Chauffer opened the door to the beautiful bone-white Bentley in the driveway as Donovan walked down the marble steps of his miniature palace. The sun was dropping below the horizon, followed by a brilliant mixture of pink and orange.
“How are we today, sir?” asked Chauffer with a polite bow of his head as Donovan’s blonde head ducked into the car, ignoring the question.
“Take me to 319 Sommerset, it’s in the Hollywood hills.”
“Right away sir,” Chauffer replied curtly, shutting the door behind Donovan and making his way to the driver’s seat, ignoring not only Donovan’s rudeness, but also the sting left in his nose by Donovan’s overpowering cologne.
“And hurry,” Donovan added from the back seat, without looking up from his blackberry, “It’s already 6:30, and I need to get there by 7. It’s normally a 45 minute drive, but I need you to get me there in thirty, or I’ll need you to find me your replacement.”
“Of course, sir.” This time masking the boredom in his voice even less.
Donovan was paying just enough attention to notice the apparent lack of interest of his driver, so he sharply added, “And don’t think that that’s a joke.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it as such, sir.” Still, the monotonous tone of Chauffer’s voice made it difficult to tell whether he was even listening. To augment his employer’s annoyance, Chauffer turned on the radio and started drumming on the steering wheel. Fortunately for Chauffer, Donovan’s attention returned to the wireless device that seemed never to leave his hand; it had just begun to vibrate.
“Yes, yes, I’m on my way, I shouldn’t be too much longer... Yes, I apologize, I got a little bit of a late start, and my driver (he raised his voice slightly) seems to have never navigated the streets of L.A. before. Hang on.” He put his phone to his shoulder and nearly screamed at Chauffer:
“where the fuck are you going?! I said the Hollywood hills and we aren’t even on the highway yet, turn left here and cut over to the next on-ramp!” He put the phone back up to his ear,
“yeah, sorry, like I was saying. My driver seems to have the mental capacity of an insect. Hey! You know what, let me call you back, this guy still isn’t getting it.” Chauffer had just passed the left turn he’d been instructed to make, and Donovan wasn’t pleased.
“Are you deaf, or just retarded? I said turn left, as in at that street we just passed. Just take the next fucking left or you’re fired, I’m not fucking around. Where are we even?”
“Short cut,” Chauffer replied coolly as he passed the next intersection, which, according to Donovan, meant that he was relieved of his duties. He knew it was an empty threat. And even if it wasn’t, his job was the only thing in the way of teaching Donovan a much deserved lesson. He did his best to suppress the grin creeping at the corners of his mouth. Donovan would have lost control at this point, had he not been so painfully aware how empty his threatof firing was; as far as Chauffer knew, Donovan was late for a dinner party with some affluent business associates and didn’t know how to drive the car himself.
“This isn’t a fucking short cut, turn around! I was kidding before, you’re not fired, but seriously, just turn around and get us somewhere recognizable. It’s already 6:50, and unless I’m much mistaken, we’re no closer than when we left.” Donovan was only vaguely aware of it when a large tunnel, seemingly out of place, approached and passed around the Bentley, blanketing it in a thick, heavy darkness. He was too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that the headlights only seemed to reach a few feet into the quiet that stretched out endlessly before them, or that the end of the tunnel wasn’t visible.
Donovan was now cursing his assistant in his head; it was Anders who had hired this worthless excuse for a man in the first place. He also smiled inwardly at the prospect of firing Chauffer if and when they ever did make it to the party. He thought to himself that he’d just have to hand pick his staff from now
on, but realized that that would take even more time that he didn’t have. As the car slowed to a stop, Chauffer’s words brought Donovan back to reality.
“Here we are sir,” Chauffer said in the same monotone voice, almost as though he were a heroin addict on a bender, incapable of emotion. He was making sure not to gloat as he watched a shocked look appear on Donovan’s face in the rear-view mirror. Donovan looked outside, dumbfounded. He glanced down at his watch: 6:59. How was that possible? He’d only told Chauffer the 7 o’clock deadline to assure he wasn’t late, but in reality he didn’t need to get to the dinner until 7:30. He’d never made that drive in such short time, especially at rush hour. Not only that, Donovan couldn’t for the life of him figure out what “short cut” Chauffer had used. Chauffer stepped out, walked deliberately to the back seat, and opened the door for Donovan.
“Um, well, actually, I was just informed that the dinner has been pushed back until 7:30, so um, pull around the corner and park, I’m just going to wait in here for a few more minutes.”
“Of course, sir,” came Chauffer’s usual lackluster response. Being so blatantly disrespected irked him, but Chauffer knew better than to talk back. He sat patiently, waiting for Donovan to finish his champagne and be on his way. Chauffer didn’t love the fact that Donovan was in charge, but took comfort in knowing how much calmer and wiser he was than Donovan, who always seemed to be on edge. Sure, Donovan was the one with the money, but Chauffer would rather belong to a lower socioeconomic class than be the soulless douche that his employer was proving to be.
Donovan reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver case containing a mirror, a small baggie of cocaine, a razorblade, and a solid gold sniffing straw. As he cut himself a sizeable line, he tried in vain to figure out how Chauffer had managed to get him there so quickly. He put the straw to his nose and watched the thin white line disappear as the end of his straw passed next to it. He leaned his head back and took a deep, fast breath, plugging his clean nostril. What a class act, Chauffer thought to himself. How does a guy like this end up with such power when he had virtually none? He remembered something his dad used to tell him regularly when he was little: “life isn’t fair.” Maybe so, but it can’t hurt to try and make it so.
Donovan put the case back into his pocket and reached for his glass of champagne, contemplating the last half hour. He was annoyed with his driver. Chauffer had directly disobeyed him several times, even upon threat of firing. It didn’t matter if he’d gotten there on time; ends don’t justify means. Donovan simply couldn’t employ disobedient individuals.
After what felt like about half an hour of twiddling his thumbs and bouncing his leg on the ball of his right foot, (not to mention a second even bigger line), Donovan looked at his watch, and was annoyed to find that only 6 minutes had passed. He reached into the side door compartment and pulled out a small glass jar containing several grams of medical marijuana, which he “needed for headaches”.
He laughed to himself each time he thought about how easy it had been to get his medical marijuana card. Sure, bud can help cancer and glaucoma patients, but we all know most of the people who go to the pot doctor usually just really like to get high. Donovan sparked his bowl and took a long pull, holding the smoke in deep before slowly letting it out. As he finished exhaling, Donovan was overtaken by a rather obnoxious coughing fit that he made no effort to quiet. By the time he caught his breath, he could already feel his eyelids growing heavy and the tension and anger leaving him. Donovan didn’t smoke daily as he had in high school and college; he had too busy a schedule. But hey, he thought to himself, smiling, smoking a bowl is a pretty good way to kill 20 minutes. “You wanna hit, man?” Chauffer politely declined, caught off guard by Donovan’s politeness. That bowl pack must have reallydone him some good.
At 7:29, Chauffer opened Donovan’s door, then shut it behind him once he’d climbed out. “So I need you back here at 11 PM, try not to be late. And thanks for getting me here so quickly.” “My pleasure, sir. Wait, sir!” Chauffer had noticed one of Donovan’s diamond-studded cufflinks on the
floor of the back seat just a second too late. It didn’t matter; he would give it to him after the party. Hell, Donovan might even be grateful that it wasn’t lost.
As the Bentley’s dashboard clock changed from 11:28 to 11:29, it’s front wheels crept quietly past the front gate and up the driveway, coming to a stop in the front circle drive to await its passenger. Chauffer parked and turned off the car, not actually expecting Donovan to be on time.
As expected, Donovan was one of the last guests to depart, not making it out to his car until after 1 o’clock, and he had with him an attractive young blonde in a short black dress and stiletto heels. The slight stumble as he walked down the front steps wasn’t the only indication that Donovan had been over-served.
“Oh, look who decided to follow instructions for once, I’m half surprised you even showed up, let alone on time,” were the first words to leave Donovan’s mouth in a pompous slur. Several responses begged to escape Chauffer’s lips, but he knew better than to let them. He instead chose to revel in the irony of the situation and do his best to ignore the drunken snob in the back seat. Chauffer heard Donovan mumble something about a cufflink and remembered that he’d found Donovan’s.
“Sir, are you looking for this?” he held it up, “you dropped it as you w-“
“You fuckin’ theif!” Donovan slurred, knocking it once more to the floor as he tried to snatch it from the open palm of Chauffer.
“No, sir. I fou-“
“Found it my ass!” The skinny blonde tugged at Donovan’s sleeve.
“Who cares?!.”
After several minutes of Donovan and his companion sharing a few lines and a passionate embrace, Chauffer's agitation returned.
"Fucking asshole," he thought to himself, "I should’ve fucking taken the damn thing, he never would have known. Bastard thought he dropped it at the party anyway. Accuse me of that? I was the one who fucking brought it up!"
He’d always been good at turning the other cheek, but he wasn’t sure how much more of Donovan’s bullshit he was willing to put up with.
“Hey, why are we on the highway? Take that damned shortcut from earlier!” Donovan ordered, already speaking more clearly. Apparently the drugs had helped him regain some alertness.
“Shortcut sir?” he replied, still isolating his internal dialogue from his outward demeanor.
“Yeah, dipshit, the shortcut that somehow magically got me to my party half an hour earlier than I’d int...” his words trailed off as he realized he was admitting a lie he’d told earlier. Chauffer remained silent. Donovan shrugged it off and turned his attention back to the woman he was bringing home.
It wasn’t worth the risk for Donovan to cheat while his girlfriend was around, and for the first time in months, she was out of town. He wasn’t about to let this opportunity go to waste.
The two broke apart long enough to cut another line, and just to keep his mouth busy, Donovan pestered Chauffer some more.
“Well? Why aren’t we going the fast way, I wanna get this beautiful woman back to my place for some fun.” He failed to notice as “this beautiful woman” rolled her eyes at this remark, but she put up with it all the same, her eyes never straying far from the cocaine, or for long.
Again, chauffer sat in silence, ignoring his drunken bastard of an employer, as Donovan distractedly muttered something about how hard it is to find good help these days.
When they finally reached Donovan’s estate, he grumpily said, “well it’s about fucking time.” When this remark was met with silence, Donovan continued on, “listen, I need a driver who does what I say. You failed. You’re fired. Don’t come back here ever again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sir,” hung in the cool night air as Donovan disappeared inside.
When Donovan awoke the following morning, his head was pounding. His mouth, slimy with dehydration, tasted of bitter, stale alcohol. Anders’ knock at the door sounded like thunder. "Just one of those days," he thought to himself.
“So, Anders, please tell me you’ve found me a competent driver? That Chauffer guy was just
atrocious,” Donovan demanded of his assistant when he got downstairs for breakfast.
“Got a man named Schaefer, been driving limousines for 10 years. Should be just what you’re looking for.” “Good, I’m sick of you giving me brain dead monkeys when I ask for workers. Maybe this month you’ll actually earn your salary for once.”
Donovan’s sheer absence of manners could probably be explained by his being born with a silver spoon up his ass, but Anders still wished that Donovan would've picked up some etiquette at Harvard, instead of just a penchant for cocaine and high class escorts.
As Donovan opened his front door to a gray, gloomy day, his eyes fell upon what was supposed to be his new driver. But staring back at him with a malevolent grin stood Chauffer. The only noticeable difference about the man was that he was wearing a suit the color of the Bentley, instead of his usual black one.
“Anders!” he yelled, trying to convey the anger and annoyance in his voice. Anders, who had mistaken the anger for urgency, ran into the front hall.
“What is it, sir?”
“You think this is funny? Is this some kind of joke, you re-hiring Ch-“
“But sir... I don’t...” Anders’ voice had a note of uncertainty in it as he looked past Donovan at the new driver he’d just hired.
“What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Um.. sir... He’s your new dr-“ Donovan leaned in close to Anders, so as to avoid Chauffer overhearing him. “That’s the same fucking guy that I fired last night.” He said in an urgent whisper. “I fired him, he probably doesn’t like me very much, and I fucking hate him. He’s a bad dr-“
“But sir... just look...” he pointed towards the man in the driveway, eyeing his employer perplexedly.
Donovan turned his head, and saw Chauffer wink at him through his menacing stare.
“Did you just see that?!” Donovan asked Anders with a note of panic in his voice.
“See what, sir? What are you talking ab-“
“He just fucking winked at me!”
“Winked at you, sir? What are you talking about? Sir are you feeling all right?”
“yeah I- I’m fine... I just..”
“Sir, are you sure, because I could just reschedule the-“
“No, I said it’s fine, I just... I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all. I’ll see you later.”
What was going on here? Was Donovan simply seeing things? He kept a wary eye on his driver, whoever he was, as he walked towards the car.
“You must be Donovan. I’m Schaefer. It’s a pleasure, sir.” This man sounded exactly like Chauffer too, except his voice carried exaggerated emotion, not the usual lack thereof. Was this really Chauffer? Was Anders playing a joke on him? Could this man simply resemble Chauffer, and he was too hung over to tell the difference?
He felt uneasy about the situation, but didn’t want to be late for an important business meeting, so he got into the car. The door slammed shut the second he’d cleared the doorway, and when he looked up, the man who claimed to be Schaefer was glaring at him in the rear-view.
“Where to, sir?” This time his tone was quiet and menacing. It sent chills down Donovan’s spine, but he gave him the address all the same. His palms were sweating slightly as he reached into his jacket for the metal case that would, by his logic, relieve his anxieties.
He tapped a small line’s worth onto his mirror, paused, then tapped out some more. As the powdered crystals coated his sinuses, he felt the usual rush of euphoria. It was short lived, however, and Donovan’s sense of foreboding returned.
It was almost like the feeling of déjà vu, that feeling that something isn’t quite right. He cut himself another line, ignoring the voice in his head that warned him to take it slow.
He’d had a bit of trouble with moderation in college, but had since gotten his habit under control. It wasn’t that he’d had a real problem or anything. He’d never stolen anything to buy his drugs. He’d never started selling to afford his habits. He just found himself overindulging at times, and had regrettably burned through a good portion of his savings by the time he graduated. But now he had it under control, of that he was certain.
After the second rocky line, Donovan was still feeling extremely uneasy, and was sure that each time he looked at the rear-view, Chauffer had just looked away. Like he was watching him.
He was starting to sweat more heavily now, and knew that he had to get himself together for his meeting. He didn’t normally smoke so early in the day, but he was pretty sure the circumstances justified it, so he packed himself a bowl and started puffing.
As the thc flooded into his brain, Donovan’s sense of unease evolved into paranoia. Not only had smoking not calmed him down, it had done the opposite! He continued to sweat as he stared at his driver, now sure that it was Chauffer, and that he intended to harm Donovan for treating him so poorly.
Blue and red flashing lights brought Donovan into a full-blown panic as the Bentley glided to a stop. The car reeked, and he was sure that the officer would search it, medical marijuana card or not.
Donovan frantically whipped his metal case out, brushing the latch just enough for it to spring open, sending his bag of cocaine over the back seat headrests. He scrambled for it, trying to stay low enough that the officer couldn’t see what he was doing as he pulled it back over the seat.
Donovan crouched low in his seat, trying to keep an eye on the officer between headrests as he stuck his straw directly into the baggie. He inhaled deeply as his entire stash found its way into his nostril just as the cop stepped out of his car.
His heart was beating against his ribcage like a toddler wailing on a drum, and with the same lack of any consistent rhythm. His entire body was shaking now, almost as though he was having a seizure, and he felt a warm drip run down his nostril, hoping against hope that it wasn’t blood.
He wiped the crimson stream from his face as the officer passed his window, trying to imagine how he would get out of this. Chauffer calmly passed a handkerchief back to Donovan and said simply, “let me do the talking.”
He didn’t particularly care whether his employer went to jail, but he was the one driving the car, and didn’twant to be implicated.
“License and registration please.”
He handed the officer the papers.
“Any idea what I pulled you over for?”
“No, sir.”
“Stickers on your license plates are expired. And what’s wrong with your friend back there?” He pulled his aviator sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, looking questioningly at Donovan, who began to stutter.
"I just-"
Schaefer cut him off; “He’s got hemophilia. It’s a condition that-“
“Yeah I know what hemophilia is,” the officer replied hurriedly, “You’d better get him to the hospital. I’ll let you off with a warning, don’t forget to fix those stickers. Tell you what, I’ll put on my siren and drive in front of you so you can get him there quicker.”
“What the fuck do we do now?!” Donovan asked frantically. How could Schaefer have been so stupid? And what the fuck even was hemo-whatever?
“Don’t worry sir, I’ve got this.”
The police car pulled around them, lights ablaze and with the familiar siren whine that causes so many hearts to skip beats. The police car zoomed by them, and Chauffer pulled out behind him to show that they were keeping up. Once the police saw that they were following, he stepped on the gas and felt his upper body press against his seat. Schaefer followed suit.
As the hospital exit approached, both cars got over into the right lane. Not a second too early, Schaefer tugged the wheel firmly left, just barely clearing the guard rail as the Bentley swerved back onto the highway, leaving the cop confused as ever, alone on the exit ramp.
Donovan nearly had a heart attack in the back seat with all the uppers coursing through his blood and no seatbelt to secure him.
“What- what the- what the fuck are you thinking? You could’ve killed us both!”
“I got you out of it didn’t I?” Schaefer replied calmly.
Donovan was now shaking, and too overwhelmed with stress to respond. Chauffer did have a point; better off scared shitless than in jail for felony cocaine possession. But still. He took several deep breaths to calm himself down.
When he’d finally regained his composure, Donovan noticed the heavy sweat stains under his arms.
“God damnit!” he yelled. “Chauffer, turn this damn thing around, I need to go home and change. And turn that damned music off! You know the rule!”
“Yes sir. And it’s pronounced ‘Schaefer’ sir,” he replied sharply. He was annoyed; he’d never been told not to listen to the radio.
“And hurry,” Donovan added, not bothering to mask his agitation.
“Oh, what a good idea. Thank you massuh.” Schaefer’s annoyance had finally gotten the better of him. Donovan, who had never been shown such disrespect in his life, sat staring forward, mouth agape.
"I must be hearing things," he thought to himself. "That nap really has me out of it. Luckily I’ve got just the thing."
This last thought was followed by a smile and the emergence of his little silver case.
“You know I could have you arrested, right?” came Schaefer’s sly remark. Donovan was so affronted that he dropped his baggie, open, and face down. He didn’t know which made him angrier, his employee’s brash remarks, or his dropping almost his entire stash into the carpet in response. He was so agitated that he failed to notice the dark tunnel they’d entered.
“What the fuck did you just say to me, motherfucker? I’ll fuckin-“
“You’ll what, exactly? Fire me? Sue me for the cost of your spilt drugs? Hurt me, while I control the hundred thousand dollar plus car that you own and are currently sitting in?”
Donovan’s demeanor changed almost instantly. Schaefer took great pleasure in watching him transformed from angry powerful boss to frightened little pretty boy. He brought the car to a stop, ignoring his employer’s fearful questioning.
“Wait! What are you- Hey! Stop! Listen, I’m sorry, I-“
Chauffer reached under his seat and pulled out a black pistol. He got out, opened the back door, and put the gun to Donovan’s face.
“P-Please! Please don’t sh-“ his face had turned white as a ghost. It almost glowed in this tunnel that seemed to have an aversion to light.
“get out”
“please, I’ll do anyth-“
“I said, get out. What’s wrong, never been the one receiving orders before?” Chauffer’s voice was quietand menacing.
“ok, ok” Donovan was shaking now, and a tear was making its way down his cheek. He stumbled out of the car and put his hands in the air.
“Your turn to drive.” Chauffer said with a smile. It was fun making that pompous shitheel squirm. It was like watching a worm struggle before the fishing hook turned it to bait, only this time the worm really deserved it.
"But I”
“It wasn’t a question. Now get the fuck in the car.” Chauffer stood just out of Donovan’s reach. It wasn’t likely that Donovan would try something, but better safe than sorry. He kept the pistol steadily aimed at
his head. Donovan sat behind the wheel, frantically trying to figure out how to get the car to move.
“What’s wrong, not used to being the one to take the orders?”
“I, I don-“
“Do you honestly not know how to drive a fucking car?”
“well I... I’ve always had a-” a hint of embarrassment accompanied his terror this time, but Schaefer didn’t let him finish.
“Babysitter? Yeah, doesn’t surprise me. Although you’d think one of your abused helpers would have taught you a lesson in manners by now.”
“I-“
“Shut the fuck up. If you speak again without permission I’ll rip your fucking tongue out. Now get out of the car.” Donovan was shaking so badly he looked to be on the verge of collapse. Chauffer pushed hard on Donovan’s left shoulder, causing Donovan to buckle to his knees. He kept the gun steadily aimed at Donovan’s head.
“You treat your employees like garbage, like they’re your slaves, yet without them you’d be helpless! You can’t drive a car, you can’t cook a meal... You probably don’t even know how to wash your own clothes. You’ve shoveled shit onto the people-“
“please, I-“ Donovan began, terrified and bewildered. He’d dealt with disgruntled employees on more than one occasion, but never anything like this.
“Let me finish.” Chauffer pressed the barrel against Donovan’s head just above the brain stem.
“You’ve shoveled shit onto the people who you depend on probably since you could talk, and I for one,am sick of it. Repeat after me: I’m a worthless egomaniac”
“I’m sorr-“
“Say it!”
Donovan couldn’t figure out why this was all happening. This man must be a lunatic. This wasn’t fair, why did he have to be the one to fall victim to this man? He had friends, loved ones, money, power. Why couldn’t this wacko have picked some hobo, or some poor person to smite?
“I’m a w-worthless e-ego-maniac.” Donovan’s words came out in little sobs of terror. Tears were chasing each other over the arches of his soft cheeks.
“The only person I’ve ever cared about is me.” Chauffer wondered whether Donovan even understood what he was being made to repeat.
“The on-ly p-p-person I’ve ev-ver cared ab-bout is m-me.” That simply wasn’t true; he loved his mother. And he could tolerate certain co-workers. And then there was Anders, someone he trusted more than... But wait, wasn’t it Anders who had hired this man in the first place?
“I treat my workers like property.”
This time there was a slight pause. The words rang in Donovan’s head. He thought about his maids, and how they always kept his things nice and clean and smiled at him. He also realized that he couldn’tremember a single one of their names. He thought about his driver before Schaefer, Chauffer, who he’dfired the night before.
But there was still hope: Anders! The name was like a little candle, a flickering beacon of hope, until it was blown out by his next thought.
He liked Anders, but did Anders actually like him back? Sure, he was always polite to Donovan, and laughed at his jokes. But if their roles were switched, would Anders still be Donovan’s friend? Was it possible that this madman’s words had a hintof truth to them?
“Say it!”
“I t-treat my w-workers like p-p-property.” Having said it out loud almost finalized it, made it real. Donovan’s fear made room for just a hint of regret, as Chauffer said his last bit.
“Which is why I deserve to die.” He curled his thumb around the back of the hammer and slowly cocked the pistol.
“No Wai-!” As the deafening crack of gunfire echoed throughout the dark tunnel, the sharp pain in Donovan’s head and popping stars of light quickly gave way to darkness.
Donovan awoke with a start, and sat bolt upright in his bed. His hands clumsily made their way down his body, making sure that it was still there. That dream had been so vivid!
Donovan sat in a drowsy daze, hoping the confusion and unease he felt would soon subside. He reached up to feel the back of his head, and flinched as his fingers found the tender lump on his scalp.
What the...?
Donovan quickly put on the clothes that the maid had laid out for him, and went downstairs to find Anders.
“What the fuck is going on here Anders?”
“I’m sorry sir?”
“How did I- What did.... What happened last night?”
“Last night sir? I believe you were enjoying the attention of a young lady.” Donovan paused, trying to remember. Hadn’t that been 2 nights ago? And where was this girl now?
“Well where is she?”
Anders paused for a split second before replying, “Um, she uh.. Chauffer drove her home this morning.”
“Chauffer?! But I fired that son of a bitch! And he-“ Donovan stopped himself before saying anything more. Maybe it all was just a crazy dream. He didn’t want to seem unstable, making wild accusations withvirtually no evidence. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing things, but he could have sworn a look of pure malice had flitted acrossAnder’s face for a split second before he replied,
“yes, he told me last night. But how could I possibly find you a driver in less than a day?” Surely you can give him one more chance?"
“Well what about Schae-“
“I’m quite certain that I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Again, Donovan wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him, but Anders’ tone sounded almost threatening.
“And besides, don’t you think you may have been a little harsh, sir?”
“Well I, I mean he,”
“He did what, exactly? Steal your cufflink? Did he crash your car? Did he hold a gun to your head? Sir?” Donovan’s confusion and fear were suppressing the usual reprimands he would have returned.
Instead, he mumbled, “I... I guess you’re right,” before walking out his front door to a bright blue sky.
“Good morning sir!” Chauffer was wearing his usual black suit, but his demeanor was uncharacteristically cheerful. Donovan’s perplexed look was all Chauffer needed to see to know that from then on; life would be at least a little more fair.
