The Furious and the Frenzied

[quote=]The Furious Prophet has invited you for a Sparring Bout!

&quotWell. This is new.
A few changes have been made to the shopfront that occupies the Bazaar property beneath your rooms. Normally, this wouldn’t be too terrible a thing - there were a few aspects you were planning on changing, yourself. Maybe hang up a painting. Change the color of the wallpaper. The smashed glass windows, trashed interior, words of Genesis splayed against the walls, leftover dripping buckets of paint, and the one single dead rat left lying in the front window of the shopfront were decidedly not decorations you were planning on adding. Inside the shopfront mill a few constables dutifully performing their job of stroking their moustaches, nudging things with their foot, and occasionally saying aloud, &quotWell, this is a pickle, eh, boys?&quot One of them now approaches you. &quotRight, well, you’re probably wonderin’ what exactly it is tha’ 'appened ‘ere. Well, it appears that your shopfront ‘as been right tossed about by some what of religious maniac, now don’ it? Right. Well, we’ll be keepin’ on the watch for that from now on - you can trust in the Velocipede Squad, you can.&quot You ask if they’re going to help pay for the damage done to your shopfront. &quotHa! Right, you’re a right funny sore, ain’t you? Aye, right funny, right funny, we on the Velocipede Squad have a right good sense of 'umor about these what of things. 'ave a good day, then.&quot&quot[/quote]

This he said, strutting away from the crime scene. A scalpel in his hand, but not for murdering, not for now: he spun it between fingers full of scars, a dangerous diversion to soothe his nerves.

Those imbeciles from the Velocipede Squad won’t accomplish a thing. He’d have to lead the investigation himself, find clues, question witnesses…
Give himself a sweet cold revenge. That property was his medical study, and whoever defiled the respectable and sacred altar of his profession needed to DIE IN A FIRE and-


He inadvertently cut himself. Ops.
Keep calm, Daniel. First the inquiring, then the cutting.

A long breath. Sucking the blood from his wounded hand, he strolled toward the other shops and activities of the Bazaar.
He doubted his mysterious assaulter to be a silent person. Surely somebody had heard some ruckus last night…

(Why he himself hadn’t heard a thing, were you asking? Well…
There was wine.
A lot of wine.)

&quotSHUT YOUR GOB, YOU BLOODY CATHOLIC NINNY!&quot an angry mother of three screams from the window of a busy household.
The Prophet picks up a stone and chucks it.
&quotBy Jove, he just hit that woman in the head with a rock!&quot
&quotSomeone get the constables!&quot
&quotAre you alright up there, darling?!&quot
&quotMum! Mum, get up, mum!&quot
&quotOi! You there! Halt!&quot
The Furious Prophet turns and makes a run for it down the alleyway. It’s a brief dash across wet cobblestones, claustrophobic gaps between houses, and the occasional fence before zealot beats moustache and the constable gives up, left catching his breath under the eyes of the lurking Rubbery Men above.
Elsewhere, the Furious Prophet finally stops, collapsing in a puddle.
The Lord’s work is hard work, indeed, and God’s self-proclaimed fist certainly shows it. His giant overcoat has been full of nesting spiders for about a week now, the result of a particularly angry recipient of the Lord’s wrath who first tried to shoot the Prophet for trying to kill his landlord and then dropped off a sack of spiders at his home in the marsh for stepping on his pet. The Prophet angrily swats one off of his face, the fuzzy arachnid landing on the cobblestones and skulking off into the shadows. Along with being the home of various crawling colonies, the streetside preacher’s coat bears the mark of a society matron’s mostly unsuccessful attempts to blast him away with various derringers for breaking into her house, and his body bears the mark of the attempt that was successful. And, of course, one edge of the coat was torn off when the Prophet had to make a quick departure from a lodgings atop one of the Bazaar spires through the window, the raggedy overcoat catching itself on one of the spire’s lower spikes and saving him from a rather unfitting death for such a faithful servant of God.
Yes, there is little reward during the mortal life for enacting the punishment of the wicked, for Christ is gentle and tells one to turn the other cheek. But lamb and shepherd of lambs may Christ be, God still remains wrathful, and so there must be a ram amongst God’s sheep to protect the helpless of the flock and rip out the weeds of the garden. Even if that means knocking an unemployed mother out cold with a wet gutter rock to the face. These things must be done from time to time.
The Prophet rises and stumbles off to find some other street to terrorize.

Procures rubbery lumps and watches from afar

As the person responsible for the Prophet’s coat having more legs than any coat should, I feel bad. And it’s true, I goaded him first.

But he hit back by reciting the first chapter of Chronicles continually, below my window, for night after night. Promises of damnation, I can take. But now the simple word ‘begat’ brings me out in a rash.

Will watch with interest.