Art Barnaby was furious. A long day’s work had left him in a bad way and now his relaxation time was unceremoniously interrupted by an imbecile. Ulrich… no, Eric. Whatever his name was, he had proved to be nothing but a thorn in Art’s side.
Just as he lit a new cigar and had finally begun to relax in the warmth of his tub again, a commotion outside the window instantly brought tension back into his aching muscles. Art shot his gaze toward the window to see what impudent fool dared test his patience now, and to his shock, he spotted that same wretched low life, stealing his prized horse.
Duke was a beautiful Arabian with an excellent temperament and incredibly well trained. He was the perfect balance between speed and endurance and had cost the foreman a fortune. He was Art’s pride and joy. The only other thing that even came close was his hunting hound Buster. They made the perfect duo. And whenever Art went out on a hunt he couldn’t help swelling with pride. Both at the skill and poise of his animals, but also his impeccable taste.
Art’s blood boiled as he saw Eric stain his immaculately kept window with a putrid blotch of phlegm and ride away on his precious steed. Art jumped out of his bath and ran screaming after the rotten thief. He snatched a fresh linen from Brook’s hand and bolted for the front door. Not only had Eric interrupted Art’s evening ritual, but he wasted one of his best cigars, defiled his window, and now Art was dripping water throughout his home chasing after him. If his new Persian rug was ruined… there would be hell to pay.
He had shown leniency and mercy, and this is how his magnanimous gesture had been repaid. “No good deed goes unpunished,” he thought bitterly. He clenched his jaw, swearing a silent vow. “Mercy is weakness. I’ll make sure never to repeat that mistake again.” If Art had dealt with him harshly from the beginning and sent him for lashings, then had him held in confinement as his initial instinct dictated, he wouldn’t be dealing with this treachery.
He sorely yearned to have his rifle handy so he could line up its sights and shoot that no-good horse thief right in the back, but he’d been caught off guard. Which was a rare thing indeed for the foreman. He prided himself in always being prepared, but now he was left blindsided and vulnerable, which ignited the fiery flood of hatred, coursing through his veins.
Sopping and fuming, Art rushed to the door and threw it open. He could see the filthy wretch riding into the night. And to add insult to injury, Eric whistled as he rode away, which sent Buster running after him. “Hey!? Where are you going? Get back here now!” Buster didn’t even bother to glance in Art’s direction. The mangy mutt simply ran on to join up with the criminal scum who had just taken everything that mattered to him.
Art screamed after the snake at the top of his lungs. “You’re a dead man Eric! You hear me? A dead man. I swear I’ll see you hang!” He stood there fuming for a time, his breath shaky. He suddenly became aware of the dozens of eyes fixed on him from a mass of people nearby. He heard an amused murmur rippling through the onlookers and was reminded in that moment, that he wore nothing but a rather small strip of linen. Unable to take his frustrations out on Eric and embarrassed to find himself in such a humiliating position; in front of his inferiors, made Art’s hatred burn all the more. They quickly became his new target.
“What’re y’all looking at? Get back to work!” Many in the crowd exchanged confused or incredulous looks. “Work day’s over!” Someone shouted. “I don’t care. I’m not paying you to stand around!” Art shot back. The crowd fell silent, but nobody moved. A few seconds passed before someone else had the courage to speak. “What are we supposed to do? It’s dark out.” Art clenched his fits. “Insubordinate scum.” He said under his breath. He searched the crowd carefully, attempting to determine the identity of this newfound traitor. One voice standing against him, instantly opened the floodgate for others.
“He’s gone completely mad.” Someone else dared to say. Art could feel the heat of his blood rising to a level he never thought possible. He felt almost as if he were about to explode. “For that, you’re all working extra hours tomorrow.” He growled. The crowd groaned. “And when I find out which one of you loud mouth cretins dared disrespect me… rest assured, there will be lashings. And time in the stocks.” More hushed and heated exchanges from the crowd. Clearly, they were not happy. “Good,” Art thought. Feeling a small sense of satisfaction. “Now they are beginning to understand a small measure of what I’ve had to endure.” He turned on his heel with a smile on his face, a smug sense of superiority suddenly washing over him. “That’ll teach those filthy peasants.”
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He let go of his cloth and reached out to open the front door, when it suddenly slipped from his waist. He fumbled to catch it, but it fell too quickly and slipped from his fingers, landing at his feet. His bare backside was exposed to the crowd. He quickly bent over, fumbling to get ahold of the linen, and they all howled with laughter. There was still enough ambient light, in addition to the light coming from his office, that those whose views were unobstructed, got a good long look.
“I wasn’t expecting to see a full moon tonight, but this one is about as clear as it gets!” This really got the crowd going and a wave a laughter echoed in Art’s ears. The crowd whistled and heckled, quickly and efficiently garnering as much pleasure from the fleeting moment as possible. Their response all the more ravenous for having occurred immediately following his unjust pronouncement of punishment. Especially since by their estimation, they hadn’t done anything to earn said punishment.
Art turned crimson and the sheer embarrassment, and subsequent adrenaline, made successfully gripping the cloth far more difficult than he would have thought possible. “The moon turned out to be a mite paler than I expected to be honest!” Another heckler called. Art turned redder still, if that were possible. His hands shaking as he desperately struggled to find a hand hold. The crowd in response, roared with laughter again, just as Art managed to grab ahold of the linen and begin to cover himself. “Hey, not so fast, we were enjoying the show!” A man at the front said. The attacks were brutal, but they were just getting started.
“I’ve never seen him bend over to pick up anything in his life. Now that I have, I wish that I hadn’t.” More laughter. “Can’t unsee that.” Called another. “Serves him right.” someone said. “I wasn’t expecting to see a peepshow tonight!” Another shouted. More whistling. “I for one, am glad it’s over. No, thank you!” The crowd began to cheer and clap. Someone called “encore!” and others joined in. Art managed to open the door and stumble inside before things finally started to settle down. He slammed the door shut and slumped down on the other side; his face buried in his hands. He’d never been subjected to such disrespect and humiliation in his entire life.
He was quite literally the butt of every joke in the camp. And likely would be for the foreseeable future. Someone of his impeccable taste, talent, and intellect, deserved much better than this. He felt a sense of hatred boiling up inside of him unlike anything he had ever experienced, entangled with a sickening sense of humiliation. One thing was for certain. Someone was going to pay. “I won’t be humiliated by a bunch of filthy peasants!” He thought angrily. He made eye contact with Brooks who stood by staring at him, his expression infuriatingly embarrassed.
“I’m so sorry, sir.” He said sheepishly. Art drew in a sharp breath. “Shut up Brooks! Don’t you dare patronize me.” “I want that whole camp punished.” He sputtered through gritted teeth. “I want people beaten, thrown in the stocks, and hanged. This is unacceptable.” Brooks opened his mouth to speak, then paused. Thinking better of it. He was treading on volatile ground. He had to think of a way to calm Art down. Draw the foreman’s fury away from himself, and direct it toward someone else. “I would gladly punish whoever you deem as deserving,” he said carefully. “They’re all deserving! Every last one of them deserves to die a slow and excruciating death!” “Line them all up and have a firing squad put them six feet under!” A blatant contradiction such as this, instantly set off an internal trigger inside of Brooks. He should have remained silent, but he simply couldn’t help himself. “Uh, sir. A firing squad would be a rather quick and humane death,” he said in that insufferable correcting tone that had become one of his defining features.
Art’s shoulders heaved as he drew deep ragged breaths, seething. Brooks realized his mistake and thought it best to wait a moment before speaking again. He paused to carefully consider his words. “I couldn’t agree more with your assessment, sir. They all deserve the harshest of punishment. I’ll get you a fresh cigar and a drink and we can discuss how to go about exacting your revenge -- I mean -- doling out the proper punishments. He corrected himself quickly.
The foreman’s eyes were distant, but as Brooks spoke, they suddenly shifted into sharp focus. Art stared directly at him with a look that Brooks knew all too well. A look that always sent a shiver running down his spine. “I’ve always been a proponent of swift justice.” Art said, his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile.