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Prophet and Mr. T of Clan Malkavian |  |
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| "Hey. I'm Prophet. This is Mr. T. I'm an Emily in Atlanta's kindred circles. The paragon of social graces. The apex of kindred style! A bloody great dresser! But I do go on." The kook begins to giggle "I'm also a good listener and an even better talker, for the right price. And with a celebrity best friend like Mr. T, well, what could be better. Let's talk my friend." ""Please send my apologies to all who I haven't responded too. I've been busy about town on personal business and Mr. T was supposed to tell me if anyone was trying to contact me, but alas, his popularity keeps him quite busy as well." The kook wiped a smear of blood from his ashen face as he neatly folded away his bloodied straight jacket. "Oh, do watch the mess" A dead woman's pale arm hangs limp, visible under a thick blanket "I am known for my messes... but ever since my honored appointment as a city's Emily I am trying to clean up my act a bit. Mr. T we have company. Mr. T get down here now!" You can't help but notice he's not holding his puppet. |
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| "What is it fool? I'm on the toliet!" The gruff Mr. T voice seemingly barks from behind one of the many closed doors in the abandoned clinic where Prophet and T sometimes call haven. The room smells like antiseptic. Buzzing, flickering flourescent lights play tricks with your keen senses. You worry that the malkavian Emily may be playing with your perceptions. Gun shots fire down the street and an ambulance siren screams by. All at once you hear a ghostly cacophony of weeping, a woman begging for her life, Mr. T saying "I pity da fool" and Prophet giggling. You find yourself trying to catch your breath. Then you remember you don't even breath. A toilet flushes and suddenly the rooms spins into focus and there's Prophet and Mr. T standing before you. Prophet is dressed in a tidy, clean shirt. "I'm sorry. It's the voices in the room. They whisper to us. Did they whisper to you?" Prophet squints his bloodshot eyes at you and smiles. "Damn fool...Just let 'em be." the puppet bounces and punches the air. |
Curse or blessing? "...and unto his Childre, Malkav granted the sight, the blessing, the curse, the gift, the betrayal, the madness that connects all of us, yet forces us apart. We are stapled together in its jagged, wet embrace, and, alone...utterly, utterly alone." from: "A Treatise on Madness" by Jaharazad, Malkavian Elder of Baghdad |
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"Please inform the city that I gleefully accept the post of Emily. Tid Bit du Jour |
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