Sunday, 16 December 2012

Mutt, Master, Boss, Brat.

JournalWord: "Want some gum?"

***

Lemonade, he huffs as he stirs two teaspoons of sugar into the tall frosting glass. Who would think that an underground genius would be addicted to lemonade? Yorick shakes his head and lifts the spoon from the glass, placing it into the dishwasher. He picks up the glass and carefully transfers it to a silver ornate tray, wiping the ring of condensation the glass left on the kitchen counter with a tea towel. He unties his apron and gently hangs it back up on its hook before relocating down the gray halls. 

Yorick winds through the maze of halls, bypassing the floor’s various voice readers and iris scans that block off certain parts of the Boss’s building. Suited subordinates occasionally pass by, nodding at the lemonade and Yorick knows that if it weren’t for their respect and loyalty to the Boss, they’d surely have a couple comments to say. And with the Boss’s personality, Yorick muses, the Boss would probably have a good laugh and not mind at all. Yorick stops his trek in front of a door, ordinary like every other door he had passed, except for the animated rabbit engraved into the steel over the door knob. 

Yorick gives a sharp knock on the door and waits for a yelp beckoning him in. Yorick opens the door and is welcomed by laughter and the smoke of cigars. He shuts the door quietly behind him and smoothly strides over to the Boss, servicing the glass of lemonade with a composed fa├žade in front of the guest. 

Boss instantly reaches for the glass from the balanced tray without a pause in his current argument. He animatedly barters, a childish challenge in his laughter. The guest, comforted by the cigar and tumbler of vodka in his hands, has loosened up and sunken into the armchair, obviously charmed by the Boss’s childlike manner. 

He underestimates the Boss, Yorick notes as the guest chuckles, and Yorick smirks inwardly when the guest accidentally agrees to sell half his illegal corporate. Vodka is spat in Boss’s general direction when the guest realizes his mistake, but Yorick would never allow any endangerment to the Boss and shields the Boss with a hanging towel that was tucked under into his arm. Guards are snapped to attention from behind shadows and the outraged guest is blindfolded and escorted out the door, his affirmation recorded and taped. Boss crosses his legs and leans back in his leather chair, arms tucked behind his head when peace is restored. 

“He’ll be back in two days with backup. Prepare for an assault,” he says nonchalantly, and a guard instantly dispatches orders into his cuff. Boss raises the dripping glass and takes a long sip, mewing contently like a kitten. “You rationed off the sugar, Yorkie,” he comments, an eyebrow rising menacingly in Yorick’s direction. 

“Boss, your blood sugar level has been on the surge. We don’t want our Boss stricken with diabetes,” Yorick answers coolly. 

Boss lets out an uncharacterised whine and flops sideways on the armchair, kicking off his shoes and attacking his tie while he sips dejectedly at his lemonade. He complains about having to dress up in ties and suits for business warlords. “Why can’t I go back to being anonymous like before?” he gripes, tossing his black tie and coat jacket over his chair. A guard rushes to catch the flying articles, amused by the Boss’s familiar strange character.

Boss has always been like this: babyish and eccentric. He may act like a spoiled child, however, underneath all the quirks and spontaneity lies a brain, trained to perfection to read beyond the beneath. He’s a mastermind who spends hours on end wiring the continuous clockwork in his mind to slow down into comprisable plans. He controls so much but he could care less. He is at the top of markets and economy, but he’s bored with the usual chess game. That’s probably why he set up the meeting with the illegal aristocrat: to stir up some trouble that he has already undoubtedly figured out with his powers of insight and deduction.  

Yorick remembers the night he first met Boss, back in the days when he was a freelance assassin. Those were the days when he didn’t have anything to live for, and nothing to lose. There was a bad fall-out, an assignment gone wrong by a separate invasion and he had ended up on the brink of death with two bullets in each of his thighs, and everyone else piled up on the cold cobblestones of a dank alley. Yorick thought he was alone and that he was going to die under the moonlight. 

He is clutching his legs, trying to stop the blood flow when he catches the glint of silver metal. The man creeps out of the shadows with a relaxed bounce in his step as he surveys the dead. The man cocks his head to the side as he walks closer and pulls down the collar of his coat to reveal a frown. Yorick stares at the revolver pointing at his head but notices the catlike grin that sprouts on the owner's face. 

“Nice eyes. What’s your name?” the man asks, an otherwise friendly comment if it weren't for the gun still aimed at his face. 

Yorick pauses, dumbstruck by the life or death situation. Should he answer? What would it matter, he is going to die anyways. “Yorick Omsby.” 

He starts to sweat at the intense hiatus of his highly probable demise, and he sits in agony in the thick air, his blood pooling into a gutter as he waits for his end. 

“Yorkie.” 

Instantly the dark atmosphere lifts when the man bounces into a crouch in front of Yorick, gun still outstretched but wrist lax and pointing to the stones. “Calling you Yorkie with that scary face of yours is super cute. I am very pleased,” he says, voice merry and gun retreating into the folds of his trench coat.

Yorick can't think, but he is sure he is glaring at the man. 

“Want some gum?” the man adds, fishing through a pocket before thrusting a half full packet of gum at his company. 

At the time, he had twitched his eyebrow sarcastically and agreed, either because he was dizzy from the blood loss or he realized that life was more important than he had initially thought. It could only be those options because Yorick would rather live not knowing about the psychology behind his agreement to become the butler of a renowned underground genius. But it doesn't matter now, because, unlike Boss who delves in the depths of every action and by-product of said action, Yorick would rather not know.

A guard bumps elbows with Yorick to catch his attention, coughing lightly in the direction of the Boss. Yorick rolls his eyes and regains his composure. He presses a button on the wall, lifting the blinds that had covered the surrounding windows of the octagonal room. The sight of the city he owns below his 70 story skyscraper goes unnoticed from underneath a blanket. “Boss, you can’t have a nap right now. Europe is on hold at the moment awaiting your feedback on the  perfume advertisements.” 

Yorick tugs at the blanket and finally rips it off. He sighs at the sight of his employer, curled up in the fetal position and trying to hide his head in the shield of his arms from the sun. 

“You can’t make me, Yorkie” he whines. “They don’t need my opinion on perfume. I don’t even like perfume.” 

“True, but they still want to meet you. Now guards, if you will? Down to level seventeen, room 406.”

Again, Yorick would rather not know the details on how he became the caretaker of the world’s smartest brat.

***

This is my escape. My hideaway home. My mind's black hole.
I'm fairly inadequate with human interaction, so understanding me takes time that isn't capable by vocalization. 
I am a creature that talks through others, usually my characters. 
My characters, their background, their life, their values, are their own, and are easier for me to explain than myself, because they are their own people.
Writing about myself is very difficult, so I'll be sticking to short explanations of my behavior.
~mera.

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