[Doctor Gabriel]

Mr. Kite blinked bulging eyes at the suddenly distressingly coherent woman.

Well, maybe not coherent… But certainly more in control of her faculties than the blubbering headcase in front of me a moment ago…

I seriously hope I don’t have to flash my dick at her every time she gets like that…

He eventually gave up shock for a defeated sigh and slumped into the nearest, cushiest armchair.

“Wonderful…” he spat sarcastically as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and let it with a gold zippo, “First she’s a raging lunatic and now she’s a smart ass. A week’s worth of blood and this is what I get in return.”

He took a long drag from his death stick and exhaled a large cloud of smoke. Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the migraine this woman was giving him, he reached under the chair and produced a bottle of uncomfortably expensive looking wine. He pricked his finger on his ring and a crimson talon rose from it’s tip. He plunged the blood needle into the neck of the bottle and with a delicate flick, pulled the cork out and flung it across the garage. He then brought the it to his lips, tipped it vertically, and swallowed greedy gulps of the French wine like a man dying of dehydration might drink from a bottle of water.

“Ignoring the fact that you’re clearly a disrespectful bitch and a violent one at that,” he finally said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “You can call Mr. Kite. In the very unlikely event that we wind up the bestest of friends, I’ll tell you my actual name. But for now, Mr. Kite or Master will do.”

Mr. Kite alternated between feeding his nicotine and alcohol dependence in between sentences. Eventually, in an attempt at a peace offering, he held out the bottle, now only half full, to the pirate woman.

“As for the Grail,” he began, a wicked gleam twinkling in his eye, “I wouldn’t say I need it as much as I need an excuse to raise Hell… But, if I wind up with an omnipotent wish granting cup in the end, that’s a win-win in my book.”

Mr. Kite suddenly looks toward the ceiling then at the nine out of twelve accurate clocks on the wall.

When the FUCK did last night turn into today?

A little wobbly from the drink, but still perfectly able to function otherwise so far as he could tell, the young man with the golden locks rose from his chair.

"Well shit," he sighed, stamping out the cigarette under his boot and plopping the bottle on a nearby nightstand before his servant could accept or refuse his offer, "I'm not entirely sure how this circus operates, but I'm pretty sure the ringleader wants all us clowns to gather at the centre ring for some kind of stupid meet and greet. Guess we'll have to get to know each other on the way there Miss...?"