“You expect me to live here? I’m sorry but I have my reputation to think about.”
“Sorry Johnny, this is the best I could do. It’s better than a lot of the places I’ve looked at. At least this one’s still standing.”
“Sir Johnathon, if you don’t mind Peter.Remember, you’re my agent, not a long lost friend. I’m from royal blood, you know. Did I ever tell you about that descendant of mine, Sir Horace Fitzgerald? He fought alongside William the Conqueror.”
“Yes Johnny, sorry, Sir Johnathon, you’ve told me that story a number of times. Now, about this place, you in or not?”
“I suppose so. But only until you find something more up market. More me. By the way, what happened to the last occupant?”
“He got exorcised by some local vicar. Apparently he…”
“Spare me the details Peter, there’s a good fellow.”
“Don’t worry Sir Jonathan, you’re made of firmer stuff than that. Now, I’ve got a party coming in at midnight. Make a good job of frightening them and this could be a nice little earner. Maybe a couple of appearance with your bloody head under your arm. That always finishes off any sceptics”
A 199-word story for Sunday Photo Fiction.
Photo courtesy of Mike Vore.