When Edmund Mapplethorpe had woken up that evening, he had discovered that his wallet had been missing. He stumbled out of bed, leaving the sheets a mess and the comforters on the floor. He really should have adopted sleeping in the more-than-cozy linen closet, but with the blackout curtains he had installed in the wing he and Naira inhabited, he continued to divulge in his old, mortal habits. Dressing in his usual suit and polished shoes, he collected the things he did have - his wallet, keys, cuff links, and cellphone. He patted his chest where his wallet should have been and scowled, storming out of the bedroom, through Hollowheart Manor, and out towards the full-moon-lit city in his black 1966 Buick Riviera GS.
He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and brought it to his nose. The mutt had also touched his phone... but what could one of his wolves want with his wallet when he already gave them so much? He parked in front of one of the tourist shops as its open side flicked off. If he was going to start searching for this renegade of a household pet, he was going to start at the heart of it all: Swift Street.
Exiting the car and closing the door with a click of the lock, he also produced a whistle from the inside of his blazer pocket, bringing it to his lips to summon at least one of his well-trained guard dogs.
(This post was last modified: Apr 01, 2014, 08:03 PM by Mapplethorpe.)