Chapter 2: A Lesson in Etiquette




Thomas' fingers dashed over the keyboard (riddled with bits of that mornings breakfast, accompanied by a helping of congealed milk from who knows how long ago), pounding the letters with an intense veracity that caused the desk the shiver violently. He bent over his keyboard, eyes narrowed and fixed on his spindly hands, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, wrists burning from the constant rubbing back and forth, back and forth, over the edge of the keyboard tray. He could see the story's climax, only a few more hundreds words...a few more minutes...

The doorbell rang.

Thomas slammed his hands down on the desk and jerked his chair back with a string of curses, sending the cats scattering out of the room with their fur bristled and tails puffed. Thomas, growling words to put a sailor to shame, smashed the mouse against the pad, drove it upward, and clicked 'save' with surprising force. He rose out of his chair and stormed stiffly toward the door, wrenching it open without so much as a 'hello' in the direction of the person standing behind it.

The persons, rather. There were three.

Thomas slipped his thin lips into a scowl and lent against the doorframe, glowering at the trio.

The three persons were not of any sort Thomas had ever seen before. The first two, more noticeable because of their rather large size, as well as unusual attire (were those real tiger pelts they were wearing? Couldn't be. That'd be illegal, wouldn't it?), had some sort of likeness between them, definitly relations of some sort, and had at least ten times the girth of Thomas between them. The other man, who was no bit unimpressive, but certainly smaller than his two companions, wore a suit, accompanied by a dark grey fur (real?) coat draped loosely over his form. He had a sternness about his eyes, but was smiling at Thomas none-the-less.

"Good evening, Mr.Lemoyne,"said the smaller man, his voice was thick with a German accent,” We attempted to contact you a few days ago, you did not answer us."

Thomas shifted his wait and retied his robe tighter about his waist, eyes on the sash rather than his visitors.

Realizing he was not going to get an answer, the German continued,” We have an...issue, with one of your books."

"Oh,"Thomas finally looked up at his guests,” Well, if that's the case then, you should talk to my editors. I don't take complaints directly, and they're the ones who deal with that sort of thing,” he leaned toward the German, lowering his voice,” But if you want to save some time, make a petition."

"A petition?" the German brow, his rather ample eyebrows cinching together,” Why?"

"Editors don't bother with complaints unless there's a petition."

"I do not understand...petition."

One of the large men nudged him and leaned down to whisper something distinctly German in his ear, although the accent was clearly not of Germanic origin. Definitly of British origins, those two.

The German's smile turned into a frown rather quickly after his companion's explanation. He stood a bit straighter and loomed forward. Thomas swallowed and took a couple steps back.

"I do not need a petition,” said the German,” My issue is not with your editors, it is with you, Mr. Lemoyne." He snapped his coat back with a flourish and flowed into the apartment. The two large men followed after him, one of which, the one clad in a white tiger pelt, shot him an apologetic look as he passed.

Thomas spluttered a bit, gaping.

"Why are the cushions covered in hair? Tor!"

The other large man, in the orange coat, proceeded to sweep white cat hair off of Thomas' overstuffed couch. The German peered down at it with an upturned nose before shooing 'Tor' off and seating himself on the couch,” Are you going to sit there in gape, Mr. Lemoyne, or are you going to come in?"

Thomas shuffled back into the apartment, kicking the door close behind him, and moved back to his computer chair,” I was rather in the middle of writ-"

"It is not polite to interrupt,” said the German, wrinkling his nose at Thomas,” It is also not polite to hang up on people. Dagstae did not enjoy that, did he?"

The man in the white coat shook his head,” No, sir."

"It has taken us a very long time to find you, Mr.Lemoyne,"the German turned back to his companions and uttered something in German that Thomas didn't understand, being, as he was, very much monolingual.

Both Tor and Dagstae pulled a book out of the confines of their coats, handing them over to Thomas.

"These are yours, yes?"

Thomas looked down at the covers. 'The Prince's Brothel' and 'The Man in White'. He nodded. They were his.

"Do you know who I am, Mr. Lemoyne?"

Thomas shook his head,” Not a clue."

"My name is Erich Emmanuel Bishop, I run The Prince's Brothel in Germany."

Thomas' mouth fell open for a second time,” But...you...he...." Realization dawned in Thomas' eyes and he snapped his mouth shut. Standing, he strode across the room to the door and wrenched it open,” Get out."

Mr. Bishop looked taken aback,” Excuse me?"

"I don't have time for practical jokes. Look, I thinks it very nice of you to take an interest in my books enough to come down here, must be a long way from Germany, Hm? But I have a deadline to make, I don't have time to play-."

Mr. Bishop bolted up out of his seat,” This is not a game, Mr. Lemoyne!" He slipped his hand inside his pocket and produced a wallet. Flipping it open, he handed it to one of the men, Dagstae, who proceeded to cross the room to show it to Thomas.

In the wallet was a license of sorts, Thomas wasn't sure what, as it was in German, but he did notice two things. First, that the picture on the wallet was identical to that of the man fuming in the middle of his living room, the other was that the name 'Bishop, Erich E.' was quite noticeably printed in bold, readable letters on the card. Dagstae flipped the wallet closed and handed it back to Erich.

"Take a seat, Mr. Lemoyne."

Thomas moved back to his chair and sat down.

"I have read your books, and your Erich Emmanuel Bishop stories, and I do not like them,” said Mr. Bishop, reseating himself as well,” You see, I am an ambassador, and I cannot have knowledge of my...other job out in the open, see?"

Thomas nodded.

"Therefore it is very important that you write apology letter, Mr. Lemoyne." Thomas bit his tongue to keep himself from correcting the man's grammar. Mr. Bishop did not appear to notice,” And you will remove these books from print."

"Well, you see, that's not really up to me. I may have the copyright, but I can't very well recall the books that are already out there-."

"You will have to, Mr. Lemoyne."

Thomas shot out of his seat,” Now look here, if I can't do it, I can't do it. An apology letter is fine, but I can't-"

Suddenly there were guns pointed at him. Two very large guns (although, under normal circumstances, Thomas wouldn't have considered them any larger than the average revolver, but things looked differently when your life was being threatened by them), and that, accompanied by the fact that they were held by two very large people, who did not seem at all adverse to pulling the triggers, put quite a few things into perspective for Thomas.

Thomas fell back into his seat.

"Then,” said Mr. Bishop, a smile creeping over his lips,” We will have to kill you, won't we?"

"Oookay,"said Thomas,” I...see. So...remove the books?"

"Yes, Mr. Lemoyne. Remove the books."

Thomas squirmed under the weight of the guns.

"We will be staying here until it is done,” said Mr. Bishop, rising from his seat,” Please show us to our rooms now."

"Ah,"Thomas wriggled, biting his lip,” It’s not a very big apartment, you see, so there's only two rooms,” he shifted his gaze between the three intruders.

"Then I will take one, and Tor and Dagstae the other,” he cast a glance at the couch,” You will sleep here."

"The couch?” squeaked Thomas.

"Yes, Mr. Lemoyne, the couch. Our rooms, now?"

"Ah, yes...of course,” he swallowed hard and led them passed the kitchenette and down the hall,” The rooms."

His cats were not going to be happy about this.