Birth of a Prophet

After the blithe romance ended, we mixed Scotch and American whiskey to see the effects. A rookie, with the right intentions, threw in a pinch of Minnesota's finest shwag and we all ashed an American Spirit just to see the effect-- then we waited.

The waiting is, as always, the hardest part. What, dear reader, was the wait of mighty Zeus in observing his Athenian headache before asking the cuckolded Hephaestus for hammer and chisel to relieve the pain? Or was it even the pain that lead him to render his skull asunder? Was it the curiosity?

An area witch doctor, Hecate, who had been observing the entire proceedings with a keen interest and wary eye, finally stepped into the proceedings. Grabbing hold of the concoction, she gave it three turns, shook it, then decanted a slight bit of bile while queuing up track eight from the Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies seminal album Big Wheel.

A partial, guttural question was induced over the acrid potion- "Why is their no handicap parking at the special Olympics?" -before a glorious mist of smoke was given forth.

The office of the BMC sat in awe and mixed wonder. Not so much for the magic at hand, but with deep respect for the smoke and mirrors that causes our simplistic minds to stop for traffic accidents and the self-inflicted pain brought upon by others.

And up from the depths, 30 stories high with his head in the sky was birthed the Rehab Prophet. Critics of the BMC were skeptical at first siting the BMC's inability to accept rehab in the past (we say nooooooo, nooooooo, noooooooo). But critics agreed, an ombudsman and fellow faithless compatriot is a good idea amongst the savagry of our ranks.

Hailing from the North Country, it has been mentioned in some socialite circles that he is the illegitimate son of Ignatius J. Reilly though this has only been proved by a mutual love of Boethius. A steppenwolfe, a scholar, a creation to bring an end to to the phony hipster movement that currently blights our fair country.

The Rehab Prophet.