"Well, it wasn't meant to be something that would [i]kill[/i] a Peruvian Mummy anyway, just negate some bad-"

Nemsemet. Ancient Egypt. Powerful Sorcerer. Or Demigod. Or god. Depending on which hieroglyph you read at the time. Helped Mentuhotep II overthrow the First Dynasty of the Pharoahs and leave nothing but gloating statues all over the place for a good century. Egypt was nothing better than one giant squall of radioactive Magic for paranormals until his death and mummification. Parry was perfectly happy to wander up to Crete and ride out the storm. Came back for the funeral though. Not a lot of people were sad to see him bite it, and nobody could agree how it happened. Cause, you know, nobody wanted to accidentally incur the wrath of the dead all-powerful-could-be-magician-could-be-a-god thing.

"Ah. A, uh, Mummy. A true blue Egyptian mummy. Up and about." Parry blinked, mentally taking stock of how long it would take to load up his Persian silks and Japanese Yukata into his bag, then stuff the whole safe into the bag and hail a cab. 

"Walking. How about that. And you... can't... leave... Phone's in the kitchen. Feel free to make a call, for, you know, as long as you want."

Parry froze, looking at the open door and the twilit sky framed by bright street lights on the street. That would need to be taken care of, STAT.

"If anyone in the kitchen is not, I repeat, [i]NOT[/i] a drug induced hallucination, I would very much appreciate it if you did something about my front door! Locked and bolted please. And put the bookcase in front of it as well."

Parry left Rusty in the hallway, marching through the living room and pausing just long enough to unplug the stereo. The disco ball he left spinning. [i][b]May the disco gods never die.[/b][/i] Without skipping a beat, he headed straight into the kitchen, produced a key from beneath his silk blouse shirt, and unlocked the basement door.

"I'll be downstairs, need to, uh, grab a few things. You know. For necessity's sake. Also, do me a favor and call the number on page 243 of the cookbook by the fridge. If it connects to someone named Murael, say you're from a Chinese takeout place and say wrong number, then hang up and DO NOT answer it if the phone rings. If it doesn't go through... we're genuinely fucked."

This last was punctuated by the door creaking shut (though not with the tell-tale click of a lock), a brief quiet of feet descending stairs, and finally a shrieking [i][b]"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"[/b][/i]