The Truth Must Be Known! - 27 (Denver)
Date: 2010-12-09, 12:55AM MS
Hello, ladies. Before I begin, let me apologize for taking up your time, but after years of suffering libelous attacks on my character, I feel it has come time stand up and fight for my reputation, nay, my very legacy!
For, you see, I am Cecil. Cecil Blackwater, the true and rightful heir to the Blackwater fortune.
Many of you, when searching this site to sate your feverish romantic yearnings, have run afoul of my so-called half-brother, the rogue and dandy Anton Kimble Blackwater. Let me address some of his more frequent slanderous lies about me in a controlled, orderly way - if I can! As I write this post, my fingers tremble with rage over the keyboard at the thought of his many shocking fabrications!
First and foremost, the issue of my parentage. Anton has stated on several occasions that my mother was a Hoodoo priestess who ensorcelled his father, the "noble" Henry Blackwater, into siring a male heir with her. Lies! Lies! You see, for all the reverence Anton reserves for his father, I and I alone know that Henry Blackwater was little more than a drunk, gambler, and lecher who, having swived every manner of woman and man, would even turn his ravenous appetites on various zoological orders! While it is true that my mother and he did have a single ill-conceived night together, the fact remains... my mother is not my mother! No, my real mother was the twelve-year old serving maid the "venerable" Henry forced himself on, night after night, under threat of unleashing the very same black magick half-brother Anton accuses me of employing! When, at last, Henry was dragged, insensible and rum-sodden, to the Port-Au-Prince jailhouse for lecherous acts with a minor, my mother and her mistress finally saw him for what he was: a two-bit scoundrel and rake. That day they made a pact that he would pay dearly for his treachery, though my real mother never had the chance to see her plots come to fruition, for she died two months later of a pox given to her by her former-lover, likely picked up in one of his many wharf-side revels. The Hoodoo priestess, however, was good enough to raise me as her own and, through me one day take revenge on the man who had scorned her! I believe, dear brother, you recall your father's death on the last leg of his around-the-world balloon race? How the rigging came loose over the Swiss Alps, having later shown signs of abrasion that could have been nothing other than sabotage? Yes, it was I - enraged to the point of murder by your father when, in an opium-stupor, he trampled the earth over my mother's grave and shouted such curses and insults into it that her soul must have withered up in heaven!
On the other charge frequently levied against me by my imbecilic half-brother - an equal to his father in both duplicity and carnality - that I am trying to steal his fortune using "sundry Lapp death rituals and Berber assassins", I can only say: why would I try to steal something that does not exist?
Lift your jaw from off the floor and read that again: Anton is as poor as a Welsh cabinetmaker. It all goes back to one fateful day when Anton was twelve. Old Henry walked into the stable, Blackwater Manor's being the most well-kept and oft-visited in all of New England, to see his young son doing things with his champion mare better left discussed in seaside taverns. That day, Henry knew his son could never be able to manage a fortune, and set up a trust fund to dole out the monies little by little every two years. And, while most men could live a lifetime on one of those generous payments, my half-brother usually spends it within two months on debaucheries that would put the sultans of the Turks to shame! And to hear him talk of his mother, the Spanish wet-nurse, and her tragic, star-crossed romance with the aristocratic Henry! Anton's mother was indeed Spanish, though also a sixty-year old prostitute working the area around the marble quarry where Henry was sentenced to hard labor for impersonating the Duke of Milan! A quarry-whore, the lowest of all whores!
Oh, and to hear his outlandish claims! His "expertise in tomb-hunting and questing for relics of arcane lore"? Ha! Try two years minoring in anthropology at state college, only to be expelled for stealing from the chapel's poor-box. The charitable trusts and aid organizations set up in his name? Nothing more than fronts intended to defraud orphans and nuns of their last shiny coppers!
I regret having to resort to this public airing of dirty laundry, but what else can I do? Anton has refused to meet me on the field of honor like a man, and my attorneys have been unable to locate him due to the fact that he travels under several aliases, usually in the company of a beguiled underage girl. Please, ladies of the world, do not believe his lies! Stay away from Anton Kimble Blackwater!