James Darling liked to think of himself as an artist– a true artist. As he stared down and the now suddenly important document in his hands, his best friend at his side, a few solitary locks of his golden brown, carefully slicked back hair made a home on his forehead. This time he didn’t bother to push them back; no matter how many dollops of gel he would massage into the curls, the few strands would always fall back down. It was no matter. The sign of a true artist is that most of his work goes unfinished.
“So what is this all about?” his friend murmured between puffs of smoke.
“ It seems that an uncle I never knew existed has left me a huge mansion–a huge one–according to his last will and testament.”
“How quaint.”
“Indeed. Now the question remains, what do I do with it?”
“Sell it. You need the money.”
“There’s a provision in the will forbidding it.”
“What’s the point of leaving a person something if you don’t give him free reign with it?” Smoke rings signified exasperation.
“Exactly. It’s not as if he was leaving me an old mistress or something. Then again, I’ve not seen the mansion yet....”
To say that James was confused was an understatement. To say that his companion Damien, smoking silently by his side, was interested was an overstatement. It was a perfect balance of sorts.
“ I don’t really see rich old men as the type who would care about their mistresses. Oh, , we might want to move out of this room, I seemed to have filled it all up with smoke.”
James found the button of his shirt cuff and bit it absent mindedly. The smoke, perhaps, was what was making him feel lightheaded.