Obsessively Organizing PossessionS (OOPS)
Model Ship Building (Bottled)
Language (Italian)
Culture (Mob)

Base Possessions
Account Book
“Violin” Case
Pens, pencils
Pencil knife
Change of suit
Lawrence of Arabia™ hat

Tommy “Chicago Typewriter” Gun (.45):

  • Range: 12/24/48
  • ROF: 3
  • Damage: 2d6+1
  • AP: 1
  • WT: 13
  • Notes: Auto; carries 5x drums +1 already loaded


Rain falls on a puddle of grey mud, hunched in the shadows beneath the chip-toothed curb. Above, a battered iron door blends into the green, factory walls of the alley. Headlights flash briefly through the murky gloom, then suddenly vanish. A door opens, releasing the sound of quiet sobbing before it slams. Footsteps squelch closer across the pavement. An eye-slot slides open in the door.

“Is that you, Shrimp? Or some little bimba, eh?” Laughter from within.

A throat clears, or squeaks. “S-s-si. I’m here to see Merluzzo.”

“Ah, ’e’s ‘ere, Merluzzo! Wanna let’im in, or throw ’im back where ’e oughta stayed?” More laughter.

A voice grumbles within, a voice so deep the ground seems to shudder. A ripple sluices raindrops from the puddle’s surface. The body behind the door shifts.

“Si! In ya come, Shrimp.”

The door opens, revealing perhaps an even darker, greener gloom within. Despite the rain and mold, the room stinks of gun-smoke and sweat. And blood – or what blood becomes. The air infects any hair or cloth it touches, leaving a slimy film like liquid spiderwebs across the skin. Bodies linger, unseen, in the shadows. Only a cigar-tip glows in the darkness, bobbing slowly with the words.


“It’s duh-duh-done, M-m-merluzzo, padrone. They’re dead. All of them.”

The ember bobs.

“All of ’em, eh? All of ’em, he says? Did ya touch ’em? Did ya feel ’em die?”


“Show me your hands, Shrimp.”

Wet fingers stretch out into the dark – and freeze, waiting. The ember bobs. A trail of ashes falls outside the globe of sick light.

“I smell ‘em. Like shootin’ pesces in a barrel, was it?” The ember pauses; spit splatters on the ground. “That’s the only way you could ever do ’em. If they was lined up for ya.”

“Well it’s done now, padrone. They’re bellies’ up, I made sure. D-d-d-dead sure. Now let ’er go.”

The ember resumes its bobbing.

“A pretty bambolina, isn’t she? Very pretty. Like one outa them books you read. Like a certain one from them stories… one worth stealin’.”

Snickers from the shadows.

“You said you’d let ’er go! I done killed ’em, just like you said. I did all you asked.”

“Well ya see.” The ember bobs. “Ya see, now I feel like askin’ some more, booky-boy. Just a little more. Ya see, I’ve got me a little job in part ‘a the world you might ’a read’uv. Hot sand, hot sun, hot women. Snickers. Place where the dead don’t bleed, if you catch my drift. Ya see, there’s a little somethin’ there that I needs brought back to me. I’ve got some pike out already, but, ya see, any school needs a numbers’ man, a hook to keep my money from swimmin’ away. You’s could be my hook, ya see, Shrimp?”

Wet hands fall in the darkness. Feet shuffle nervously through the floor’s damp, rusty dust.

“Think careful, Shrimp. But think fast. Sbrigati! I don’t gots to be so, so… kind.”

The shuffling stops. “Will you let ’er go?”

The ember bobs. “She leaves with you. Tonight. Bit ‘a probation, ya see. All dependent on your good behavior. And my pesces comin’ home with clean ledgers. How’s about it, Shrimp? We got a deal?”

A throat clears, deeper this time. “Si, Merluzzo.”

“Buono! Buono.” The ember glows one last time, and is thrown to the ground, a streak of leathery jet crushing it into the darkness. The voice lowers to the floor. FHTAGN.”

Light, frantic footsteps sprint through the door just as it swings shut, crashing through the puddle on their way to the waiting car. Headlights flare; an engine shudders and whines as it speeds away, tires skidding back and forth across the alley. The rain returns to its quiet muttering. The footprint in the mud dissolves.

Anthony "The Shrimp" Stromboni

Age of Cthulhu Archie_Buce