Mister Miser

Mister Miser

  By David Bond

  Cover Art Designed by Roseanna Kettle

  Copyright 2014 David Bond

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Mister Miser

  About David Bond

  Other books by David Bond

  Mister Miser was in a hurry to get back home. Nothing in particular was awaiting his attention or inspection; but he simply hated being out in public. Other people were no more than an irritation to Miser, and he impatiently awaited his personal servant and chauffeur, Mr Banks, to return him to his vast and cavernous mansion.

  On this rare occasion, Miser had to make his way alone down a hustling, bustling high street, where normal people congregated. The noise and laughter of ordinary folk gave him what could be described as a mild allergic reaction. Keeping his head down as he marched through the crowds, Miser desperately sought the oasis of the waiting Rolls-Royce with Banks waiting inside. Banks knew full well of his employer’s attitude towards people, and so always made sure the Rolls’ engine was running whenever Miser was to be picked up in public, allowing for a quick escape.

  Miser was within sight of his beloved Rolls-Royce when he was stopped in his tracks by a cheery young student wearing a brightly coloured t-shirt, emblazoned with an image of a cartoon panda and some sort of slogan.

  ‘Hi how are you today? Spare any change for. . .’

  Before the student was allowed to finish Miser had already made eye contact, registered the situation, and with a faint look of horror and disgust decorated upon his face, wheeled away. The situation was now becoming grave. Trapped in a rich loner’s parody of a zombie film, Miser was more desperate than ever to escape from the clutches of the kind hearted and the good-willed.

  #

  Little was spoken during the journey back home. The relationship between Miser and Banks was professional yet not overly affectionate despite their years in each other’s company, and Banks chose to speak only when spoken to. He was a man of few words, a silent servant, always obedient, who seldom cast a critical eye upon his employer. Privately, Banks did not approve of his master’s shady business practices, his inability to feel compassion for others, or his refusal to recognise that his was a life of tremendous privilege; but Banks saw his role merely as work and it was not his place to protest. By chance, he fell into the life of a servant to a rich man, and he begrudgingly accepted the downsides of the role, believing it was not his place to call into question the integrity of his employer.

  The drive leading up to Miser’s grand mansion would have made for a fairly grueling walk, so Miser had Banks drive him up. Pulling up outside the main entrance, Banks, as always, walked straight around the other side of the car to allow Miser out. In his many years of service Banks had never once witnessed Miser open the door for himself. The mansion was designed by Miser’s late father, a man whose riches could not buy him taste, and so the sun blotting eyesore was big and ugly; a mish-mash of styles with no particular style prevailing. The mansion’s only design consistency was its obnoxiousness - if a building could possess that trait this was it.

  The inside was much the same. Antiques were hung from the ceiling, laid on the floor, and pinned to the walls, and none were looked after. Banks had previously attempted to care for the old items but Miser lambasted him for doing so - the latter seemed to want the mansion to crumble with him, junk included. Monstrously large portraits of pompous descendants also clung to the walls. Miser cared little for his long dead relatives. They meant little to him now and would have meant seldom more if they were alive.

  Whilst Banks removed his master’s belongings from the Rolls and moved them into the mansion, Miser began to complain bitterly about the young girl who asked him for a charitable donation.

  ‘Why should I help the goddamn pandas? What have they done for me? All these idiots, out on the streets saying ‘help this, help that’ - well why hasn’t anyone ever helped me, hmm? I worked hard and helped myself. Did it all on my own. All charity does is help the bottom feeders, I say let them help themselves and if they can’t be bothered then so be it! Good riddance. And that’s just people! Not bloody pandas!’

  ‘Indeed, Sir’. This was Banks’ standard response, who did not have the courage just then to politely explain to his master that he did not help himself, had never worked hard, and was exceptionally privileged from birth.

  Miser did not listen to Banks’ response, as he was only interested in venting his ever-present bile and anger. This rant continued over afternoon tea, which Banks prepared for his master every day. The former looked on forlornly as Miser rudely scoffed his scones and tea whilst indulging in his favourite afternoon activity - spinning his globe, randomly selecting a country, and explaining why he hated the people who inhibited that country.

  ‘Ha! Africans! Always on the TV, needing our help!’

  Banks chose not to mention that Africa was a continent made of many different countries, and that many of the current problems within some of those countries stemmed from colonial occupation. Miser continued.

  ‘Irish? Bloody layabouts. They’re nothing without us. Never trust an Irishman, Banks.’

  Banks again held his tongue, choosing not to publicise that he, like Miser himself, had Irish ancestry. The racist outpourings continued until the tea had gone cold, by which time Miser had become bored of his own xenophobia, and chose to change targets, this time lashing out against the poor and underprivileged as he climbed his grand staircase, with Banks following diligently behind.

  ‘And that’s why I’ll never part with my money Banks. My father earned his money and I earned mine. Why should I have to give it to some lowlife who watches television all day long and can’t be bothered to get a job? Why should I give it to some bloody homeless person in Africa who just sits all day doing nothing? You make your own luck in this world Banks, never forget that. There’s two types of poor people you know - the ones who aim big, drag themselves out the mud, and get rich, and then there’s the rest. I say leave the rest in the mud, where they belong.’

  Banks chose not to question what meaning, or meanings, the term ‘belong’ could entail. Holding his tongue was difficult because he knew random chance dictated both the direction of Miser’s fury against different peoples across the globe, and also the birthplace of those different peoples across the globe. Banks, personally, saw the world as round and could not fathom a concept of belonging beyond Earth itself. He also chose not to question that neither Miser nor his father had ever really worked hard, both having inherited untold riches. He also chose not to venture the idea that maybe some people did not simply want to ‘aim big, get rich’; rather they longed for basic human rights that Miser had always taken for granted.

  ‘A good spell in the army would sort out the men from the boys - scare them up good.’ Lost in a whirlwind of silent thoughts that belied his calm outer appearance, Banks had failed to notice that Miser had moved on to another of his favourite subjects - the dreaded younger generation.

  ‘Back in my day there was a place for everything and everything was in its place. Too many young types these days wanting more and more for no work, and I’ll tell you why - ’

  Miser’s latest rant was cut short as he shut his bedroom door right in the nose of his faithful servant. This had happened often enough for Banks to know that, despite the continuation of the ranting behind closed doors, Miser wished to rema
in alone for the remainder of evening. With a heavy but quiet sigh of relief, Banks finished the last of his duties and made for his bedroom in the opposite wing of the mansion.

  As Banks tried to sleep that night his attention was brought to his master’s nightly ritual. Peeking through the window, Banks could spot the faint shadow of his master stalking the grounds backing on to the mansion, metal detector in hand. Banks had witnessed this sight many times before - Miser was always seeking to add to his many riches, but the scene was no less lonely or tragic. Banks once again sighed, concerned for his master’s soul, and tried to sleep.