I Do Not Trust My Man-Servant

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I Do Not Trust My Man-Servant

Over the course of my 115 years as a news-paper-man, I have come to realize the value of loyalty... It amounts to zilch!

Any bonds I have formed with my fellow man have been based upon a combination of fear and certain judiciously applied monies: My Swiss Guard are paid mercenaries; my physician, Doc McGillicuddy, will only plunge elbow-deep into my ancient viscera in exchange for lavish payments in smuggled Krugerrands; and the services of my pendulously gutted pin-head nurse are secured alternately with beatings and endowments of shiny gilded trinkets. Parasites, all! The closest thing I have had to a loyal companion over the years has been my man-servant Standish.

Yet I can no longer even count on him. As you may recall, while temporarily impecunious earlier this year, Standish and I enjoyed the brief succor of the Burger-King. Standish decided to put a portion of his share of the alms given to us by the celebrated Plenipotentiary Of Meat toward playing the numbers-lottery. In short order, Standish had won $187 million. Yet he offered me none of it!

Still infuriated at the flagrant cheek of this mere domestic, I recently requested the services of my solicitor, Beavers. As we sat together in my study, I endeavored to make the case that because Standish was still in my employ during our exodus, any monies incurred by him were essentially mine; there-fore, so were his lottery-winnings.

To this, Beavers merely chortled. "My dear Mr. Zweibel," he said, "have you never heard of the Fourteenth Amendment?" I said of course I had, but I didn't under-stand why that great and just measure banning women from wearing those immodest bloomer-trousers had any-thing to do with the matter at hand. But Beavers replied that the amendment actually entitled all native-born Americans to equal protection under the law.

Devious shyster! He is probably receiving a lucrative sum from Standish to mislead me. You see, Standish has learned a thing or two from my own back-stabbing acts of rapine ferocity, and doubtless he is applying it to his own affairs. I shall give him a fort-night to confess his treacherous intent, and if he doesn't confess, I'll order him to take his own life. If he refuses, I shall indulge in my own skullduggery to gain his bonanza. I would cackle wickedly right now, but I lost my laugh permanently during a bout of whooping-fever in 1907.