This was part of something I started but never finished. I plan to finish it, but...eh.
A deadly commotion was sprung up outside of my apartment at around three o'clock in the morning. Crash after crash, I assumed the apocalypse had started, or something thereof. At least, that's what I hoped it was. I knew in my mind that I would be called bright and early to my office, and I would be meeting the imbecile that would surely take over three months of my precious time and sleep within a week's period.
Even so, I didn't have the will to look. This sleep pattern I had grown accustomed to over the last year simply stripped me of any patience I once had. (Which wasn't much.) Even sleep made me exhausted. My clients in America were even bigger heels than the ones back home in England. I couldn't escape the idiots surrounding me. But I do love their money.
Oh, indeed, I do.
At the thought of money, I came up upon an interesting fact: I was still in my work attire; my tie was tied and my shoes were laced. In fact, my satchel band was still loosely hanging in my hand. My shirt, wrinkled as all hell, was still buttoned to the second highest button. This lead me to realize another interesting fact: this wasn't my apartment. One more interesting fact? There was another person next to me in the bed. A man.
"F-... Francis, you fucking moron, wake the hell up before I knock your teeth out-! Wh- Look at this! Get up!" With a horrific expression and a shove of the Frenchman, (whose hand was resting uncomfortably on my ischium, awkwardly enough.) I shot out of the bed and quickly straightened my clothing. Who wants to be seen in the same bed with their biggest competition in a wrinkled suit?
Well. I guess appearance matters for a man raised in a high-class family in Europe. This fact, later proven by none other than Fran-shit Bonne-fuck, was what I assumed to be the reason I landed my job in the capital of the United States. As the man behind the counter at the coffee shop said, "Bitches love that British shit with the voice and the tea."
"Arthur, mon ami, please calm down. You're overreacting; we went out for drinks and you passed out." Francis' immediate reaction was substantially less violent than mine. Not that I didn't expect it. The fact that he was grinning pissed me off to no end. Remind me: why do I talk to this fool?
When I collected my things, I, as expected, tried to hurry out and (try) to leave this mess behind, but to no prevail. Francis was conveniently blocking the only way out, and I felt rage boiling up, threatening to explode.