The Days of the Week
(hear about the other days)
Apparently my son’s name is Dennis. If I had any hand in naming him, I cannot recall why in the world I would have chosen Dennis. I presume my wife, or more likely one of the nannies named him such. It is a dull and stupid name, and I have told him so. He told me that he hates me, which I figured was the case, anyway. I am not concerned about maintaining a good relationship with him, as I have several other sons with Consuela, the head maid. Granted, they are bastards, and cannot ever inherit my holdings, but I see that as a plus.
Anyway, it’s been a busy few days. Whilst dynamite fishing on Sunday night, that idiot Holtz lost three fingers (by which I mean they were blasted off his body, not that he misplaced them). I endured his whining for several hours before I relented, and allowed Cavendish to drive the pitiful cur to town to see a doctor. This took Cavendish away from more important duties, such as burying the servants whom I accidentally beat to death. Cavendish had the gall to tell me that if I was going to keep assigning him to corpse disposal he wanted a raise! I pointed out that I would be more willing to have his bollocks for dinner than give him another goddamned cent. That shut him up, mainly because he knows that is exactly how his predecessor and I parted ways. In fact, I think it was Cavendish who served me the tray.
On Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday, the Cabral Society caught up with me and my winter estate was attacked by assassins. There was a shootout with my personal guards, which I found so irritating I proceeded to drink several ounces of Absinthe. The next 48 hours are kind of a blur, but when I woke up today the majority of the estate was still standing. Well done, guards! Although I am greatly pleased that I am not dead, my good mood has been soured somewhat by Cavendish molesting me with his complaining. "If you did not want to dismember and bury the dead," I tell him. "You should have not come in to my employ." I sent Holtz to help him, mostly because I was tired of his moaning, too. My son is also alive, but he is still named Dennis, so my joy is muted.
Apparently my son’s name is Dennis. If I had any hand in naming him, I cannot recall why in the world I would have chosen Dennis. I presume my wife, or more likely one of the nannies named him such. It is a dull and stupid name, and I have told him so. He told me that he hates me, which I figured was the case, anyway. I am not concerned about maintaining a good relationship with him, as I have several other sons with Consuela, the head maid. Granted, they are bastards, and cannot ever inherit my holdings, but I see that as a plus.
Anyway, it’s been a busy few days. Whilst dynamite fishing on Sunday night, that idiot Holtz lost three fingers (by which I mean they were blasted off his body, not that he misplaced them). I endured his whining for several hours before I relented, and allowed Cavendish to drive the pitiful cur to town to see a doctor. This took Cavendish away from more important duties, such as burying the servants whom I accidentally beat to death. Cavendish had the gall to tell me that if I was going to keep assigning him to corpse disposal he wanted a raise! I pointed out that I would be more willing to have his bollocks for dinner than give him another goddamned cent. That shut him up, mainly because he knows that is exactly how his predecessor and I parted ways. In fact, I think it was Cavendish who served me the tray.
On Monday, or perhaps it was Tuesday, the Cabral Society caught up with me and my winter estate was attacked by assassins. There was a shootout with my personal guards, which I found so irritating I proceeded to drink several ounces of Absinthe. The next 48 hours are kind of a blur, but when I woke up today the majority of the estate was still standing. Well done, guards! Although I am greatly pleased that I am not dead, my good mood has been soured somewhat by Cavendish molesting me with his complaining. "If you did not want to dismember and bury the dead," I tell him. "You should have not come in to my employ." I sent Holtz to help him, mostly because I was tired of his moaning, too. My son is also alive, but he is still named Dennis, so my joy is muted.
posted by Dash Bradley at 5:58 PM
6 Comments:
That Cavendish! Insolent little bugger, isn't he? I think a few pointed glances towards the tennis racket would put him back in his place.
I don't know why you just don't take Dennis fishing with you - all sorts of accidents can happen out there...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
I'm sorry, darling. My joy at finding you alive after such a brutal assault on your estate has left me speechless.
Dennis... Dennis... Didn't you have a stable boy named Dennis at some point?
Also, I agree that Cavendish must be dealt with. A tennis racket is far to kind a tool for the job. May I suggest your polo mallet instead?
His behavior while visiting my estate was simply deplorable. The female servants still jump at every loud noise, and the corgies will never be the same, poor dears.
My goodness but you ladies are bloodthirsty. Although i consider Cavendish to be thoroughly worthless, he does prove useful in certain situations. It is still undecided if I'll kill my son or not. i must confess the lad showed some pluck by not dying for those seven years he was living in isolation.
More story. More, I command you!
Yes, encore, encore!
Post a Comment
<< Home