Vegetable spreads the servants made were, as usual, completely untouched up there in the Great Room, the floor of which was strewn with pizza crusts and blue sport coats stained of snot, marinara and shaving cream. All around the tops of the bookcases and over the unbroken chain of portraits of all the monarchs and patriarchs of the family going back to the old world, was splattered the sticky residual of some kind of sugar-water. Atop the shelves mingled coats of arms with crosses, swords and shields of fleur-de-lis, animal heads with white underwear (purchased specifically for that purpose) wrapped over their faces, trophies filled with chips, banners of graffiti, basketballs, footballs, hockey sticks, beer stains and hacked-together wooden objects. The latter, it was said of the older boys of the family to their younger cousins, were medieval weapons family elders would get creative with if anyone got out of line. One of these was actually just a polo mallet with a duster on the end, and it was in the middle of the room inside the sour cream dip. Beside the shelf near the door to the room sat a throne-like chair with a mirror — which was cracked — set in its back, across the door from which stood a full suit of knight’s armor, a pizza box completely smashed over its head. It was a Saturday night at Broomzenfield Kentwood St. Margarets, or something, just after the big game, and not a creature stirred, not even- “Hey look there!”
Subtext: This happened.
Date: 13 May 15 (Wednesday in the PM)
Time: 1 minute
Downfeed: No Passengers