In retrospect, I guess it would be kind of hard to get it on when your grandmother’s ghost is watching.
I was balls-deep in secondhand embarrassment from the start of the safari.
Let’s be clear, this was not my usual sort of client. As the only Good Ol’ Boy offering tours on Nakkavara Island (it’s this little uninhabited place a fuckton of miles away from any coast, don’t bother), I tend to attract a certain personality type. Like the rich asshole who wants to shoot something with horns. Or the trust fund asshole who wants to shoot something with claws. Or (my personal favorite) the rich asshole who brings his kids along so they can watch daddy be a man while he, yes, shoots something. I don’t know, something about having the only Texan accent for 200 miles tends to draw them to me.
But anyway, this character wasn’t one of those assholes. He was an entirely different type of asshole. No, not an asshole. Douchebag? Dumbass? Something like a cross between a ‘tool’ and a ‘twit,’ with a major emphasis on ‘dork.’ Fuckwit? Fuckwit.
“Telephone for you, Miss Primula,” the butler said from the other side of the antechamber’s door. “The man says it’s urgent.”
“Thank you, dear,” Primula said. She looked down at her patient, who was flushed and breathing erratically. “Would you mind passing it through? I’m at a bit of a critical point and would rather not stop.”
“As you wish, madame,” the butler said, cracking open the door a discreet amount to extend the telephone set into the room. His arms continued to extend until the set had crossed most of the chamber and was settled on the table beside Primula.
“Thank you,” Primula said again, and the butler’s arms retracted with a soft whoosh, the door closing behind him with a barely audible click. “You don’t mind, do you, love?” Primula asked her patient.
“Ah,” the woman gasped.