NationStates Jolt Archive

"Bum bum, bum bum bum, bum bum, bum bum bum..." A jaunty tune was hummed as the lone figure remained, bent over a book, staring at the endlessly flowing words. Occasionally an A would try and flirt with him; while the D's and E's promised to be his forever in undying loyalty. Occasionally the bookmark would throw a hissy fit and embark on a genocidal campaign across the page; it might dance itself across, trying to erase vast swathes of letters with mere footsteps...

He giggled lightly, tracing a finger across a series of words; the four-score and 50 progeny of the impetuous little Ventrue he had annoyed the other day. How was HE supposed to know that the nasty man didn't like having his ghoulled partner strip naked safe the underwear on her head and dive off a table into a waiter...It had been funny? Hadn't it? Regardless; they had taken care of him. Mr. Gascan had whispered the truth. He had avenged his honor! He had went over there on his spindly legs of plastic and metal; and then urinated allllll over the Ventrue and his haven; there had been alot of them....Maybe...He thought. And then Mr Explosives had came, and together they had shown all the Ventrue's the secret sun. The firey one that brought on scary bouts of crimson rage and anger. They weren't canon anymore...Nope, Nope....

Dadddddyyyyy, daddydaddydaddydaddydaddydaddyyyyyyyy!

Very good work, montsenior; very good work Indeed; the Dark Father will have something to say for this

Nice work boss; you got 'em good; gotem got em, got em....Gone

OnE mUsT bE wIsE, iF hE iS tO sUrViVe ThEsE fInAl NiGhTs...

He giggled once again, listening to his over-flowing mind. He was at the Oscar's, maybe the Bafta's, maybe his band had just got a Grammy! Best New Artist? Hope it's a night-time ceremony...

It didn't really matter...Each and every member of his brood understood; for truth be told....This kindred and all his blood; were absolutely, incurably, insane...

And here they were; secretly pulling the strings of the newly formed nation of Malkavia; affectionately known by it's nocturnal inhabitants as "FISHMALK!"

Bumpies!

It was night. A very dark night. Perhaps one of the darkest nights there had every been, as the glorious Surpeme Grand Lord, Ruler and Master of Malkavia, the right honorable and revered sir, Julian Lucius 'Prince of Lies' Sanchos Villas Covarrubius Smythe the 27th; more commonly referred to simply as Jules.

"Greetings my people!" He beamed, looking down at the screaming, adoring crowd. He giggled lightly; it was like being Eva Peron at the Casa Rosada; minus the scary Madonna-version. He involuntarily shuddered before continuing to speak. "I'd just like to thank everyone for electing me as your ruler for life; and to apologise for the unfortunate issues of madness at the Ballot boxes; LSD and all that sort of thing...Actually screw it. The truth is, we're vampires; insane, evil bloodsuckers; yup; and we prey on you, alot..Well, not alot; thing is, I've got this whole vibe to rule like in Carthage, except that last time that happened I was in Rome and help stomped them; honestly, you'd be amased what salt-" He paused, ceasing his rantings.

"Anyways! Yes; thank you for electing me; now on to major issues of state and government! My first issue has, of course, been to disband the parliament, and have those who refused summarily painted blue. All those who left voluntarily were painted with polka-dots! And shooted!" He guffawed lightly.

"I thank you for your time; and would like to remind you that tomorrow is Purple Animal Tuesday; where only the purple animals shall reign supreme!"

Bumpies!

Bump

Martin Duchamp sat in his favorite chair, looking out over the city from the balcony of his penthouse suite. The flickering lights of the mortal world below never failed to amuse him, their hustle and bustle never slowing, even after a sane man would have passed out from exaustion, the little bloodbags below kept up the pace.

Rising, he moved towards the bar, and poured himself a glass of vitae. Sipping it, he leafed through a newspaper, taking in the affairs of the mortal world, and through it, the immortal one as well. As the last Prince of Otagia, he had to make at least a token effort to keep order, and that was exactly what he was going to do. He browsed the articles, keeping an eye out for anything out of joint. He didn't have to look long.

Snarling, he rose from his seat, and picked up the phone. After a couple rings, the throb of music could be heard through the receiver, the man on the other side somehow managing to make himself heard over the tumult.

"Whaddaya want?"

"Put me through to Mr. Lorainne."

"Mr. Lorainne is busy."

"Trust me, he'll be glad he talked to me. Now put him through."

After a few seconds of grating music, a new voice came on. Soft, a voice hardly expected to come from the owner of a club like the Lightning. Still, appearances could be deceiving...

"Mr. Duchamp, how marvelous to hear from you. I had thought you'd never call."

"Glad to talk to you, too, Michel. I see your taste in music hasn't improved."

"Yours either, apparently. So, what can I do for you today, sir?"

"You've been reading the papers?"

"Yes, why? I saw nothing out of the ordinary."

"The Ordinator, fifth page of the International section. Small wonder you missed it buried like that. Short article, too, it deserves quite a lot more, especially once you start reading between the lines. And let me tell you, my friend, the spaces are rather large."

"I'm still not certain what you're talking about, I don't see any... Oh. Oh my."

"Quite. A nation with a name like Malkavia is hardly likely to be on the level, so to speak. And with the recent debacle with their Parliament, I have very little doubt that their leader is a Kindred. See here, it even says he suffers from Porphyria, one of our cover stories for the curse of Caine."

"Mon Dieu... This is a clear violation of the masquerade. Why have the other princes not reacted yet?"

"The large concentration of Malkavians in the area makes things rather risky. Assuming they are following the Law of the Hundred Thousand, there are at least fifty of them, most likely in high concentration. Fifty Lunatics would be a challenge for any Bloodhunt, and the chances that they do not adhere to the Traditions is high, given their madness."

"What do you propose we do, my Prince?"

"You are my Sherrif, it seems fitting that you be the one to investigate the matter further. You can take a plane from the Arcology, Lupine interference with your travel will be impossible."

"Of course, sir. I'll book a ticket immediately. I'll leave this weekend."

Lorrainne hung up the phone and leaned against the wall. An entire nation of the Childer of Malkav... Well, at least it'll be entertaining...

He was humming; something along the lines of "Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny", as he traced the letters in flawless script upon the already adorned wall. He tittered softly; a sharp pain surging through his head as he continued to inscribe that which caused the pain. He was eternally afraid that this chamber would one day be discovered; and the Word Eater would gobble it all. Gone, in a gulping. Thus, and for the purpose of retaining the prophetic knowledge sprinkled throughout the ravings of Janus Remus Dellamuerte; that would be him. Suffering from an odd sort of obsessive compulsive desire to write everything he experienced; most notably his visions.

Ghouls recorded his every utterance; his every scribble. And thus, they heard him whisper.

The dog of Kings shall come and slink amongst the ashes east of Eden; he shall set himself to judge the Tower of Babel and silence it's utterance. But should the wanton mongrel be undone, and instead listen to the speakers and their many tongues; so shall endure the land of Discontent. This is the way of Caine; this is the word of Malkav; this is the utterance of Janus. Many faced; many voiced; truly sighted

Bump!

Bump

Bumpies

Bumpeth! >.<