#and yes the known idiot is of course Glomgold | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

churroandchocolatte · 6 years ago

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Flintheart Glomgold rounded yet another corridor, his impressive girth seemed to have no effect on his momentum, as he moved with the speed and agility of a duck much younger than his age.

“Come on Scroogey,” he goaded his adversary in his mind. “Come and get Me.”

The entire afternoon had led to this moment. He hadn’t intended to lose in their game of Bonnety, but the short-term winner didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Not in the long run anyway, he had to repeat this to his injured pride multiple times. As the los- duck who was temporarily not the winner it gave him more control over the situation than the duck who had won the least essential part of the step in their game. As the soon to be winner of their fatal feud, he could lead McDuck on a merry old chase through the halls of the Billionaire’s club until they reached the exact location where he had laid his deadly trap.

McDuck in his smug, self-assured arrogance would have no clue his pride would lead him to his ultimate undoing.

The surprise he had in store for his enemy wouldn’t leave room for a long realization, Glomgold didn’t want to give him enough time to think of a way to escape after all, but McDuck was an expressive man.

He had no doubt the security cameras he would need to steal would provide him with that brief hopeless look of despair as he realized he’d finally been bested by his constantly underestimated arch-nemesis.

If the euphoria victory brought was a flavor instead of a bunch of chemical reactions in the brain and body he didn’t quite understand, he would swear he could already taste it. If he was quick enough, maybe he could even make off with the old buzzard’s body.

It would be incredibly messy, but doable he hoped. If everything went according to plan, he would decapitate McDuck.

it wasn’t something he’d managed to do to anyone before, but he’d read an intro or two on the theory, and both The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Murder and Killing for Dummies, so he was prepared for what was to come.

He was aware that the heart of an average man would keep beating for a minute or two, and that all that blood would flow up to the newly created hole where the head had been, and gush upward like a carbonated beverage from a shaken soda can for almost a minute after the head had been removed. That had sounded, eh, revolting if he was honest with himself.

One of those repellant tasks most criminal masterminds would leave for their minions to take care of.

He knew there were sites where you could look up live decapitation so he wouldn’t be surprised when the moment finally came, but he was a busy man. He kept finding real and legitimate reasons to avoid looking them up.

Besides, there was no reason the cleanup and theft of the security cameras could not be handled by his own, more trusted employees since that was what he was paying them to do.

If they were quick, he would have a trophy out of this for all his trouble.

The deed would leave a lot to tidy out.

Scrooge would not be in his fittest form either, but Glomgold had an excellent taxidermist on call who would have his opponent stuffed right and proper.

He’d never had the opportunity to use her services for obvious reasons like the continued survival of his only true archenemy robbing him of reasons to seek out her expertise, but he’d seen her work on both sentient and feral animals before.

She’d had a way with body preservation that was so lifelike it had been a marvel to behold. He’d made sure to get her number so when he’d have need of her, he’d know where to call.

Old Scrooge McDuck would make a handsome addition to his trophy collection, and that was the most important fact to be gained from the situation.

Maybe, once everything got settled, he could even make one of those tacky ’Wish you were here’ postcards with the old tightwad placed artistically on display among a beautifully crafted banquet that would for once, be free of the obnoxious food hoarder’s sticky fingers.

It was a good idea, he thought, especially if it lured that traitorous vixen in white feathers Goldie O’Gilt in to investigate Scrooge’s disappearance herself.

If he were successful, he’d have two ducks in his collection instead of one.

Then he would never again be forced to feel like a third wheel around the two of them.

He could just imagine it. The three of them cut a pretty picture. All the conversations the three would have together, with none of that confusing sarcasm to sully an otherwise enjoyable meal.

He’d be very witty and charming as they would all eat together and they would be oh so grateful to be in his magnificent presence. He chuckled softly, then, unable to contain his mirth he began outright guffawing in glee at the thought before cutting himself off quickly.

He had to use his fingers to keep his beak shut to muffle the noises when he was unable to immediately silence himself.

Laughter was good for the body and the life he liked provided enough simple amusements to keep him laughing often, but he was at the delicate stage of the trap-springing process.

He needed Scrooge to find him, but he also didn’t want the duck on edge. His foe was crafty, sneakier than anyone he knew besides Glomgold himself.

It wouldn’t do if Scrooge heard him laughing for no discernible reason, because then he would know Glomgold had plans. He wouldn’t know what those plans were, but he would know something was up. Alerting the enemy just wouldn’t do at all.

He hadn’t played and lost dozens of old Scottish children’s games with McDuck all afternoon like some bladdered Scottish sailor making a show of reliving his childhood after having had one over the eight in his own damned cups only to fail his own scheme with premature and incriminating excited laughter.

He glanced back but after seeing no one relaxed ever so slightly. He doubted McDuck had heard, but now was the time to get serious.

Laughter could wait, because, as with all things, he just had to be patient in the knowledge that the better man would eventually win out.

Meaning him, of course.

He, Flintheart Glomgold was the better man.

Scrooge’s irritating string of ridiculously good luck couldn’t last forever and when it finally reached its end old Flinty would be there with a party hat, a pair of scissors, and some good time explosives to celebrate the momentous occasion.

What he’d do next was always the question.

Taxidermy was the answer now, but when he’d first begun thinking of Scrooge as an enemy, he’d thought of giving him the old Scottish funeral rites as befitting someone of his stature.

Then Flintheart had become more familiar with the real Scrooge, and preparing the proper site for his enemy no longer seemed appropriate when considering his enemy’s lackluster pride in his own country’s heritage.

Sure the numpty could get all in a huff about it when the world and a pretty little reporter was watching, but his daily behavior spoke of something else.

The man didn’t even wear a kilt.

It was inconceivable, practically a Sassenach, a traitor to Scots everywhere, he was.

He jumped the first two steps of a stairwell, one of them having been rebuilt by himself with a flimsy veneer of wood to trap the unsuspecting.

If caught, they would have to wait until someone else came to free them before they were released.

Unlike most of his traps, it was a general one meant for no one in particular.

Nearly every member of the Billionaire’s club had annoyed him over something or other, and he could admit to being just the slightest bit petty about it.

The stairs represented the last obstacle between himself and the venue for the snare he’d assembled for his archenemy.

The room he stopped at was a quaint little space with three overstuffed chairs facing a cozy small fireplace with a portrait of the club founder staring down from its place above the mantle. There was also an intricately designed coo-coo clock at the far wall and a fire extinguisher to the right. The red sheepskin chairs made for an excellent location for the trap he’d constructed, it was perfect, and he’d been proud to call it such every time he’d thought about it.

He glanced behind himself quickly to see Scrooge had caught up with him yet. Finding no sign of the man of the hour, he gave himself a pat on the back to congratulate himself on his speed.

Outrunning Scrooge McDuck was no mean feat.

He left the door partially open before hopping onto one of the squishy armchairs.

There was a pause, as memory combated with irrational panic when he remembered he’d rigged the chairs to be set off on contact. He’d calmed considerably when he’d recognized he’d chosen the correct one then felt his face heat up in embarrassment.

He’d known his selection had been spot on from the start that was why he’d picked it. But like someone checking for the fifteenth time if their stove was off, the panic had still snuck up on him unbidden. Part of him had worried he might have forgotten where he’d erected the damned thing and doomed himself with his own forgetfulness.

It was a strange thing he was beginning to notice something with his own mental faculties, the more he checked something, the less sure he became of his own memories as everything started to mesh uncomfortably and blur in his mind.

He personally blamed it on McDuck.

He hadn’t had the problem before he’d met the lavvy heid, so it was apparently his fault.

Just another reason to want the pain in his neck messaged out of existence.

He drummed his hand on the chair, the white of his fingers contrasting nicely with the deep red of the dyed wool, as he wondered how long it would take the doaty to find him.

His haste had been impressive, yes, yes but he was sure his nemesis would have already arrived by now.

“Maybe,” he thought worriedly. “Scrooge had already arrived, and is waiting for me to set off the trap myself.”

His eyes darted around the room, almost of their own accord.

He tried to appear nonchalant as the feeling that he was being watched snuck up behind him and began assaulting him in the back of the head with a walking stick, but it was a failure even in his own mind.

He didn’t think Scrooge was in the room with him as he surveyed the area for the thirteenth time, but that didn’t mean much.

Scrooge could have come across the room at some other point during the day, detected Glomgold’s surprise for him, then changed it in some significant way.

It was possible he was now watching from somewhere safe, security cameras focused in on him, waiting in anticipation for the show he thought he would get as the accursed thing backfired on its creator.

It was just the sort of trickery a man could expect from his nemesis.

It could even be his own form of revenge. Scrooge loved to play innocent, but people had never really seen the true him.

Not like he had.

Like that time Flintheart had put up cameras in the McDuck manor to watch the other Scot’s day to day activity after the mountain of a woman had left on her yearly retreat with her granddaughter during Scrooge’s birthday.

It hadn’t provided him with much significant information.

The man had been a Dowie eyed ghost, mostly going through his old Butler cum Valet’s room, before checking in on a space that had once been shared by his ken, Della, and Donald Duck.

Glomgold had thought the man had been grieving at the time and had sent the burd off with her lass to mourn his family in quiet.

Then the chookie had returned with the wee lass in tow, and things had gotten nasty. She’d torn down all the cameras, and threated him with a visit from the boabies.

Gross invasion of privacy, his tail feathers! Scrooge had even admitted that he’d known about the cameras, which put everything he had seen into suspicion. Glomgold could no longer trust that what he’d seen hadn’t merely been a performance by Scrooge.

If he couldn’t trust that the information was genuine, it had no purpose, and he’d risked police attention for nothing.

Fortunately for him, he’d had the techies install a self-destruct mechanism in the cameras, but thanks to Scrooge’s acting skills he’d built up a vast archive of useless information, he’d likely never need.

However, he hadn’t wanted to just throw out the books that contained the notes he’d painstakingly recorded for an entire week, so he’d sent it to a publisher instead.

To his surprise, they actually turned out to be a popular hit with the readers, with a couple needing to be reprinted after supplies had run out.

Thinking along the logic that if people were willing to throw money at a book that did nothing more than listed and described Scrooge’s favorite scents, he had thought writing his own biography would give him some much-needed attention.

His wishful thinking had not been made into reality. Including the book he had bought for himself so he wouldn’t look like a dobber, he had sold a grand total of two books.

Learning from his mistake, he hadn’t tried the venture again.

Evidently, it had been too soon to expose the diabolical workings of his brilliant mind to the unwashed masses.

Not that he felt like the canny genius he was at the moment.

No, currently he felt a bit dafty with nerves, waiting for any sign of Scrooge McDuck.

If he found out the walloper was sitting somewhere safe, happy as a clam, while Glomgold drove himself into a radge, wondering what his enemy could be planning, there would be words between them.

“Hear me now, McDuck!” he roared, directing his vexation at any potential cameras, as he hopped atop the lambskin chair to make himself feel more impressive. “No one laughs at Flintheart Glomgold!”

he raised a fist to emphasize his point.

Then, when no reply was forthcoming, he hopped down with an annoyed sigh.

He was unsure what was next on the script, and in circumstances like this, he found he liked it best when he settled his frustrations out on a well-cooked meal.

He lightly tapped the service button the Billionaire’s club used to alert the employees that one of their elite members required attending.

“Good evening,” the disembodied voice of the head of staff greeted him civilly through the speaker that connected them. “Is there anything we can do to be of use to you, sir?”

“Aye,” the thought came, spontaneous but genuine. “Kill Scroogie fer me, and there will be a tip in it for you beyond your wildest dreams.”

Instead, he ordered for them to bring him four pulled bbq sliders, deep fat fried salmon on a bed of seasoned neeps and tatties, with a nondairy clootie dumpling on the side, and a frozen decaffeinated coffee that was more almond milk creamer than bean water.

If McDuck was going to play the voyeur, the only show he was going to get was the sight of Glomgold enjoying the bloody hell out of the delicious cuisine available for the offering.

He could already imagine how the old miser would feel. He’d be jealous, of course, it had been an impressive spread, and no duck could look away from the Club unique without wanting even a smidgeon of bite.

But Scrooge would pay for nothing he felt was overpriced. And the club’s food while beautiful was somewhat costly.

That wouldn’t be a complication in his plan, in fact, he was counting on scrooge’s tightfisted nature to win out over his own jealousy to keep him from buying any of the food on his own, which would obviously make the situation enjoyable.

“Well Scroogie,” he thought to himself “if you don’t want to play the game my way you’ll just have to watch me enjoy myself instead.”

Pleased with this idea, he gave the nearest camera a small wink in satisfaction.

Served him right for wasting all the time he’d spent today by not falling into the death trap and dying a gruesome death.

Time passed. Too much time.

Admittedly, he was not a patient man, but a quick check of the clock told him the meal was taking the servers longer to prepare than what was typical for them.

he’d like to say this did not cause him concern, that he did not feel self-doubt over his decision to even order the meal in the first place with Scrooge’s whereabouts still yet to be accounted for, but that would have been a lie.

“If I were Scrooge in this position,” he asked himself, “What would I do?” The answer was obvious.

If he was Scrooge and his ever so brilliant enemy had refused to play his infernal mind-games, he would simply opt to create some sort of distraction to prevent the chefs from noting his nefarious actions, and then poison the enemy’s food.

The rival wouldn’t be able to one-up him if he were dead.

Ach, it was the little things like this that mad Glomgold want to be rid of the man as soon as possibly Scrooge had a canny mind and was a true master at finding opportunities to strike when least expected.

“Well, it seems I’ll have to cancel my dinner.” He thought with a disappointed sigh, clicking the intercom button to alert the staff he no longer desired what they had to offer him.

At least his own home was stuffed to the gills with food he could enjoy to his heart’s content.

Better still, he even had security cameras installed everywhere so he would know if someone was making an attempt on his life by merely reviewing the recordings at his leisure.

Still, one of these days, he would like to go out and enjoy a meal without the shadow of Scrooge McDuck looming over him to put a damper on his fun, but today was not that day. He heard a knock and Glomgold rolled his eyes with an outward sigh.

Either that was Scrooge himself or the meal he’d poisoned out of spite.

Either way, he wanted to see neither.

“Come in and enter then,” he said in exasperation when the person knocked again, apparently waiting for a response.

The door opened, and a small female mouse entered, looking distinctly ruffled and apologizing profusely for her late arrival.

She was a petite little thing, pretty if that’s what got your blood going.

She had apparently gotten trapped when one of the steps revealed to be made of some sort of flimsy wood and caved in under her weight.

He nodded, as some collateral damage was to be expected during the competitions he had with Scrooge.

It would be the perfect lie to feed her if he wanted Glomgold to lower his guard.

It was not going to work on him.

He was not the sort of man who mistook ladies as harmless ingénues.

No, he knew full well they could be just as dangerous as men, if not more so.

It was a case by case scenario.

The trouble was he was part of a generation that had emphasized politeness when interacting with the womenfolk, and it reflected poorly on him as a person if he didn’t.

So he was now in the awkward position of attempting to think of a way to refuse the food he’d ordered politely without outright accusing her of being in league with Scrooge McDuck.

This was a more laborious task than it had any right to be.

The mouse had smiled and greeted him warmly, apparently trying to make up for her tardiness with friendly customer service, before she began to lower the meal tray on the closest available.

Glomgold had been startled by the noise the dishes had made as they shifted on the silver platter, before doing a double take, jumping up, and extending his hand feebly to stop her, but it was too late.

The mouse had unknowingly propped the food tray on the nearest chair.

THE CHAIR, in fact.

It took mere seconds, but it felt longer, as the trap snapped and the little mouse was pulled face first into the lamb skin cushions, her scream in blind terror muffled expertly by the blood red upholstery.

He withdrew his own outreached hand just in time to avoid a messy cleaving from the airborne ax that had previously been cleverly hidden in the fireplace.

He had arranged for the weapon to be thrown when the wiring was triggered.

As luck would have it, her diminutive height meant the ax head had missed her by inches and was now buried so deeply into the chair he could see an impression of its edges on the other side of the chair.

However, they were both faced with a problem: she was now in very real danger of suffocating.

Glomgold hadn’t wanted to see Scrooge’s decapitated body spew blood from his severed neck like some sort of morbid fountain, so he had made provisions to minimize the amount of the sanguine fluid he’d be forced to see by soaking the majority of it into the chair.

Unfortunately, he had not captured his intended victim and was left standing helplessly trying to decide on a plan of action he should take next.

He made a grab for the ax handle, concluding that if he managed to release it from its makeshift holster, he’d be able to use it to cut the poor woman free.

Sadly, all he managed to do was burn himself on the instrument of demise that had been, until very recently, concealed inside a fireplace.

The pain from the burn had him reeling back, and in his momentarily blind agony, he’d accidentally walked straight into the fireplace, setting his well-oiled leather spats ablaze like a rush-light.

Shrieking now, he tried stamping out the flames, struggling to keep the conflagration at bay.

There was a fire extinguisher in the room, some small part of him that wasn’t consumed in raw panic reminded himself furiously.

The Billionaire’s club, mindful of the potential for lawsuits among their illustrious clientele, kept things up to code. He had carelessly forgotten about it in his alarm.

Cursing his lack of retentiveness, he had only just begun his search for the safety device, when he found himself covered from head to toe in white foam.

Feeling like he had entered a state that altered between numb haziness and hyper-awareness, he startled when he heard the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping.

He turned in place to see Shere Khan digging his claws into the cushioning of the armchair box cutters through a birthday cake.

“Breath, girl.”

The tiger ordered after he had released the whimpering servant from her temporary prison.

She seemed to gratefully obey, taking great greedy breaths of air like she’d believed she would never have the privilege of doing so again.

He felt a flicker of guilt or something darn near close to it rise up in his throat as she gave her grateful thanks to Shere Khan and fled the room in terror, tripping over the remains of what had once been a supper fit for a Laird.

He felt eyes roaming his body, and he turned his head to see the tiger eyeing him impassively like one might at a loaf of bread on discount in the clearance aisle.

He poofed up his feathers uneasily, feeling distressed under the other man’s gaze.

To give himself something to do he began shaking the foam from his feathers to free himself from the cloying heaviness of chemicals in the fire retardant.

“Will you be paying for the damages?”

Shere Khan asked indicating the general chaotic state of the room with a scrutinizing once over.

“If the club makes me. Glomgold admitted with a dramatic sigh. “And usually they do.”

He would need to get an appraiser to ensure they didn’t charge him more than was necessary.

He then glanced at the hole the tiger had made in the upholstery and the pieces of stuffing that had been scattered haphazardly about the room.

“Though it might be up for debate how much of the damage will be considered mine.”

Shere Khan’s face made no change in expression, but there was a distinct impression that the feline was amused rather than annoyed at the comment.

“I’d wager my own actions would be protected by the Good Samaritan laws.” the cat said lightly, squaring out his shoulders, and placing his paws behind him in parade rest. “I doubt I’d even need a lawyer.”

They both stood watching each other, Glomgold feeling ever colder, even as his feathers dried.

A quick glance behind him showed him that the fireplace had also been snuffed out by the fire extinguisher’s foam. The silence was uncomfortable, and one that needed filling, but for once Glomgold had found himself unable to say anything worth saying.

how did a member of the rich and powerful go around thanking a fellow peer for saving a servant you had almost accidentally murdered with a snare that had been meant for someone in your own social circle.

Especially since there had been ambiguity in whether there would even be any potential victims for the trap to capture as the intended target had elected not to show up.

He hadn’t expected an outsider to disturb the wiring and that made things… problematic.

This wasn’t something outsiders were likely to understand.

It was a game he had played with Scrooge for years while McDuck might scoff and outwardly ignore the interpretation of their bond, he was just as into the competition as he was.

Having other people involved, onlookers that possessed no intimate connection either of them ruined the sport of it with their involvement.

He looked at the tiger who seemed content with doing nothing more than staring at him. Glomgold grunted in frustration.

“Well,” he began. “Obviously you’re here for a reason, so out with it, so I can come up with an explanation for this mess.”

The tiger’s mouth gave a crooked twist of a smile.

“Now, now,” he said evenly. “There’s no need to be defensive.”

He opened his paws wide as if he were a magician showing his audience proof that the demonstration he’d performed for them had been a genuine act and no sleight of hand had been involved.

“I was merely taking a stroll past the gardens after conducting a quick chat with Mr. McDuck, and I–”

Glomgold felt as if another wire had been tripped, this one existed purely in his own head.

“You were taking to Scrooge?” he asked current problems momentarily forgotten in favor of that one topic guaranteed to get his attention. “What for?”

The feline paused at the duck’s visibly increasing irritation, conspicuously entertained.

“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you…”

Shere Khan paused once again, and Glomgold poked him in the stomach with his can. Well, tried to poke him in the stomach was the more honest description of what had happened. Glomgold, impatient with the excessive pausing, had moved to poke the cat in the belly. Shere Khan had quickly yanked the cane from him.

“If you behave like this, I shall simply leave, and tell you nothing.” the tiger chided, voice at a low growl that seemed to indicate growing impatience with the bird.

Flintheart sighed, retreated to his lambskin chair, and sat down.

“Much better” The cat purred. ”As I was saying, I had decided to extend a warm invitation to a little miniseries series I plan to produce.”

Glomgold frowned. That didn’t sound right.

“Scrooge is branching into television shows now?”

The tiger shrugged.

“If life provides an opportunity to add to one’s life experience, why not embrace it fully?”

“I guess that’s true enough.”

Glomgold frowned harder, trying to think of something in what had been told to him that might be of interest to his enemy.

“What kind of program are the two of you thinking of starting?”

“We’re venturing into the murky realms of reality television.” Khan examined his paws. “It’ll be a new experience for us both.”

“You’ll be doing what now?” Glomgold asked confused.

“Reality television,” Khan repeated. Then at the continued look of utter incomprehension on the duck’s face, his yellow eyes widening fractionally.

“You don’t know what that is?” he asked.

The question was asked in a neutral and civil inflection that somehow managed to project incredulous disdain at the same time.

Glomgold bristled, hating the tone at once. “Are you going to tell me,” he growled. “Or are you going to keep talking mince like a jakey who’s glued his own bum to the window on a dare?”

The tiger’s roguish, not quite a smirk was back.

“I hardly need to explain what a game entails to some of your intelligence.” Shere Khan murmured, his voice thick as if thinking the question over. “ “When I say ‘Reality’ television I am referring to a genre of television programming in which the actions of ‘real-life’ people are followed by a camera crew and recorded for the viewers.”

“Why?” It was a simple question. The idea of letting anyone have that much unrestricted access to his life would drive him insane. A man needed privacy on his own terms.

“Publicity” The Tiger explained, his voice crisp and no-nonsense.

“That sounds…” Glomgold searched his thoughts to make an attempt at politeness but quickly abandoned the effort. “Like you’re both off yer heads if you think having men following you around with cameras will give you any sort of positive attention.”

“Maybe so.” The tiger allowed with a light chuckled. “But perhaps you’re not part of the target audience.”

The tiger pierced him with a crooked grin.

“I’ve heard it said that the Victorian freak show never went away, that now it’s called Big Brother or X Factor, wherein the preliminary rounds we wheel out the bewildered to be sniggered at by multi-millionaires.”

The tiger paused, playing with his tie out of what was likely self-consciousness.

“I can’t commit to the idea until I’ve seen evidence to back it up, however, what I do know. Is that, with the right spin, anything can be a money maker.“ He smiled, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Publicity, is an art, and one I intend to invest in deeply. ”

Glomgold grunted his assent.

It was true enough.

The general public could be a bit dim omce you’d managed to attain that glorious target market visibility in that regard.

The fact that his company got through by selling what he himself had to admit was cheap trash still surprised him, but that was where his advertising branch made the big money.

As much as he’d like to say his success in wooing his customers was purely the result of his own charismatic personality, he was enough to know that his presence wasn’t the main driving force behind the sales.

“So ol’ Scroogie wants in?” he asked, for the sake of clarification.

Didn’t Scrooge have two women in his home? Glomgold had never had a female housekeeper or her granddaughter live with him, but he was certain he’d beat the ever loving snuff out of any cameraman who actually tried to film a woman living in his home for 24 seven hours straight.

It was awkward enough thinking of someone jabbing a camera in his face while he was using the necessary.

Scrooge was more of a voyeur than he’d realized, and this left him feeling more than a little unsettled at the news.

It didn’t sound like something his rival would have an interest in pursuing.

Had Scrooge found something Glomgold could not do?

“So it would appear,” Khan said face going serious. “I’m to meet with himself and his lawyers to negotiate terms tomorrow,”

That bit of news truly got his attention. Scrooge hated dealing with his lawyers.

He’d need to be awfully serious about the subject to include them in anything.

“He didn’t mention anything to me…” he said voice soft and hesitant, more to himself than Khan.

The cat chuckled.

“I’d wager not!” he said, words bright with merriment. “I’ve only just spoken to him not thirty minutes prior.”

Glomgold blanched at the new bit of information.

That time frame would put the conversation directly after he’d lost at Bonnetey.

If that was the case, McDuck had placed more value on havering on about this reality show with Shere Khan than pursuing him. If that wasn’t the case McDuck would be here right now, either dead or criticizing his death traps like he always did.

The realization pushed something hot and pulsing through his veins that seemed to gather and spike at his fingertips. It was hard to aspire towards communication when the very air he breathed seemed tainted with jealousy and betrayal. He tried to keep the emotions withdrawn, and he managed to keep the majority of his inner turmoil at bay through sheer willpower alone.

He cringed when he felt the wood on his chair give an ominous creak, and he winced. He could do without breaking another expensive piece of furniture.

Aye, the model of subtlety was he.

Flintheart released the armrest, and it made an ominous, creaking noise as it shifted ever so slightly beyond its initial framework.

With a start, he noticed his fingers had also managed to rip a hole in the cushions.

He felt a flare-up of pain and realized he might have accidentally given himself a splinter.

He coughed feeling the tiger’s attention was uncomfortable and hid his hand behind his back to avoid any discussion on the matter.

“Well, good luck to the both of you.”

He said saluting the tiger with a flick to his own cap. He had tried to make his voice sound cheerful, but he could only grimace as his words cracked on a falsely high note.

”Thank you,” Khan said, eyes scanning Glomgold’s features for a moment, before giving a sharp nod in farewell, then turning back the way he’d come.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Glomgold asked, studying the feline’s back with a halfhearted attempt at affable impassivity that sounded more like a masked vigilante demanding to know where his arch-nemesis had hidden the bombs.

“I will be returning to the entertainment hall,” Khan said, his tone placid and smooth. “Before stopping here, I’d realized I’d forgotten something, and I’d rather collect it before my departure.”

He hadn’t wanted to let the other man leave after saying so little.

His instincts all but wailed at him to compile as much supplementary data as he was able but when he’d advanced forward to get closer, he’d stepped on a piece of, and the tinkle-crack of the crystal plate made both men wince.

“Good luck sorting this all out.” Shere Khan said in a voice that sounded genuinely empathetic.

”Ach, this is nothing.” The duck shrugged, with a careless wave. “I’ve been the cause of greater property damage than this before.”

He studied the room with the assessing glare of a true professional.

“I’ll send for the money, my accountant will scream at me till he’s got a face like a skelped erse, I’ll promise to never do what has him in an uproar, and then the same thing repeats next week.

“Sounds like a plan.”

The tiger said this with a smile, and Glomgold nodded.

“There’s no reason to change tradition if it’s not broken.” to that the cat gave no reply and within moments he was gone, moving with enviable fleetness of foot and grace.

He watched the mammal‘s departure until the other man was out of sight.

He then made the unavoidable calls to people he knew would give him a fair assessment of whatever damages he owed the Billionaire’s club for this most recent misadventure. After a moment’s pause, he ordered the server be given a handsome bonus for her grief.

He had been convinced the young mouse had been an unintentional victim in his war with Scrooge, and if he was going to be paying the club, she deserved to have some sort of compensation for what had happened to her today.

The terrified expression that had taken over her face when she had been forcibly yanked into the cushions and the weak weeping she’d been reduced to after his fellow businessman had pulled her free from the chair stood out in his mind’s eye.

He grimaced and added one more zero to her tip.

That terrified look would have been so much more meaningful on Scrooge. Instead, because of Shere Khan, the other duck had been diverted from what was truly important. And Glomgold had been left looking like the bad guy.

He gave an irritated snort.

Well, two could play at that game.

He would ask Khan if he could join in on whatever it was the cat had in mind, and then, when he agreed, (because who wouldn’t want Flintheart Glomgold to be in on whatever project they were cooking up?) he would use the time they spent together to kill Scrooge.

Decision made, he ran towards the entertainment hall as quickly as his legs would allow. Scrooge would rue the day he’d inadvertently foiled Glomgold’s assassination attempt.

0 notes

prowlpetrex · 6 years ago

Text

Flintheart Glomgold rounded yet another corridor, his impressive girth seemed to have no effect on his momentum, as he moved with the speed and agility of a duck much younger than his age. “Come on Scroogey,” he goaded his adversary in his mind. “Come and get me.” the entire afternoon had led to this moment. He hadn’t intended to lose in their game of Bonnety, but the short-term winner didn’t matter, he reminded himself. not in the long run anyway, he had to repeat this to his injured pride multiple times. As the los- duck who was temporarily not the winner it gave him more control over the situation than the duck who had won the least important part of the step in their game. as the soon to be winner of their fatal feud, he could lead McDuck on a merry old chase through the halls of the Billionaire’s club until they reached the exact location where he had laid his deadly trap. McDuck in his smug self-assured arrogance would have no clue his pride would lead him to his ultimate undoing. The surprise he had in store for his enemy wouldn’t leave room for a long realization, Glomgold didn’t want to give him enough time to think of a way to escape afterall, but McDuck was an expressive man. He had no doubt the security cameras he would need to steal would provide him with that brief hopeless look of despair as he realized he’d finally been bested by his constantly underestimated archnemisis. if the euphoria victory brought was a flavor instead of a bunch of chemical reactions in the brain and body he didn’t quite understand, he would swear he could already taste it. if he was quick enough, maybe he could even make off with the old buzzard’s body. it would be incredibly messy, but doable he hoped. if everything went according to plan, he would decapitate McDuck. it wasn’t something he’d managed to do to anyone before but he’d read an intro or two on the theory, and both The Complete Idiot's Guide to Murder and Killing for Dummies so he was prepared for what was to come. He was aware that the heart of a normal man would keep beating for a minute or two, and that all that blood would flow up to the newly created hole where the head had been, and gush upward like a carbonated beverage from a shaken soda can for almost a minute after the head had been removed. That had sounded, eh, revolting if he was honest with himself. one of those repellant tasks most criminal masterminds would leave for their minions to take care of. He knew there were sites where you could look up live decapitation so he wouldn't be surprised when the moment finally came, but he was a busy man. he kept finding real and legitimate reasons to avoid looking them up. Besides there was no reason the cleanup and theft of the security cameras could not be handled by his own, more trusted employees, since that was what he was paying them to do. If they were quick he would have a trophy out of this for all his trouble. the deed would leave a lot to tidy out. Scrooge would not be in his fittest form either, but Glomgold had a good taxidermist on call who would have his opponent stuffed right and proper. He’d never had the opportunity to use her services for obvious reasons like the continued survival of his only true archenemy robbing him of reasons to seek out her expertise, but he’d seen her work on both sentient and feral animals before. She’d had a way with body preservation that was so lifelike it had been a marvel to behold. He’d made sure to get her number so when he’d have need of her. he’d know where to call. Old Scrooge McDuck would make a handsome addition to his trophy collection and that was the most important fact to be gained from the situation. Maybe, once everything got settled, he could even make one of those tacky ’Wish you were here’ postcards with the old tightwad placed artistically on display among a beautifully crafted banquet that would, for once, be free of the obnoxious food hoarder’s sticky fingers. It was a good idea, he thought, especially if it lured that traitorous vixen in white feathers Goldie O’Gilt in to investigate Scrooge’s disappearance herself. If he was successful, he’d have two ducks in his collection instead of one. Then he would never again be forced to feel like a third wheel around the two of them. He could just imagine it. The three of them cut a pretty picture. All the conversations the three would have together, with none of that confusing sarcasm to sully an otherwise enjoyable meal. He’d be very witty and charming as they would all eat together and they would be oh so grateful to be in his amazing presence. He chuckled softly, then, unable to contain his mirth he began outright guffawing in glee at the thought before cutting himself off quickly. He had to use his fingers to keep his beak shut to muffle the noises when he was unable to immediately silence himself. laughter was good for the body and the life he liked provided enough simple amusements to keep him laugh often, but he was at the delicate stage of the trap springing processes. he needed Scrooge to find him, but he also didn’t want the duck on edge. His foe was crafty, sneakier than anyone he knew besides Glomgold himself. it wouldn’t do if Scrooge heard him laughing for no obvious reason, because then he would know Glomgold had plans. He wouldn’t know what those plans were but he would know something was up. Alerting the enemy just wouldn’t do at all. He hadn’t played and lost dozens of old Scottish children’s games with McDuck all afternoon like some bladdered Scottish sailor making a show of reliving his childhood after having had one over the eight in his own damned cups only to fail his own scheme with premature and incriminating excited laughter. He glanced back but after seeing no one relaxed ever so slightly. He doubted McDuck had heard, but now was the time to get serious. Laughter could wait, because, as with all things, he just had to be patient in the knowledge that the better man would eventually win out. Meaning him, of course. He, Flintheart Glomgold was the better man. Scrooge’s irritating string of ridiculously good luck couldn’t last forever and when it finally reached it’s end old Flinty would be there with a party hat, a pair of scissors, and some good time explosives to celebrate the momentous occasion. What he’d do next was always the question. Taxidermy was the answer now, but when he’d first begun thinking of Scrooge as an enemy he’d thought of giving him the old Scottish funeral rites as befitting someone of his stature. Then Flintheart had become more familiar with the real Scrooge, and preparing the proper site for his enemy no longer seemed appropriate when considering his enemy's lackluster pride in his own country's heritage. Sure the numpty could get all in a huff about it when the world and a pretty little reporter was watching, but his daily behavior spoke of something else. The man didn't even wear a kilt. It was inconceivable, practically a Sassenach, a traitor to Scots everywhere, he was. He jumped the fist two steps of a stairwell, one of them having been rebuilt by himself with flimsy veneer of wood to trap the unsuspecting. If caught, they would have to wait until someone else came to free them before they were released. Unlike most of his traps it was a general one meant for no one in particular. Nearly every member of the Billionaire’s club had annoyed him over something or other, and even he could admit to being just the slightest bit petty. the stairs represented the last obstacle between himself and the venue for the snare he'd assembled for his archenemy. The room he stopped in was a quint little space with three overstuffed chairs facing a cozy little fireplace with a portrait of the club founder staring down from its place above the mantle. There was also an intricately designed coo-coo clock at the far wall. The red sheepskin chairs made for an excellent location for the trap he'd constructed, it was perfect, and he'd been proud to call it such every time he'd thought about it. He glanced behind himself quickly to see Scrooge had caught up with him yet. Finding no sign of the man of the hour, he gave himself a pat on the back to congratulate himself on his speed. Outrunning Scrooge McDuck was no mean feat. He left the door partially open before hopping onto one of the squishy armchairs. There was a pause, as memory combated with irrational panic when he remembered he’d rigged the chairs to be set off on contact. He’d calmed considerably when he’d recognized he’d chosen the correct one then felt his face heat up in embarrassment. He’d known his selection had been spot on from the start that was why he’d picked it. But like someone checking for the fifteenth time if their stove was off, the panic had still snuck up on him unbidden. Part of him had worried he might have forgotten where he’d erected the damned thing and doomed himself with his own forgetfulness. It was a strange thing he was beginning to notice something with his own mental faculties, the more he checked something, the less sure he became of his own memories as everything began to mesh uncomfortably and blur in his mind. He personally blamed it on McDuck. He hadn’t had the problem before he’d met the levvy heid, so it was obviously his fault. Just another reason to want the pain in his neck messaged out of existence. He drummed his hand on the chair, the white of his fingers contrasting nicely with the deep red of the dyed wool, as he wondered how long it would take the doaty to find hi. His haste had been impressive, yes, yes but he was sure his nemesis would have already arrived by now. “Maybe” he thought worriedly. “ Scrooge had already arrived, and is waiting for me to set off the trap myself.” His eyes darted around the room, almost of their own accord. He to appear nonchalant as the feeling that he was being watched snuck up behind him and began assaulting him in the back of the head with a walking stick, but it was a failure even in his own mind. He didn’t think Scrooge was in the room with him as he surveyed the area for the thirteenth time, but that didn’t mean much. Scrooge could have come across the room at some other point during the day, detected Glomgold’s surprise for him, then changed it in some significant way. It was possible he was now watching from somewhere safe, security cameras focused in on him, waiting in anticipation for the show he thought he would get as the accursed thing backfired on its creator. It was just the sort of trickery a man could expect from his nemesis. It could even be his own form of revenge. Scrooge loved to play innocent, but people had never really seen the true him. Not like he had. Like that time Flintheart had put up cameras in the McDuck manor to watch the other Scot’s day to day activity after the mountain of a woman had left on her yearly retreat with her granddaughter during Scrooge’s birthday. It hadn’t provided him with much significant information. The man had been a dowie eyed ghost, mostly going through his old Butler cum Valet’s room, before checking in on a space that had once been shared by his ken, Della and Donald Duck. Glomgold had thought the man had been grieving at the time and had sent the burd off with her lass to mourn his family in quiet. Then the chookie had returned with the wee lass in tow and things had gotten nasty. She’d torn down all the cameras, and threated him with a visit from the boabies. Gross invasion of privacy, his tailfeathers! Scrooge had even admitted that he’d known about the cameras, which put everything he had seen into suspicion. Glomgold could no longer trust that what he’d seen hadn’t simply been a performance by Scrooge. If he couldn’t trust that the information was genuine, it had no purpose and he’d risked police attention for nothing. Fortunately for him he’d had the techies install a self-destruct mechanism in the cameras, but thanks to Scrooge’s acting skills he’d built up a vast archive of useless information, he’d likely never need. However, he hadn’t wanted to simply throw out the books that contained the notes he'd painstakingly recorded for an entire week so he’d sent it to a publisher instead. to his surprise they actually turned out to be a popular hit with the readers, with a couple needing to be reprinted after supplies had run out. thinking along the logic that if people were willing to throw money at a book that did nothing more than listed and described Scrooge’s favorite scents, he had thought writing his own biography would give him some much needed attention. his wishful thinking had not been made into reality. including the book he had bought for himself so he wouldn’t look like a dobber, he had sold a grand total of two books. learning from his mistake, he hadn’t tried the venture again. clearly it had been too soon to expose the diabolical workings of his brilliant mind to the unwashed masses. Not that he felt like the canny genius he was at the moment. No, currently he felt a bit dafty with nerves, waiting for any sign of Scrooge McDuck. if he found out the wallaper was sitting somewhere safe, happy as a clam, while Glomgold drove himself into a radge, wondering what his enemy could be planning, there would be words between them. “Hear me now, McDuck!” he roared, directing his vexation at any potential cameras, as he hopped atop the lambskin chair to make himself feel more impressive. “No one laughs at Flintheart Glomgold!” he raised a fist to emphasize his point. then, when no reply was forthcoming, he hopped down with an annoyed sigh. He was unsure what was next on the script, and in circumstances like this he found he liked it best when he settled his frustrations out on a well-cooked meal. He lightly tapped the service button the Billionare’s club used to alert the employees that one of their elite members required attending. “Good evening,” the disembodied voice of the head of staff greeted him civilly through the speaker that connected them. “Is there anything we can do to be of use to you, sir?” “Aye,” the thought came, spontaneous but genuine. “Kill Scroogie fer me and there will be a tip in it for you beyond your wildest dreams.” Instead he ordered for them to bring him four pulled bbq sliders, deep fat fried salmon on a bed of seasoned neeps and tatties, with a nondairy clootie dumpling on the side, and a decaffeinated coffee that was more almond milk than bean water. if McDuck was going to play the voyeur, the only show he was going to get was the sight of Glomgold enjoying the bloody hell out of the delicious cuisine available for the offering. He could already imagine how the old miser would feel. He’d be jealous, of course, it had been an impressive spread and no duck could look away from the Club special without wanting even a smidgeon of bite. but scrooge would pay for nothing he felt was overpriced. and the club’s food while beautiful was rather costly. that wouldn’t be a complication in his plan, in fact he was counting on scrooge’s tightfisted nature to win out over his own jealousy to keep him from buying any of the food on his own, which would obviously make the situation enjoyable. “Well Scroogie,” he thought to himself “if you don’t want to play the game my way you'll just have to watch me enjoy myself instead.” pleased with this idea, he gave the nearest camera a small wink in satisfaction. served him right for wasting all the time he’d spent today by not falling into the death trap and dying a gruesome death. Admittedly, he was not a patient man, but a quick check of the clock told him the meal was taking the servers longer to prepare than what was typical for them. he’d like to say this did not cause him concern, that, he did not feel self doubt over his decision to even order the meal in the fist place with Scrooge’s whereabouts still yet to be accounted for, but that would have been a lie. “If I were scrooge in this position”, he asked himself, “What would I do?” The answer was obvious. if he was Scrooge and his ever so brilliant enemy had refused to play his infernal mind-games, he would simply opt to create some sort of distraction to prevent the chefs from noting his nefarious actions, and then poison the enemy’s food. The rival wouldn’t be able to one up him if he was dead. Ach, it was the little things like this that mad Glomgold want to be rid of the man as soon as possibly Scrooge had a canny mind and was true master at finding opportunities to strike when least expected. Well, it seems I’ll have to cancel my dinner. he thought with a disappointed sigh, clicking the intercom button to alert the staff he no longer desired what they had to offer him. At least his own home was stuffed to the gills with food he could enjoy to his heart’s content. Better still, he even had security cameras installed everywhere so he would know if someone was making an attempt on his life by simply reviewing the recordings at his leisure. Still, one of these days, he would like to go out and enjoy a meal without the shadow of Scrooge McDuck looming over him to put a damper on his fun, but today was not that day. he heard a knock and Glomgold rolled his eyes with an outward sigh. Either that was Scrooge himself or the meal he’d poisoned out of spite. Either way he wanted to see neither. “Come in and enter then.” he said in exasperation when the person knocked again, clearly waiting for a response. The door opened and a small female mouse entered, looking distinctly ruffled and apologizing profusely for her late arrival. She was a petite little thing, pretty, if that’s what got your blood going. She had apparently gotten trapped when one of the steps revealed to be made of some sort of flimsy wood, and caved in under her weight. He nodded, as some collateral damage was to be expected during the competitions he had with Scrooge. it would be the perfect lie to feed her if he wanted Glomgold to lower his guard. It was not going to work on him. He was not the sort of man who mistook ladies as harmless ingenues. No, he knew full well they could be just as dangerous as men, if not more so. It was a case by case scenario. the trouble was he was part of a generation that had emphasized politeness when interacting with the womenfolk, and it reflected badly on him as a person if he didn’t. So he was now in the awkward position of attempting to think of a way to refuse the food he’d ordered politely without outright accusing her of being in league with Scrooge McDuck. This was a harder task than it had any right to be. The mouse had smiled and greeted him warmly, obviously trying to make up for her tardiness with friendly customer service, before she began to lower the meal tray on the closest available. Glomgold had been startled by the noise the dished made as they shifted on the silver platter, before doing a double take, jumping up, and extending his hand feebly to stop her, but it was too late. The mouse had unknowingly propped the food tray on the nearest chair. THE CHAIR, in fact. It took mere seconds, but it felt longer, as the trap snapped and the little mouse was pulled face first into the lamb skin cushions, her scream in blind terror muffled expertly by the blood red upholstery. he withdrew his own outreached hand just in time to avoid a messy cleaving from the airborne ax that had previously been cleverly hidden in the fireplace. He had arranged for the weapon to be thrown when the wiring was triggered. As luck would have it her diminutive height meant the ax head had missed her by inches, and was now buried so deeply into the chair he could see an impression of it’s edges on the other side of the chair. However they were both faced with a problem: she was now in very real danger of suffocating. Glomgold hadn’t wanted to see Scrooge’s decapitated body spew blood from his severed neck like some sort of morbid fountain, so he had made provisions to minimize the amount of the sanguine fluid he’d be forced to see by soaking the majority of it into the chair. Unfortunately he had not captured his intended victim, and was left standing helplessly trying to decide on a plan of action he should take next. He mad a grab for the ax handle, concluding that if he managed to release it from it’s makeshift holster, he’d be able to use it to cut the poor woman free.Sadly, all he managed to do was burn himself on the instrument of demise that had been, until very recently, concealed inside a fire place. The pain from the burn had him reeling back, and in his momentarily blind agony, he’d accidentally walked straight into the fireplace, setting his well-oiled leather spats ablaze like a rushlight. Shrieking now, he tried stamping out the flames, struggling to keep the conflagration at bay. There was a fire extinguisher in the room, some small part of him that wasn’t consumed in raw panic reminded himself furiously. The Billionaires’s club, mindful of the potential for lawsuits among their illustrious clientele, kept things up to code. He had carelessly forgotten about it in his alarm. Cursing his lack of retentiveness, he had only just begun his search for the safety device, when he found himself covered from head to toe in white foam. Feeling like he had entered a state that altered between numb haziness and hyper awareness, he startled when he heard the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. He turned in place to see Shere Khan digging his claws into the cushioning of the armchair box cutters through a birthday cake. “Breath, girl.” The tiger ordered, after he had released the whimpering servant from her temporary prison. She seemed to gratefully obey, taking great greedy breaths of air like she’d believed she would never have the privledge of doing so again. He felt a flicker of guilt or something darn near close to it rise up in his throat as she gave her grateful thanks to Shere Khan and fled the room in terror, tripping over the remains of what had once been a supper fit for a Laird. He felt eyes roaming his body and he turned his head to see the tiger eyeing him impassively, like one might at a loaf of bread on discount in the clearance isle. he poofed up his feathers uneasily, feeling distressed under the other man’s gaze.To give himself something to do he began shaking the foam from his feathers to free himself from the cloying heaviness of chemicals in the fire retardant.”Will you be paying for the damages?” Shere Khan asked indicating the general chaotic state of the room with a scrutinizing once over. “If they make me. Glomgold admitted with a dramatic sigh. “And usually they do.” He would need to get an appraiser to insure they didn’t charge him more than was necessary. He then glanced at the hole the tiger had made in the upholstery and the pieces of stuffing that had been scattered haphazardly about the room. “Though it might be up for debate how much of the damage will be considered mine.” Shere Khan’s face made no change in expression, but their was a distinct impression that the feline was amused rather than annoyed at the comment. “I’d wager my actions would be protected by the Good Samaritan laws.” the cat said lightly, squaring out his shoulders, and placing his paws behind him in a parade rest. “I doubt I’d even need a lawyer.”the both stood watching each other, Glomgold feeling ever colder, even as his feathers dried. A quick glance behind him showed him that the fireplace had also been snuffed out by the fire extinguisher’s foam. The silence was uncomfortable, and one that needed filling, but for once Glomgold had found himself unable to say anything worth saying. how did a member of the rich and powerful go around thanking a fellow peer for saving a servant you had almost accidentally murdered with a snare that had been meant for someone in your own social circle. Especially since there had been ambiguity in whether there would even be any potential victims for the trap to capture as t he intended target had elected not to show up. He hadn’t expected an outsider to disturb the wiring and that made things... problimatic. This wasn’t something outsiders were likely to understand. It was a game he had played qwith Scroogeb for years while McDuck might scoff and outwardly ignore the interpretation of their bond, he was just as into the competition as he was. Having other people involved, onlookers that possessed no intimate connection either of them ruined the sport of it with their involvement. he looked at the tiger who seemed contented with doing nothing more than staring at him. Glomgold grunted in frustation. “Well” he began. “obviously you’re here for a reason, so out with it, so come up with an explanation for this mess.” The tiger’s mouth gave a crooked twist of a smile. “Now, now.” he said evenly. “There’s no need to be defensive.” He opened his paws wide, as if he were a magician showing his audience proof that the demonstration he’d preformed for them had been a genuine act and no slight of hand had been involved. “I was merely taking a stroll past the gardens after conducting a quick chat with Mr. McDuck, and I--” Glomgold felt as if another wire had been tripped. “You were taking to Scrooge?” he asked current problems momentarily forgotten in favor of that one topic guaranteed to get his attention. “What for?” The feline paused at the duck’s visibly increasing irritation, conspicuously entertained. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you...” Shere Khan paused once again, and glomgold poked him in the stomach with his can. Well, tried to poke him in the stomach was the more honest description of what had happened. Glomgold, impatient with the excessive pausing, had moved to poke the cat in the belly. Shere Khan had quickly yanked the cane from him. “If you behave like this, I shall simply leave, and tell you nothing.” the tiger chided, voice at a low growl that seemed to indicate growing impatience with the bird. Flintheart sighed, retreated to his lambskin chair, and sat down. “Much better” The cat purred ”As I was saying, I had decided to extend a warm invitation to a little mini series series I plan to produce.” Glomgold frowned. That didn’t sound right. “Scrooge is branching into television shows now?” The tiger shrugged. “If life provides an opportunity to add to one’s life experience, why not embrace it fully?” “I guess that’s true enough.” Glomgold frowned harder, trying to think of something that might be of interest to his enemy. “What kind of program are the two of you thinking of starting?” “We’re venturing into the murky realms of reality television.” Khan shrugged. “It’ll be a new experience for us both.” “You’ll be doing what now?” Glomgold asked confused. “Reality television.” Khan repeated. Then at the continued look of utter incomprehension on the duck’s face, his yellow eyes widening fractionally. “You don’t know what that is?” he asked. The question was asked in a nuettral and civil inflection that somehow managed to project incredulous disdain at the same time. Glomgold bristled, hating the tone at once. “Are you going to tell me,” he growled. “Or are you going to keep talking mince like a jakey who’s spent too much time in his cups?”The tiger’s roguish, not quite a smirk was back. “When I say ‘Reality’ television I am referring to a genre of television programming in which the actions of ‘real-life’ people are followed by a camera crew and recorded for the viewers.” Shere Khan explained. “That sounds...” Glomgold made an attempt at politeness but quickly abandoned it. “like you’re both off yer heads if you think it’ll work.” “Maybe so.” The tiger allowed with a light chuckled. “But perhaps you’re not part of the target audiance.” The tiger pierced him with a crooked grin. “I’ve heard it said that the Victorian freak show never went away, that now it's called Big Brother or X Factor, where in the preliminary rounds we wheel out the bewildered to be sniggered at by multi-millionaires.” he paused, playing with his tie out of what was likely self consciousness “I can’t commit to the idea until i’ve seen evidence to back it up, however what I do know. is that, with the right spin, anything can be a money maker.” Glomgold grunted his assent. It was true enough. the general public could be a bit dim in that regard. the fact that his company got through by selling what he himself had to admit was cheap trash still surprised him, but that was where his advertising branch made the big money.as much as he’d like to say his success in wooing his customers was purely the result of his own charismatic personality, he was enough to know that his presence wasn’t the main driving force behind the sales. “So ol’ Scroogie wants in?” Glomgold asked for the sake of clarification, still feeling a little unsettled at the news.it didn’t sound like something his rival would have interest in persuing. “So it would appear” Khan said face going serious. “I’m to meet with himself and his lawyers to negotiate terms tomorrow,” That bit of news truly got his attention. Scrooge hated dealing with his lawyers. He’d need to awfully serious about the subject to include them in anything. “He didn’t mention anything to me...” he said voice soft and hesitant, more to himself than Khan. the cat chuckled. “I’d wager not!” he said, words bright with merriment. “I’ve only just spoken to him not thirty minutes prior.” Glomgold blanched at his words. That time frame would put the conversation directly after he’d lost at Bonnetey. if that was the case McDuck had placed more value on havering on about this reality show with Shere Khan than perusing him. the realization pushed something hot and pulsing through his veins that seemed to gather and spike at his fingertips. It was hard to aspire towards communication when the very air he breathed seemed tainted with jealousy and betrayal. He tried to keep the emotions withdrawn, and he managed to keep his inner turmoil at bay through sheer willpower alone. He cringed when he felt the wood on his chair give a threatening creak and he winced. He could do without breaking another expensive piece of furniture. Aye, the model of subtlety was he. Flintheart released the arm rest, and it made an ominous, creaking noise as it shifted ever so slightly beyond it’s initial framework. With a start he noticed his fingers had managed to rip a hole in the cushions. he felt a flare up of pain and realized he might have accidentally given himself a splinter. He coughed feeling the tiger’s attention was uncomfortable, and hid his hand behind his back to avoid any discussion on the matter “Well, good luck to the both of you.” He said saluting the tiger with a flick to his own cap. he had tried to make his voice sound cheerful, only to grimace as it cracked on a falsely high note.”Thank you.” Khan said, eyes scanning Glomgold’s features for a moment, before giving a sharp nod in farewell, then turning back the way he’d come. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Glomgold asked, studying the feline’s back with a halfhearted attempt at affable impassivity that sounded more like a masked vigilante demanding to know where his archnemisis had hidden the bombs. “I will be returning to the entertainment hall.” Khan said, his tone placide and smooth. “It seems I’ve forgotten something, and I’d rather collect it before my departure.” He hadn’t wanted to let the other man leave after saying so little. His instinct all but wailed at him to compile as much supplementary data as he was able but when he’d advanced forward to get closer, he’d stepped on a piece of china and the tinkle-crack of the crystal plate made both men wince. “Good luck sorting this all out.” Shere Khan said in a voice that sounded genuinely empathetic. “”Ach, this is nothing.” The duck shrugged. “I’ve been the cause of greater property damage than this before. He studied the room with the assessing glare of a professional. “I’ll send for the money, my accountant will scream at me till he’s got a face like a skelped erse, I’ll promise to never do what has them in an uproar, and then the same thing repeats next week. “Sounds like a plan.” The tiger said with a smile and Glomgold nodded. “There’s no reason to change a thing if it’s not broken.” to that the cat gave no reply and within moments the man was gone, moving with enviable fleetness of foot. He watched the mammal ‘s departure until the other man was out of sight. He then made the unavoidable calls to people he knew would give him a fair assessment of whatever damages he owed the Billionare’s club for this most recent misadventure. After a moment’s pause he ordered the server be given a handsome bonus for her grief. He was sure the young mouse had been an unintentional victim in his war with Scrooge, and if he was going to be paying the club she deserved to have some sort of compensation for what had happened to her today. The terrified expression that had taken over her face when she had been pulled into the cushions and the weak weeping she’d been reduced to after Shere Khan had pulled her free from the chair stood out in his mind’s eye. He grimaced and added one more zero to her tip. That terrified look would have been so much more meaningful on Scrooge. Instead, because of Shere Khan, the other duck had been diverted from what was truly important. And Glomgold had been left looking like the bad guy. He gave an irritated snort. Well, two could play at that game. He would ask Khan if he could join in on whatever it was the cat had in mind, and then, when he agreed, (because who wouldn’t want Flintheart Glomgold to be in on whatever project they were cooking up?) he would use the time they spent together to kill Scrooge. Decision made, he ran towards the entertainment hall as quickly as his legs would allow. Scrooge would rue the day he’d inadvertantly foiled Glomgold’s assassination attempt.

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