| General Fiction posted April 27, 2024 |
  |
Influenced
The World According to Daylin
by John Ciarmello
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
According to Daylin Poots, there’s nothing to be envied about an adopted sixteen-year-old boy being raised in a multi-million dollar house, especially if it’s tucked secludedly away in the Florida Everglades miles from anything or anyone he had an interest in.
Mixed among the fifteen prissy cats who ate from crystal goblets were the human-robotic servants whom he was sure stood in separate corners of the estate all day waiting to perform their duties if called upon.
The rebuttals of Daylin’s outward obstinance toward his unwanted lifestyle are voiced daily by his adopted parents: ‘Why do you always look so unhappy, Daylin? Most people would give their right arm to have a fraction of what you have, Daylin. Perhaps you should remember where you came from, Daylin.’ The words most replied in the boy’s unsettling vociferousness are the words “Blah, blah, fucking blah!”
It wasn't that he was ungrateful, but being raised precariously on Chicago’s South Side until age twelve definitely influenced his rebellious behavior. Was he wastefully brilliant, contentiously savvy, and patently streetwise? There was no doubt from anyone who knew him from the South Side. They also knew that Daylin Poots would be hell-bent on having no part of his adopted glam and glitter unless it was on his terms.
“Your bath is drawn, Master Poots?”
“Fuck Bernard! My name is Daylin!”
“Very well–”
“Say it, Bernard!”
“Are you almost done with your television game, Master Poots?”
Daylin casually looked in Bernard's direction. “God damn it, BERNARD, say my fucking name.”
“Your bath is drawn. I’m sure I’ll have to adjust the temperature now that so much time has passed.”
“Fuck you, Bernard!” Daylin tossed his gaming controller to the foot of his bed, bunched a pillow under his arm, and stared at Bernard with his mouth agape.
“Is something wrong, Master Poots?”
“Tell me, Bernard, how long have you been a servant in this fucking dump?”
“Well, if you’re referring to my term of employment at the Shaffer estate, it will be twenty years next month.”
“Twenty years, and in those twenty years, have you ever broken the employment rules, Bernard?”
“I can’t say that I have, Sir.”
Daylin slid off the bed, put his hands on Bernard's shoulders, and guided him into the bathroom. “I want you to get in the tub, Bernard!”
“Sir?”
“You heard me, Bernard.”
“But, that would be highly unorthodox. I don’t have permission to…”
“Permission to what? Permission to take a fucking bath? I’m giving you permission, Bernard! There’s no one here but you and me. My stuffy Baboon-assed parents are on vaca’ somewhere in this stupid fucking world. So, I say it’s your turn to relax, and you can start by taking a fucking bath!”
“But master Poots, I, I,…” Bernard dropped his shoulders and peered into the empty Jacuzzi bathtub. He looked back at Daylin.
“Go ahead, Bernard, live a little, you goddamn android.”
“Sir! I have never in my twenty years…”
“Bernard, just get in the fucking tub! I’ll be right back.”
An unassertive grin raised Bernard’s left cheek.
A few minutes later, Daylin pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, juggling a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle Bourbon, two shot glasses, and a box of Cohiba Cuban Cigars.
“Well, look at you in that tub! Bubbles and all! You’re officially a rebel, Bernard.”
“Yes, but I’m very uncomfortable, Master Poots. This is highly irregular. Your father’s going to find out about…”
“Father shamather! He ain’t a father, he’s a mantelpiece, him and his trophy wife, they’re just something else I need to brush off.”
“But, sir, I'm sure they did adopt you with all good intentions.”
“Oh, you’re sure, are you? What do you know about me, Bernard?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Tell me one thing you know about me as a person.”
“My job is to take care of your needs. I was instructed never to probe into your history, sir.”
“And why do you think you were told that, Bernard? Didn’t that set off any red flags for you?”
“Red flags, sir?”
“Yeah, unanswered questions, inquiring minds, that sort of stuff.”
“It’s not etiquette to question direct instructions, Master Poots.”
“Oh, blah blah fucking blah! Aren’t you fed up with being their fucking android? Bernard, do this, Bernard, do that!”
“Not at all, sir. The Shaffers treat me well.”
“That’s Bullshit, and you know it! Or maybe you don’t!”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Well, you’re gonna learn today, Bernard.” Daylin picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured the two shots, overflowing both onto the tub's edge. I’m gonna tell you a little somethin’ somethin' about your employers, but first, a toast. Go ahead, pick up the glass.”
“Sir, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable about engaging in this behavior….”
“I know you already said that, now, don’t be fucking rude, Bernard. I’m about to make a toast.”
“Very well, sir.” Bernard picked up the glass and looked at Daylin sheepishly.
“Thank you!” Daylin raised his glass above his head. “Here’s to my parents having loads of bread cuz, without their bread, we’d have no toast. Down the rat hole and out the piss hole, as my old man used to say.”
Bernard shook loose-lipped as he swallowed the last of the bourbon on the back of his tongue. “I don’t recall Mr. Shaffer ever stating that to you, sir.”
“He didn’t. I was talking about my real father. He was a son-of-a-bitch too!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Master Poots.”
“It’s all good. At least I knew what kind of a person the fucker was.” Daylin sloppily poured two more shots and stuck a cigar in his mouth.
Bernard nodded compassionately and took a cigar from the open box on the tub's edge. He ran it under his nose several times and released a satisfied breath of air. “These would require a guillotine and a flame, Master Poots.”
“I got us covered!” Daylin clipped the tips, ran a stick match down the wall, and lit both cigars. He poured two more shots and kicked his legs onto the tub’s edge. “Hey, I have a question for you, Bernie boy!”
“Very well-”
“Are androids even able to get drunk?”
“I'm unsure, sir Daylin. Perhaps I could find the answer by referring to my circuit board.” Bernard raised his glass and joined in Daylin’s laughter.
Daylin’s expression abruptly morphed into a satisfied grin.“Wait! Rewind a sec! What did you just say?”
“I believe I said if I refer to my circuit…”
“No, before that.”
Bernard stared at Daylin, bewildered. “I don’t recall?”
“You said my name. You said Daylin!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t be sorry, you fuckin’ broken down, drunkin’ android! I loved it!”
“Very well…”
“Very well, what!” Daylin leaned in closer. “Say it, Benard! Say my name! I need to hear it again, loud and clear.”
“Very well.” Bernard smiled and gestured for Daylin to refill his glass. "It’s a big step for a fuckin’ broken-down, drunkin’ android, sir.”
“I’m sure it is, but don’t regress on me now!”
“Okay, give me a moment.” Bernard shot back his bourbon. "D-Daylin!”
“Ha! I knew you had it in you!”
Bernard stretched out his arm for another refill.
“Damn, you better take it slower, my man, and at some point, you need to get out of that tub. I ain’t taken the rap for your drunkin’ demise.” Daylin put his feet back on the tub's edge and blew a puff of cigar smoke into the air. “Welcome to Daylin’s world, Bernard. I think you’re going to like it here.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, pardon mwah, Daylin. But what about that little something-something you were going to tell me about?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that.” Daylin held up the bottle of bourbon and looked in Bernard's direction.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“That’s my boy! Now for that little somethin’-somethin’.”
To be continued:
According to Daylin Poots, there’s nothing to be envied about an adopted sixteen-year-old boy being raised in a multi-million dollar house, especially if it’s tucked secludedly away in the Florida Everglades miles from anything or anyone he had an interest in.
Mixed among the fifteen prissy cats who ate from crystal goblets were the human-robotic servants whom he was sure stood in separate corners of the estate all day waiting to perform their duties if called upon.
The rebuttals of Daylin’s outward obstinance toward his unwanted lifestyle are voiced daily by his adopted parents: ‘Why do you always look so unhappy, Daylin? Most people would give their right arm to have a fraction of what you have, Daylin. Perhaps you should remember where you came from, Daylin.’ The words most replied in the boy’s unsettling vociferousness are the words “Blah, blah, fucking blah!”
It wasn't that he was ungrateful, but being raised precariously on Chicago’s South Side until age twelve definitely influenced his rebellious behavior. Was he wastefully brilliant, contentiously savvy, and patently streetwise? There was no doubt from anyone who knew him from the South Side. They also knew that Daylin Poots would be hell-bent on having no part of his adopted glam and glitter unless it was on his terms.
“Your bath is drawn, Master Poots?”
“Fuck Bernard! My name is Daylin!”
“Very well–”
“Say it, Bernard!”
“Are you almost done with your television game, Master Poots?”
Daylin casually looked in Bernard's direction. “God damn it, BERNARD, say my fucking name.”
“Your bath is drawn. I’m sure I’ll have to adjust the temperature now that so much time has passed.”
“Fuck you, Bernard!” Daylin tossed his gaming controller to the foot of his bed, bunched a pillow under his arm, and stared at Bernard with his mouth agape.
“Is something wrong, Master Poots?”
“Tell me, Bernard, how long have you been a servant in this fucking dump?”
“Well, if you’re referring to my term of employment at the Shaffer estate, it will be twenty years next month.”
“Twenty years, and in those twenty years, have you ever broken the employment rules, Bernard?”
“I can’t say that I have, Sir.”
Daylin slid off the bed, put his hands on Bernard's shoulders, and guided him into the bathroom. “I want you to get in the tub, Bernard!”
“Sir?”
“You heard me, Bernard.”
“But, that would be highly unorthodox. I don’t have permission to…”
“Permission to what? Permission to take a fucking bath? I’m giving you permission, Bernard! There’s no one here but you and me. My stuffy Baboon-assed parents are on vaca’ somewhere in this stupid fucking world. So, I say it’s your turn to relax, and you can start by taking a fucking bath!”
“But master Poots, I, I,…” Bernard dropped his shoulders and peered into the empty Jacuzzi bathtub. He looked back at Daylin.
“Go ahead, Bernard, live a little, you goddamn android.”
“Sir! I have never in my twenty years…”
“Bernard, just get in the fucking tub! I’ll be right back.”
An unassertive grin raised Bernard’s left cheek.
A few minutes later, Daylin pushed open the bathroom door with his foot, juggling a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle Bourbon, two shot glasses, and a box of Cohiba Cuban Cigars.
“Well, look at you in that tub! Bubbles and all! You’re officially a rebel, Bernard.”
“Yes, but I’m very uncomfortable, Master Poots. This is highly irregular. Your father’s going to find out about…”
“Father shamather! He ain’t a father, he’s a mantelpiece, him and his trophy wife, they’re just something else I need to brush off.”
“But, sir, I'm sure they did adopt you with all good intentions.”
“Oh, you’re sure, are you? What do you know about me, Bernard?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Tell me one thing you know about me as a person.”
“My job is to take care of your needs. I was instructed never to probe into your history, sir.”
“And why do you think you were told that, Bernard? Didn’t that set off any red flags for you?”
“Red flags, sir?”
“Yeah, unanswered questions, inquiring minds, that sort of stuff.”
“It’s not etiquette to question direct instructions, Master Poots.”
“Oh, blah blah fucking blah! Aren’t you fed up with being their fucking android? Bernard, do this, Bernard, do that!”
“Not at all, sir. The Shaffers treat me well.”
“That’s Bullshit, and you know it! Or maybe you don’t!”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Well, you’re gonna learn today, Bernard.” Daylin picked up the bottle of bourbon and poured the two shots, overflowing both onto the tub's edge. I’m gonna tell you a little somethin’ somethin' about your employers, but first, a toast. Go ahead, pick up the glass.”
“Sir, I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable about engaging in this behavior….”
“I know you already said that, now, don’t be fucking rude, Bernard. I’m about to make a toast.”
“Very well, sir.” Bernard picked up the glass and looked at Daylin sheepishly.
“Thank you!” Daylin raised his glass above his head. “Here’s to my parents having loads of bread cuz, without their bread, we’d have no toast. Down the rat hole and out the piss hole, as my old man used to say.”
Bernard shook loose-lipped as he swallowed the last of the bourbon on the back of his tongue. “I don’t recall Mr. Shaffer ever stating that to you, sir.”
“He didn’t. I was talking about my real father. He was a son-of-a-bitch too!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Master Poots.”
“It’s all good. At least I knew what kind of a person the fucker was.” Daylin sloppily poured two more shots and stuck a cigar in his mouth.
Bernard nodded compassionately and took a cigar from the open box on the tub's edge. He ran it under his nose several times and released a satisfied breath of air. “These would require a guillotine and a flame, Master Poots.”
“I got us covered!” Daylin clipped the tips, ran a stick match down the wall, and lit both cigars. He poured two more shots and kicked his legs onto the tub’s edge. “Hey, I have a question for you, Bernie boy!”
“Very well-”
“Are androids even able to get drunk?”
“I'm unsure, sir Daylin. Perhaps I could find the answer by referring to my circuit board.” Bernard raised his glass and joined in Daylin’s laughter.
Daylin’s expression abruptly morphed into a satisfied grin.“Wait! Rewind a sec! What did you just say?”
“I believe I said if I refer to my circuit…”
“No, before that.”
Bernard stared at Daylin, bewildered. “I don’t recall?”
“You said my name. You said Daylin!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t be sorry, you fuckin’ broken down, drunkin’ android! I loved it!”
“Very well…”
“Very well, what!” Daylin leaned in closer. “Say it, Benard! Say my name! I need to hear it again, loud and clear.”
“Very well.” Bernard smiled and gestured for Daylin to refill his glass. "It’s a big step for a fuckin’ broken-down, drunkin’ android, sir.”
“I’m sure it is, but don’t regress on me now!”
“Okay, give me a moment.” Bernard shot back his bourbon. "D-Daylin!”
“Ha! I knew you had it in you!”
Bernard stretched out his arm for another refill.
“Damn, you better take it slower, my man, and at some point, you need to get out of that tub. I ain’t taken the rap for your drunkin’ demise.” Daylin put his feet back on the tub's edge and blew a puff of cigar smoke into the air. “Welcome to Daylin’s world, Bernard. I think you’re going to like it here.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, pardon mwah, Daylin. But what about that little something-something you were going to tell me about?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that.” Daylin held up the bottle of bourbon and looked in Bernard's direction.
“I don’t mind if I do.”
“That’s my boy! Now for that little somethin’-somethin’.”
To be continued:
 Recognized |
This is a two-part story. The language is appropriate for the character. I hope you enjoy this short. Hugs, love you all!
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. 
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. John Ciarmello All rights reserved.
John Ciarmello has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
