Sweet Cream
"Coffee. With cream."
He watched the man bow and leave without argument or comment. Major Montana Max was nearly salivating with the appreciation of the delicious irony.
The Major looked down at London with the pure delight of a child seeing all of his favorite treats laid out in an all you can eat banquet. It had mostly been little tidbits early on – simple slaughter, hearing the broadcast voices of his men comparing flavors of blood, the sudden garbled broadcasts of terror on British public radio frequencies. They were lovely appetizers but lacking substance.
Then his dear Captain had brought him an early entrée. Such a dish in the Butler. Hans had outdone himself early in the evening. When the Captain was unable to guard the Fuhrer of the Letztes Bataillons, the Butler could, and had done so perfectly.
What a piquant flavor could be had from a dish that had been allowed to simmer for so long, to develop as a deadly man with depth and wisdom and the virtue of experience in a now youthful body, only to be used primarily in a menial capacity. Of tonight's flavors, this one would be among the most memorable. There were other dishes yet to be served; some promised to be even more delectable.
But for now? For now the savor of a man's loyalties perverted, his life co-opted, and his soul corrupted was delicious indeed. To see the cocky boy brought low was mouthwatering.
And the coffee wasn't bad, either.
Bitter Brew
"Coffee. With cream."
A bow was jerked from him against his will. His mouth would not open on the thoughts behind his impassive face.
He burned with an acidic, poisonous hatred for the foul little man. If Walter could have poured the venom of a thousand cobras into the Major's coffee along with the cream, it would not have done more than brushed the surface of the hatred that festered behind the mask of calm.
If the Butler could have distilled his loathing for the architect of his slavery into one caustic drop to flavor the Major's brew, he would have sold what little remained of his soul.
It was bitter indeed to have his soul tainted, his loyalties corroded, and his pride eating at him with every word of the Major's that he had to endure without speaking, or acting; imprisoned inside his own traitor body.
But the awareness of another piece of festering pride ate at him as well. Walter C. Dornez was angry because the Major was using him only as a domestic. He could feel the rot in his soul that didn't care whether keeping him out of battle meant he was not harming those to whom he'd sworn loyalty. The rot cared that he, the Angel of Death, and the scourge of the undead and of battlefields, was being used to fetch, 'Coffee. With cream.'"
Such a subtle poison is pride that will twist one to anger over the lost opportunity to be a traitor.