As I readied my desk for a busy afternoon’s work, I discovered that my servants had failed to refill my ink-well. How they expected me to sign my daily quota of foreclosure and repossession statements is beyond me; yet, such an over-sight should not have found me so surprised, phrenology having proven that the average live-in servant possess naught but the simple mental faculties of the average yellow breasted quail hawk--a mere step above the green toed chickadee and two steps above the common household woman. Quickly I grabbed the largest bell in my room and summoned my man servants with the most furious ringing I could muster. Usually, they appeared in a scant few moments, having been trained by Pavlov’s own secretary at great personal expense. This time however, there was no scampering of feet or drooling mouths. My servants were missing! As a titan of industry, I knew that these servants would not find themselves. So, as the Foulke men have done for hundreds of years, I seized the initiative, like a man seizes an ill-tempered child, and shook it vigorously.
I wrapped myself in several layers of protective clothe, huffed a vile of ether to still my fortitude and ventured down to the peasants quarters. The filth I saw was unimaginable: dishes not stacked in alphabetical order, clothing left to dry not arranged by size and color, a cat! Soon I discovered my servants huddled in their quarters coughing and crying. T. Archibald Foulke III employs only the fittest and ablest of help, thus witnessing the detrioated state of these wraith-like men, I demanded an explanation. Surely they had gambled and drank away their food and pay or spent it on the affections of cheap harlots at one of the local brothels I’ve long suspected they frequent. One of these sad wretches, a man whose name I could not quite recall, managed to rise to his knees and address me directly. According to him, all my live-in servants had contracted pneumonia. He asserted that if I did not force them all to sleep nude on the floor without blankets, this would not have happened. And what was I supposed to do, I responded, provide them with clothes, and beds and blankets they would surely steal? I laughed heartily at the thought and then gave the man a stiff backhand for looking me directly in the eyes. My men still lay almost motionless except for the occasional involuntarily convulsion, so I offered them a series of incentives to encourage their dutiful enthusiasm. However, a thorough round of beatings failed to raise their spirits; it appeared I would have to obtain my own ink. But where does one find ink? Where is the most ink used? At the local book depository! With this problem soundly deduced, I was off.