In Dedication to Mr. Roberts

I first met the acquaintance of Mr. Percival Roberts on the dreariest of dreary April days. His long tailed coat was, as always, immaculate; far superior to rags which, I’m not ashamed to say, I wore to the occasion. The first words he and I would ever speak were not most pleasant. I was a famished, sickly, meager soul who saw a beacon shining through my misery. “Mr. Roberts,” I began, begging at his feet, “Might you help a poor man eat today?” His face showed immeasurable contempt. “Be gone, filth!” he spat, pushing me to the ground and going on his not-so-merry way. I never forgot the occasion. Nor would I remain as destitute. Through perseverance and a little luck, I fought my way to higher ranks. It came to be in time, my standing equaled Mr. Roberts even. Thus, when he passed away the local gazette asked if I might dedicate a word or two to the late, departed industrialist. I looked deep and gave them three: fuck that guy.