Londo Mollari

Mr. Grift is dead. Before anyone asks, no, I did not kill him.

There is procedure for this, no? A body? He's in section four. Someone should come get him, because I most certainly am not getting blood on my clothes.

[The writing is full of flourishes and swirls, making it look in some places elegant and in some overdone and ridiculous.]

So I will write on this and then people will write back and we will all be good friends, no? Somehow, I do not think that is the way the universe works.

We are all in a tree. We are tree people. This is stupid. But, if there is a place with wine, then I will not mind the stupid so much, hm? And we are not in a tree right now, but we are. I do not like paradoxes.

So. My friends. My soon-to-be dear, good friends. I am calling myself Ambassador. It is a stupid name, but I have never named myself before. There is a first time for everything, I believe it is said. So let us have a drink to firsts, and write on paper that writes back.