Page 112 of New Storm Rising
“Hm…hey, they call you a greedy, money-grubbing profiteer!”
“So, they are actually capable of accurate and unbiased reporting? How gratifying.”
“And me they refer to as…those sons of bitches!”
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“I’m going to gut them! I’m going to tie their limbs in knots, roast them over a small fire and feed them to the pigs!”
“Indeed?”
“And then I’m going to have the pigs trample their relatives and take a dump in their living room!”
“Indeed.”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm down—then cocked my head as I spotted something else on the front page that distracted me from the reporters’ less than flattering words.
“Hey! Will you look at that? They’re even going to try and make money from getting rid of us!”
Mr Ambrose, who had been on the other side of the cell getting dressed just a moment ago, was suddenly behind me, peeking over my shoulder. “Indeed?”
“Yep, they’re gonna charge people entrance fees and—hey!” I narrowed my eyes at him. “How come you suddenly look a whole lot more interested than when I told you they were insulting me?”
Mr Ambrose considered this for a moment.
“Priorities?”
I had been wrong earlier. It would take a lot of hard work yet before he’d make decent husband material.
Cracking my knuckles, I stepped towards him.
Emphasis on “hard”.
But before I could start indulging in my violent fantasies, I heard footsteps approaching down the corridor, along with rattling keys. My amazing female intuition told me it was probably not room service.
“Up with you, you two! The early bird catches the worm! Or a bullet in the head, depending on how much trouble they’re in.”
Putting down the paper, I glanced over at the deputy sheriff with the amazing sense of humour.
“I’ll take pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast, please.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think you’re gonna get breakfast?”
“Last meal of the condemned and all that stuff.”
“Ah, but you haven’t been condemned yet.” Chuckling, the man shoved the right key into the lock and turned it. “All the fun is still to come.”
Yes, really anamazingsense of humour.
“Outside! You don’t wanna be late for your own lynching, do you?”
“Certainly not.” Straightening his tailcoat, Mr Ambrose strode out of the cell. “Punctuality is paramount.”
“You’re joking, right?” I whispered, hurrying up to him from behind. “Please don’t tell me you’re not worried about showing up in time foryour own execution?”
Then I remembered who I was talking to.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose? Joking?
