“Don’t be such an execrable tyro, my loblolly boy. Marshall your forces, and then, be merciless.”
Papa’s eyes were pinwheels of fire as he brought his lead men around the stacked racks of dewy clay flowerpots behind the Tuileries Gardens. We had been invited for the weekend of the King’s birthday by Papa’s patron, Count Praslin, and then been left to wander. Chipped rifles and painted fifes stuck out indiscriminately between the fingers of his fists, and he sported a maniac’s grin as he bore down in righteous ire upon his only child, me.
“Beware, Charlie! Frontal assault! Royal troops of the line! Boom, crack!”
I had to admire his depraved rapacity.
“But, Papa,” I replied, my voice all innocence. “My cannon are to your rear.”
Papa was shocked upright. His visions of victory were dashed as he saw my gold-trimmed cannon lined up amongst the bloody carnations–orderly ordinance ranged against his spastic passion.
“Why… you… you… Napoleon!”
Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.