03-30-2022, 08:57 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-30-2022, 09:00 AM by Christopher Hurley [deceased].)
[[CW: yep. earning that tag.]]
Was there anything better than a funeral? The women wept. The men pretended they didn’t. The hors d’ouevres were served with tears and regret. He’d even managed to rope Zack (and hopefully one more) along for this one. All he had to do was flirt prestige just out of his reach, and there came Zack, trotting along like a pedigree bitch.
Zack swung up his pocket watch, catching it like the schoolboy he was and checking it like he had somewhere more important to schmooze.
“How long should we wait for him?” Zack said, that abominable short, monotonous accent from whatever ghetto he’d crawled out of thick on his words.
His staccato voice carried, all the more for them crowding the door.
“Come now, Zack-” Chris started, honey-smooth to the ear.
“Zech,” rejoindered that staccato baritone.
“If there’s any time for patience, my friend,” Chris went on, “it’s a funeral. Can you imagine how hurt Mrs. Brennan or her son might be if they could hear you fretting?”
Son, singular.
“Sons, you mean?” ‘Zack’ corrected, though it hardly sounded in a nice way.
There was a ‘tsk’ of a laugh, and a light shuffle.
“One rich orphan,” Chris answered. “That’s for sure.”
It was just Chris’ luck that said rich orphan stepped out, lighting a smoke in that moment. The shift was immediate – Chris’ face, twisted in a smile with a well-dressed compatriot of similar age, suddenly looking to Malachi with the most polite, concerned look.
Zechariah, on the other hand, waved smoke away from his face and sneered.
“Need to-,” he paused, clearing his throat and coughing, “pay my regards to the widow,” Zechariah excused, and moved promptly in away from them.
“I’ll catch up,” Chris said with a wave, unperturbed.
Lyle’s little orphan had some inches on him now, but his precious vow of poverty seemed to be keeping him light. Until recently, Chris had showed even more open contempt than his father had for Malachi. His father just viewed the creature as one of his clients’ exotic little pets. Then, polite smiles – like they had been friends all along.
This piece of shit was explicitly in line to inherit, after all. Even over Lyle’s own flesh and blood.
“Congratulations,” Chris said, like celebrating Lyle’s death was some sort of private in-joke between two men who’d never even had a conversation together.
No. Chris had taken great pleasure in ordering Malachi to fetch this, fetch that, put olives in his martinis, cut the crusts off of his sandwiches. Make the little creep earn his keep in London. Speaking of – Chris dug a cigar case out of his breast pocket and opened it up, fixing one between his teeth.
“Light me up?” he said, pleasantly, holding his cigar out to him.
Was there anything better than a funeral? The women wept. The men pretended they didn’t. The hors d’ouevres were served with tears and regret. He’d even managed to rope Zack (and hopefully one more) along for this one. All he had to do was flirt prestige just out of his reach, and there came Zack, trotting along like a pedigree bitch.
Zack swung up his pocket watch, catching it like the schoolboy he was and checking it like he had somewhere more important to schmooze.
“How long should we wait for him?” Zack said, that abominable short, monotonous accent from whatever ghetto he’d crawled out of thick on his words.
His staccato voice carried, all the more for them crowding the door.
“Come now, Zack-” Chris started, honey-smooth to the ear.
“Zech,” rejoindered that staccato baritone.
“If there’s any time for patience, my friend,” Chris went on, “it’s a funeral. Can you imagine how hurt Mrs. Brennan or her son might be if they could hear you fretting?”
Son, singular.
“Sons, you mean?” ‘Zack’ corrected, though it hardly sounded in a nice way.
There was a ‘tsk’ of a laugh, and a light shuffle.
“One rich orphan,” Chris answered. “That’s for sure.”
It was just Chris’ luck that said rich orphan stepped out, lighting a smoke in that moment. The shift was immediate – Chris’ face, twisted in a smile with a well-dressed compatriot of similar age, suddenly looking to Malachi with the most polite, concerned look.
Zechariah, on the other hand, waved smoke away from his face and sneered.
“Need to-,” he paused, clearing his throat and coughing, “pay my regards to the widow,” Zechariah excused, and moved promptly in away from them.
“I’ll catch up,” Chris said with a wave, unperturbed.
Lyle’s little orphan had some inches on him now, but his precious vow of poverty seemed to be keeping him light. Until recently, Chris had showed even more open contempt than his father had for Malachi. His father just viewed the creature as one of his clients’ exotic little pets. Then, polite smiles – like they had been friends all along.
This piece of shit was explicitly in line to inherit, after all. Even over Lyle’s own flesh and blood.
“Congratulations,” Chris said, like celebrating Lyle’s death was some sort of private in-joke between two men who’d never even had a conversation together.
No. Chris had taken great pleasure in ordering Malachi to fetch this, fetch that, put olives in his martinis, cut the crusts off of his sandwiches. Make the little creep earn his keep in London. Speaking of – Chris dug a cigar case out of his breast pocket and opened it up, fixing one between his teeth.
“Light me up?” he said, pleasantly, holding his cigar out to him.
