Post by pete on Sept 18, 2012 16:36:16 GMT -5
The vase toppled to the floor with a loud clink of breaking china, bringing a harried-looking older man into the room, a pained expression on his face as he contemplated the remains of what had been a very expensive 18th century piece. The strapping blond youth sprawled on the couch, however, simply laughed, observing, in a playful tone:
Youth: Oops...I missed!
The older man glared at him, with a look of pure contempt, but the boy did not seem troubled; in fact, he barely even seemed to notice his interloper's eyes upon him. He calmly plucked another golf ball from the bag by his side, and once again got up to tee it. This time, he targeted an inkwell resting in an elegant Victorian desk, at the other end of the room. As he lifted his club to hit the ball, the older man lunged forward, arms outstretched, pleading:
Man: Master Rupert, not the ink...
Too late. With one swift stroke, Rupert Royston-Fellowes[/b] had sent the ball spiralling across the room and against the wall just above the desk. Believing he had missed, the youth let out a groan of disappointment; soon enough, however, his dismay turned to joy, as the ball bounced off the plaster and hit the inkwell from behind, causing its contents to sprawl across the invaluable piece of furniture. Incapable of containing himself, the heir to the Royston-Fellowes[/b] fortune let out a whoop of joy, which contrasted starkly with his older companion's posture of abject desolation. Hearing his elder's muffled, but impossible to stifle, groan of desperation, Rupert[/b] turned to him, his tone and expression reflecting his annoyance:
Rupert Royston-Fellowes: What are you whinging about, you wally? I have had just about enough of your rubbish!
Then, without waiting for a reply, he added:
Rupert: You know what? You're fired!
This finally made the man lift his head from his hands, as he stared at his master's only heir, aghast:
Man: M-Master Rupert...?!
His annoyance growing exponentially with every passing second, Rupert[/b] snapped again:
Rupert: You heard me! You're fired!
His worst fears confirmed, the man splurted, almost in spite of himself:
Man: But I've been with your father for *decades*...! I watched you grow!
Rupert[/b] however, remained unfazed, not even looking his servant in the eye as he replied:
Rupert: What of it? Have you watched The Dark Knight Rises? Oh, wait, I forgot - you're a peasant. You cannot afford a film. Well, Bruce Wayne dismissed Alfred in that film. And if he can do that, so can I. Jog on, mate. You're history.
Hearing this, the man began to shake, his eyes filling up with tears:
Man: Your father will never allow it!
Still Rupert[/b] showed no reaction, other than to make a show of looking around him, pretending to check for his father's presence:
Rupert: Do you see my father here? Father? Are you here?! Have you returned from your trip?!
Then, he once again turned to his servant, with a cool, cocky smirk:
Rupert: It seems Father is not here. And you do know what that means, surely? It means I am the master of the house, and you have to answer to me. And *I* say, you are dismissed. Permanently.
Quivering with rage, the man threw the boy he had seen grow up, fed and picked up from school a murderous glare as, unable to contain himself, he spat:
Man: I believed your father to have raised you *better*!
Then, faced only with the youth's derisive laughter, he turned on his heel and headed upstairs to his quarters, presumably to prepare his departure. As for the Royston-Fellowes[/b] heir, he produced a latest-generation smart phone from his pocket and quickly dialled a number:
Rupert: Hello, Nigel?! Where are you? ....Oh. Well, how soon do you suppose you could be at my flat? I have a lovely spot of fun planned for the both of us... By the by, is your father still in contact with that fellow who owned that Gentlemen's Club we visited once? ...Magic. Well, get your fine self over here as soon as possible. We have a lot to get done!
Rupert[/b] paused for a moment, to allow his best friend to put a word in edgewise. Then, faced with what was presumably a demand for more details, he replied, in his best attempt at his father's haughty, slightly stuffy tone:
Rupert: What are we doing? Well, old chap, I thought it was time to make this household a touch more youth-friendly. Modernise it, if you will. So I told that barmy old cunt Winston that we would no longer be requiring his services. But, of course, it would be frightfully unseemly for an upper-class household such as this one to be without a housekeeper of some sort, wouldn't you agree? And that is why I thought we might hold...a selection. A series of job interviews, if you will. To...fill...the, erm...vacancy. If you follow my meaning.
Nigel[/b] clearly did follow his friend's meaning, as his delighted guffaw clearly indicated. Then, after making his friend promise to proceed immediately to his South Kensington flat, Rupert[/b] hung up, and set about naking the necessary preparations for the selection process. His day had just taken a turn for the better.
Youth: Oops...I missed!
The older man glared at him, with a look of pure contempt, but the boy did not seem troubled; in fact, he barely even seemed to notice his interloper's eyes upon him. He calmly plucked another golf ball from the bag by his side, and once again got up to tee it. This time, he targeted an inkwell resting in an elegant Victorian desk, at the other end of the room. As he lifted his club to hit the ball, the older man lunged forward, arms outstretched, pleading:
Man: Master Rupert, not the ink...
Too late. With one swift stroke, Rupert Royston-Fellowes[/b] had sent the ball spiralling across the room and against the wall just above the desk. Believing he had missed, the youth let out a groan of disappointment; soon enough, however, his dismay turned to joy, as the ball bounced off the plaster and hit the inkwell from behind, causing its contents to sprawl across the invaluable piece of furniture. Incapable of containing himself, the heir to the Royston-Fellowes[/b] fortune let out a whoop of joy, which contrasted starkly with his older companion's posture of abject desolation. Hearing his elder's muffled, but impossible to stifle, groan of desperation, Rupert[/b] turned to him, his tone and expression reflecting his annoyance:
Rupert Royston-Fellowes: What are you whinging about, you wally? I have had just about enough of your rubbish!
Then, without waiting for a reply, he added:
Rupert: You know what? You're fired!
This finally made the man lift his head from his hands, as he stared at his master's only heir, aghast:
Man: M-Master Rupert...?!
His annoyance growing exponentially with every passing second, Rupert[/b] snapped again:
Rupert: You heard me! You're fired!
His worst fears confirmed, the man splurted, almost in spite of himself:
Man: But I've been with your father for *decades*...! I watched you grow!
Rupert[/b] however, remained unfazed, not even looking his servant in the eye as he replied:
Rupert: What of it? Have you watched The Dark Knight Rises? Oh, wait, I forgot - you're a peasant. You cannot afford a film. Well, Bruce Wayne dismissed Alfred in that film. And if he can do that, so can I. Jog on, mate. You're history.
Hearing this, the man began to shake, his eyes filling up with tears:
Man: Your father will never allow it!
Still Rupert[/b] showed no reaction, other than to make a show of looking around him, pretending to check for his father's presence:
Rupert: Do you see my father here? Father? Are you here?! Have you returned from your trip?!
Then, he once again turned to his servant, with a cool, cocky smirk:
Rupert: It seems Father is not here. And you do know what that means, surely? It means I am the master of the house, and you have to answer to me. And *I* say, you are dismissed. Permanently.
Quivering with rage, the man threw the boy he had seen grow up, fed and picked up from school a murderous glare as, unable to contain himself, he spat:
Man: I believed your father to have raised you *better*!
Then, faced only with the youth's derisive laughter, he turned on his heel and headed upstairs to his quarters, presumably to prepare his departure. As for the Royston-Fellowes[/b] heir, he produced a latest-generation smart phone from his pocket and quickly dialled a number:
Rupert: Hello, Nigel?! Where are you? ....Oh. Well, how soon do you suppose you could be at my flat? I have a lovely spot of fun planned for the both of us... By the by, is your father still in contact with that fellow who owned that Gentlemen's Club we visited once? ...Magic. Well, get your fine self over here as soon as possible. We have a lot to get done!
Rupert[/b] paused for a moment, to allow his best friend to put a word in edgewise. Then, faced with what was presumably a demand for more details, he replied, in his best attempt at his father's haughty, slightly stuffy tone:
Rupert: What are we doing? Well, old chap, I thought it was time to make this household a touch more youth-friendly. Modernise it, if you will. So I told that barmy old cunt Winston that we would no longer be requiring his services. But, of course, it would be frightfully unseemly for an upper-class household such as this one to be without a housekeeper of some sort, wouldn't you agree? And that is why I thought we might hold...a selection. A series of job interviews, if you will. To...fill...the, erm...vacancy. If you follow my meaning.
Nigel[/b] clearly did follow his friend's meaning, as his delighted guffaw clearly indicated. Then, after making his friend promise to proceed immediately to his South Kensington flat, Rupert[/b] hung up, and set about naking the necessary preparations for the selection process. His day had just taken a turn for the better.