Bubble Gum

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.


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.

The End

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