My carriage rolls to a stop as I reach my destination. Hugo, my driver, hastily opens my door.
"Thank you, Hugo. I shall send for you when I am ready."
"Yes sir, very good sir."
I dust off my spatterdashes, adjust my handkerchief, and leisurely twirl my cane as I make my way toward my friend's apartment. I stroll by two lovely young women, and tip my hat to them. "Good evening ladies. Mayhaps this be the apartment of one Evelyn Miller?"
"Nah, next one over. What the fuck are you wearing?" asks the more boorish of the two.
"Why, only the latest coat from famed Italian designer Sergio Mozzarella." Instinctively I twirl so they may absorb the entirety of my coat.
"You look like a fucking asshole."
"Charmed, I'm sure." I tip my hat and genitalia towards them and bid them adieu. 'Adieu' is Mexican for 'sayonara,' which in turn is Asian for 'goodbye.' Language! I approach Evelyn's door and bang the ever loving shit out of it. I quickly ruffle up my cravat; a properly ruffled cravat serves as a visual aphrodisiac for women and some household plants.
She opens the door, looking ravishing as always. Her Homer Simpson pajama pants, ketchup stained t shirt, and complete lack of make up only serve to accentuate her beauty. "Dominic, what's with the costume? It's just board games, not a Halloween party." She laughs erotically. Or nervously, one of the two.
"Oh, bwa ha ha! Fa la la la! Scrumpleedo! My dear, you mustn't jest like so; you shall make me laugh off my new wig." I place my hat and coat away, though I do find it strange there are no negroes to do so for me. I walk- no, glide -towards the living room to great the other guests. There are roughly eight people spread out on various couches and the floor itself, partaking in delectable imported cheese and Steel Reserve™ malt liquor. All eight stop speaking as soon as I enter the room. Knowing a cue if I ever saw one, I perform the most elegant of bows in the history of elegant bows.
"Good evening. I am Lord Dominic Coats, Duke of Ravenshire. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots." Oh, dear. It appears I have accidentally let out another homophobic epithet. A remnant of my father's convictions, I assure you; it is most unbecoming of a gentleman and a habit I try mightily to shake.
"Er, uh... a thousand pardons. What I had meant to say was 'a pleasure to make your acquaintance, you fucking faggots and ladies.'" Pleased with my swift recovery, the guests clap politely and nod in agreement.
Afterwards I assert myself as the belle of the ball. But, like, the dude version. I regale my fellow guests with delightful tales of hunting trips with Lord Baron Von Poopshitcz, my harrowing escape from the fiendish Redcoats during the summer of 1775, and that time I hit a deer driving from Fort Worth to Austin. Alas, my tales would not be enough to satiate the party for the entirety of the evening.
"Alright! Everyone get your drinks! Game time!" Evelyn says. She holds various games in her hands; Monopoly, Apples to Apples, Priests and Ladders, RENT! The Movie: The Game, and more. "What'd y'all want to play first?"
Her question holds little merit, for whatever game is decided upon shall end no differently; me, standing above the mangled and charred corpses of my enemies, victorious.
TO BE CONTINUED...