That Butler:The Final Solution

Yes, it is me, Sebastian Michaelis, the Phantomhive butler. Please forgive my ridiculous appearance. It isn't as though I chose to wear this asinine bonnet. If you are familiar with the household, you will no doubt recognise the signs: Miss Elizabeth is with us once again, and the mansion is in a frilly pink shambles in the wake of the visitation of the 'oh-isn't all-the-world-just-too-cute' Midford disaster.

As things are, mere weeks stand between us and this shambolic condition becoming our daily reality. My young lord's morbid sense of humour made him suggest his nuptials be celebrated on All Hallow's Eve. That was shot down by the Marchionesse, but the fall date was retained because the young mistress thought a harvest themed wedding would be (wait for it:) 'cute' and her parents wanted the wedding sooner rather than later.

So, the Midford continues, like some dreadful girly parasite, to embed itself deeper and deeper into our lives. This latest visitation seems to have been the final straw for nearly everyone.

I have just come from the kitchen where I have actually had to touch both Maylene and our joke of a gardener, in order to 1) get their hysterics under control, 2) get them to focus on my words, and 3) assure them I do realise Steps Must Be Taken and since no one else here appears to have the testicular fortitude to intervene-no, that's not entirely true. I must give Bard credit: he at least attempted to take action.

Last night he crept rather clumsily into the guest bedroom and placed enough dynamite under the bed to bring down the entire west wing and was just running the fuse out the window and into the back garden—with a cigarette in his mouth!—when I was forced, against my better judgement, to stop him. So. It would appear Americans are not entirely without a certain charm or usefulness after all. It was the wrong room, but with that much dynamite it was, as they say, the thought that counts.

But I digress. Since no one else will act, for the sake of the long-term sanity of everyone living on this estate –not least my own!- I must take the initiative and Do What Must be Done...whatever that is. A plan has yet to suggest itself.

Having left Maylene in a state of near collapse, blubbing, with her head on the kitchen table and a half empty bottle of sherry at her elbow, I realise it is down to me to clear the dining room. The other two refuse to show their faces upstairs lest they get the 'cute' treatment. Tanaka appears to be in a sake-induced coma. I couldn't coax even a single 'ho' from him, let alone any assistance.

We recently installed a dumb waiter which communicates with the butler's pantry, so a task such as single-handedly clearing up after a late supper with guests is a good deal less labour-intensive than formerly and well within the powers of even an ordinary, non-demonic, non-Phantomhive butler to accomplish, so I hurry up and get on with it.

A nasty shock awaits me before I can even begin, however: there, by the sideboard, stands my master gulping down brandy like it was lemonade, gulping it neat from the cut glass crystal decanter. The servants are not the only ones suffering, it would seem. Well after all, he's the sacrificial lamb in all this.

Have everyone in the house lost their minds? As Satan is my witness: things can not continue this way.

"My lord. Have you no shame left whatever?"

"Where she's concerned? Tch." he snorts blearily and tosses back another slug, swallowing the wrong way and erupting in a fit of coughing and atomised brandy.

I am inclined to let him choke. He's brought this on himself, after all, and the utter despair he's wallowing in is doing simply wonderful things to the flavour of his soul. However I do owe him a certain amount of protection, so...

"Tell me, my lord, what would be your opinion be of someone willing to ruin lives, make innumerable people unemployed, sick at heart and despairing of life simply because he lacks the courage to speak up and tell the truth?"

His head bumbles up and down with his silent, smirking snickers. "Hell's bells, demon, I'd greet 'im like a longlos' bruvver and in invite him t' sit down and have a li'l drinkie...prolly needs one at least as badly as I do."

I never thought I would say this, but my lord the earl, the bravest little soul I have ever been privileged to join contractually, is nothing but a big girl's blouse when it comes to standing up to this wretched fiancée of his.

Gah! The entire situation makes my ass throb—please forgive my language.

"My lord, I believe I would be doing you a kindness in taking your soul right now, so please come here." I hold out a hand to him rather commandingly.

I am rewarded with the sound of the decanter hitting the floor.