Wrote this out of boredom.
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She rose from bed, noting that the temperature was noticeably lower than previously. Not that this affected her, for in the fine old tradition of the rich and wealthy, which the younger generation has been neglecting, the lady had amassed a massive bulk- a buffer against the cold weather. One would expect the floorboards to tremble under the weight, but precautions had been taken, and there was merely a loud groan as the tough wood strained against the force of gravity. Somewhere, something appeared to snap, but the frame held firm as the mass entered what would, in a normal household, be known as a kitchen. Humming a tune, the mistress approached the Christmas banquet.
The log cake, most certainly over a hundred percent rich chocolate, was no longer a log cake. It was, more accurately, half a log cake. Being in the box, this fact eluded observation, until the lid was opened to the stench of rat excrement. It so happened that there was a rat, presumably the owner of the excrement, lying next to the cake. The nose hovering above the box, often seen as an object of beauty by the owner, who never actually saw this aforementioned object of beauty; merely an assumption, was screwed up in a divine expression of disgust, for the self-same person certainly was unearthly.
The moment of silence that followed was not actually silence, but only appearing to be so for the sake of theatrics. It was at this moment that the unfortunate butler entered the kitchen, evidently in a good mood, for he was humming a jolly Christmas tune of the sort that never fails to irritate everyone with exception of, for the sake of a better word, the hummer. Lips quivered, and the ear-splitting yell ensured.
WHAT IS THIS ****ED RAT DOING IN MY CAKE?
The reply, was extremely clich. It may appear that the butler indeed intend it to be so, but it could never be proven, for who knew what went through their minds?
It appears to be sleeping, mam. Would you like me to remove it, mam?
The response that ensured was only to be expected. Immediately, the butler took his hasty exit, under the guise of doing his duty. Contrary to popular belief, the butler never did it; for whatever actions he took, there was no paper trail of any sort to trace the crime back to its perpetrator, while the statement, the accusers trying to disregard that obvious prejudice, would sub-consciously shift the blame away from the butler. However, the constant squeaking had taken its toll on the mans constitution, and he resolved to put an end to it.
It was not that he had not tried- one could see the untouched cyanide left scattered around the house. Whether the rats had avoided it on purpose, knowing that there was better food in the form of log cakes and such, or whether they just happened not to take any interest in the cyanide, it being out of their reach, we may never know.
The log cake was to be disposed of. What better way to do so, than to put an end to the rats for once?
Outside the house, a lone beggar approached. The biting cold somehow managed to seep through every crevice in his guard, which consisted of nothing more than a ragged garment stuffed with paper. At this time of the year, the air was not cold enough for snow, yet not warm enough to be comfortable. A miserable shower drizzled down upon the masses, who were unfortunate enough to be left out, as they say, in the cold.
With great excitement, he approached the dump, for every year there was food to be found. It was, by law, illegal to enter the grounds, but the sympathetic guards allowed him to enter, if he did no harm; it could be seen as a conspiracy against the snobbish upper class. Naturally, they would not be snobbish, as such, if they had not suspected for years that the lower classes were conspiring against them. As such, the two maintained a delicate relationship over the years.
The beggar was in luck. A huge log cake was in the dump, still in its box. Too big to carry away by himself, but big enough to feed his whole family. He hurried back, almost slipping in the wet puddles, and garnered a force to be reckoned with. As a group, they carried the entire box away with the efficiency of ants. That is to say, each individual member of the team pulled and tugged at his own side of the container, such that it moved in a hap-hazard fashion across the damp concrete, but since it was unanimous that the mistress of the house was a bad person, the cake slowly moved out of the sprawling grounds and towards their shared residence under a canvas stretched between two houses.
Their dinner was bliss- solid chocolate with a strong taste of almond. Too strong, in fact, but nothing in this life was perfect. Despite the freezing downpour, dismal grey sky and cramped conditions, they were happy, for the first and last time in their lives.
The butler was satisfied with his job. He had put all the poison in the cake, and hoped that the rats would continue to nibble at it. In the distance, he fancied he heard a momentary strumming of harps, which he put down as someones ring tone. It was halted suddenly, like a guilty person covering up his crime. The servants were not allowed to use electronic devices within the home, in case they were plotting against the owners. He would certainly have to see to it later.
