Scotch

I observed with aimless but unwavering interest as Oscar gazed fruitlessly at his now increasingly tepid glass of scotch, moving his wrist with an air of arrogance that caused the drink to spiral. His shadow trembled against the wall, seemingly despising of its own master; Such an effect, Oscar seemed to have on most.

“Well, are you just going to watch me Piers?” Despite the boy’s disparaging tone, I knew he would relish a life in which he was able to perform said activity and little else. He was fed by his own ego, fuelled by his own self-importance. “Or is there something you wish to say?” The butler squirmed uncomfortably under Oscar’s gaze, as though a puppy frightened he would be trodden on. The man was of good heart, but simple mind.

 

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