The charlatan sales person was long gone. The Duke shrugged and harrumphed. He pulled back the neck on the BettPhone and pressed the big red button, he was going to need some help getting out of this one.
You see, some months back, Luxembourg’s weather had stuck in a kinda of drabness that only comes once a millennium (or every Monday in GD terms) and the peasants as they were (on a meagre 55K annual salary plus benefits) were beginning to revolt.
Faced with a pandemic AND a public transport system that was kindly described as ‘flawed’, The Duke needed something quick to fix the weather dilemma.
One day the doorbell rang at the City Palace, it was about midway through the Guard’s allowed and allotted steps and the
Duke thought he may as well answer the door...he knew it would likely be a late night reveller from any of the ever changing bars on the ‘strip’ random buzzing, but it had been ages since he had met with ‘the people’ and he could do with some popularity points.
Jean answered the door to find a shiny of face and slick of hair salesperson, right outside. His smile was a vile and his eyes gimlet.
The salesman offered his hand to shake, despite new regulations Jean did this anyway and found the experience rather gross. Like shaking hands with a recently washed branch of lettuce.
The man asked if he may come inside, as he had something that was of great interest to the Duke and the people of Luxembourg.
He could, he said, “guarantee” good weather for at least one solid month, in exchange for, say, unlimited cheque repas.
The Duke couldn’t believe his luck. And with nary a doubt accepted this person into the palace, noting, however, that he had not wiped his shoes, or removed his jacket.
The man spoke with the wet mouthed timbre of a person who perpetually smelled home cooked food and was desperate to taste it.
The man offered Jean a hefty pamphlet that detailed the hours of sunshine, the upswing in productivity and the feel good factors that would sweep the lands.
Pictures of frolicking people. Packed terraces. Cocktails. Smiles. Revenues.
The Duke hesitated, this was too good to be true...for the price of a few thousand packs of Cheqquies, the Duchy could be bathed in good weather once again...
The man proffered a pen. A heavy one. The Duke new a heavy pen meant sincerity.
He knew from his own desk that a weighted pen was mightier than a NERF. The man smiled. Licked his lips.
The Duke could not be sure, but thought that maybe, just maybe, the man’s tongue was forked.
The man slid the document further toward the duke and nodded toward the asterisks. He looked at his watch furtively.
The Duke had not read the T’s or the C’s and his mind raced.
His heart beat faster.
He should take this under counsel.
He really should loop in the Cabinet, or at least consult his wife.
But NO, he was The Duke, THE GRAND Duke, no less, so he took the lid off the pen and leant in...
To be continued....
