Mick had a paunch and an attitude. It's hard to say which people noticed first.
He strutted into the ballroom with a three martini skip in his step. God, he loved this. Who said money couldn't buy happiness?
He back-slapped his way toward the front of the room, to the table of honor. His guests awaited him, having arrived ahead as ordered - his bitchy wife, his useless son and his bitchy wife, and his lawyer and his bitchy wife.
As he drew nearer he saw the empty table and cursed. Where the hell were they? He gritted his teeth behind his insincere smile, and made a show of looking for his dinner guests.
"Do we have enough chairs for all your friends, Mick?" some blowhard called.
He HaHa-ed loudly. Stupid cow, where were they? Didn't she realize ....
"Excuse me, Mick, I think you have my seat," someone said.
That voice. That crusty, faggoty voice. No. Couldn't be.
But it was. Marshall Anderson, III. Navy blazer useless, disdaining (and keeping from membership at the Country Club) of anyone in trade.
Mick looked down at the place card on the table. Anderson Party. Chicken 5, Sole 3.
"I think your table is over there," Marshall pointed to the far wall, giving Mick a smug smirk.
Mick's eyes followed, and his wife was waving to him as if she were bringing in a plane. He forced himself to smile, but the congratulatory slap he gave Marshall's bony shoulder was harder than it appeared.
Bile filled his mouth as it hit him. They'd picked someone else as Citizen of the Year.
Chairman of the Abhorred
Chairman of the Abhorred III
Chairman of the Abhorred IV
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