“The Miss Jordans, here to see you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, thank you Hobbes. Show them in.”
Once the butler left, Mr. Smith rolled his eyes. If only the Miss Jordans knew what he really thought of them. But of course, they never would. He was far too adept with social cues and nuances. After all, that was part of his job, and he was the best in the business.
He sighed. That didn’t make it easy, though. Every young, single lady from Brantley to the Capitol had been crowding his door since they found out that he was in the market for a wife. And that’s really what it seemed to be. A market. None of them cared about his extremely ordinary face, or his slightly slurred S’s when he spoke loudly. It was all about the money.
He didn’t mind the interaction. He was rather a social butterfly. He enjoyed the company of other people, and spent large parts of his day in conversation with others. But he could read people like no one else, and if there was one thing he could not stand, it was insincerity: a quality with which he had been inundated since potential suitors had started flocking to him.
“Miss Jordan and Miss Jordan, sir.” Hobbes announced, and two ladies glided elegantly through the door.
“Miss Danica. Miss Laurene. You look more lovely than ever.” He said smoothly as he kissed each hand.
It was true. They were exceedingly beautiful. But they were also vacuous and shallow, and the time had come for him to let them down gently. He would never have such a vacant woman for his wife, though when he said as much to them, it was done so gracefully that they never knew that they had just been insulted.
The conversation went without a hitch, just as it always did, and Torquemada Smith sent another pair of giggling girls down to the limo thinking that they had been the best candidates of all. He watched the car from his penthouse window and sighed again.
“Is it worth it, Hobbes? I’m lonely, and I want nothing more than a companion with which to share my life, but I am tired of these games.”
“It will be, sir. Once you’ve found the right lady, she shall more than make up for everything else.”
“Hobbes, you are a wise man.” He replied gratefully.
Hobbes handed him a top hat and overcoat. He was due at a benefit in a half an hour, and prided himself in always looking his best. He turned to the mirror and adjusted his tie before placing the hat neatly on his head.
Seconds later, he found himself on the floor in the middle of shattered glass and tangled rope. Someone was on top of him, dressed all in black, including a leather balaclava.
“Stay down and don’t move!” The figure hissed.
“What on earth...” He began to protest, but his sentence was cut short by a sound that he recognized at once as belonging to a sniper bullet. The mirror that he had been facing shattered, and sent more glass raining down upon him. Before he could protest yet again, a cloth with a sickly sort of smell was pressed to his face, and everything went dark.
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