TROUT
“Trout, is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Splendid. Bring me a brandy. That would hit the spot.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And Trout?”
“Sir?”
“While you’re at it, replace the flowers in that vase. A bit bedraggled, don’t you think? And bring me my argyle socks, you know the ones. And my green scarf. A bit chilly in here, what? You might remind Cook to slice the cucumbers thinner. There’s nothing more annoying than thick cucumber slices. Rather barbarian, I’d say. Run along now, there’s a good chap.”
Trout withdraws and carefully closes the door. He looks left and right down the hall. Seeing no one, he shudders first to a cringe, then erupts into a wild rage of spinning dance, clenched fists waving, mouth open wide in silent scream. After a healthy moment, he subsides, composes himself, smooths his hair, and with firm purpose moves off to fulfill his duties.
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