His Lordship

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I’m Jason L. Secrest, an aspiring author and impoverished college student. Sometimes I blog. When I’m being real about real world things that other people also believe are real I post at wiseyetharmless.bogspot.com. Then there are the moments that I’m also being real, but in regards to a different real world where there is a real annoying talking demon in my basement and where my non-fake butler/valet/gentleman’s-gentleman knows Jujutsu. In those moment’s I’m Jason L. Secrest, Lord of the Manor, and I blog directly to you from my mansion study at whathowadsworth.blogspot.com.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Me VS Wadsworth

This morning was good one. I got up at a decent hour feeling well rested. Wadsworth made a fantastic omelet for me and at my request drizzled Hollandaise sauce over it. It's so hard to find good Hollandaise sauce these days, but Wadsdworth's could kill you by sheer force of it's unadulterated goodness. After breakfast he also called in a master masseuse at his own expense. It's worth mentioning that Wadsworth is beyond a master in the art of massage, but he's also not a pretty girl, and for unexplained reasons he seemed to think I was deserving of one of those today. Between her pretty face and how relaxed I felt after she worked the knots out of my shoulders I fell into a really wonderful mood. After she left, I gave Wadsworth the rest of the day off. Now I'm starting to wonder if he planned it that way. I think he remembered that this was the day that I'd planned to go through my notes for Solar Flare.

Solar Flare is a fantasy novel I'm writing. Beezle is in it and so is Wadsworth. Infact, the novel is loosely based on true events involving both of them. Despite having a basis to work from, the plot became so convoluted and tangled that I got frustrated and put the manuscript down for about a year. I'm starting it up again and trying to remember where I left off, what to add, and where to slash. It has been a painful process. I think Wadsworth doesn't think it's redeemable. Yesterday he was strongly urging me to let the project die peacefully.

Well, one can't be a slave to their valet. I'm not that type. While he may make recommendations on the right business suit to wear to a meeting, or suggest the kind of beverage that would best compliment my dinner, it's not his place to go killing off my novels before they ever see the light of day. I told him as much and made it very clear that he would be helping me organize my notes today. I'd also hoped to get him to write a few autobiographical chapters that I could include at the end of the book. Unfortunately, a pair of soft feminine hands on the back of my neck made me forget about all of that.

The rest of the day has been a mess. I spent most of it just trying to find my notes and previous chapters. Now that I'm sorting through the mess I can't make heads or tails out of anything. Besides that, Beezle has been singing songs that are so graphically violent, they make "Saving Private Ryan" look like an episode of scrubs. Besides being disturbing, it makes it hard to concentrate.

It's a beautiful day outside, and the pool is calling to me. Maybe things will make more sense after a dip.


I'm ashamed to say that a dip led to sunbathing and sunbathing let to a nap. My pasty white skin is a touch burned, and I'm congested because the Gardner cut the grass while I was sleeping. (I've got mild hayfever). By the time I got back to writing again, I'd lost all my energy and the desire to do anything. On the upside, Wadsworth got back from wherever he goes on his days off, and we reached a compromise. He agrees to keep his opinions about whether or I'll ever get published to himself and help me keep myself organized. I promise to limit his involvement in the project to a bare minimum, though I may ask him a few questions about the events that took place.

With Wadsworth's help things sped along quickly. When he had me in working order he promptly left for the kitchen to start work on dinner. As I worked through the material, I found some places where I was lacking large pieces of information, some of them vital to the area of the book I was currently plotting. I tried to move on, but was so bothered that I couldn't think to write anything else.

In my study there is a long chord that I can yank on to call Wadsworth. I think it rings a bell or something. I gave it a few tugs and drummed my fingers on my desk while I waited. I also watched the second hand on the clock. Wadsworth walked in exactly thirty seconds later. That was ten seconds slower than usual. He must of had his hands in something.

Wadsworth bowed slightly and asked, "Yes, Sir?"

"Wadsworth," I said, "What do you know about that evil entity that Beezle's so terrified of?"

"I FEAR NOTHING!" said the ventilation shaft above my head.

Wadsworth glanced at the ventilation shaft. His expression said nothing, but I could tell he was annoyed. I've been around him for so long that I can just tell.

"If you don't mind me asking, Sir, is there any particular reason that you called me from my duties rather than asking the resident poltergeist?"


"It's because I want true information."


"Only in the narrowest interpretation of the word."


"Despite the untrustworthy nature of the entity in question, it is likely that he will be able to shed more light - "


"-on the subject than I can, Sir."

I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, but I got the distinct impression that the vent was grinning at me.

"So, just how do you propose I separate the fact from the fiction?"


I hope that facial expressions transfer both ways through the vent, because I scowled heartily at it.

Wadsworth cleared his throat to regain my attention. "Demons, like most multiplanear apparitions must abide by certain rules sir. There is a kind of oath that Beezle can make that will force him to speek truth."

The vent boomed with deep laughter.


That was my question too. I thought Wadsworth had finally lost his marbles. I was convinced when I heard him say,"He will bring a sacrifice."


Wadsworth looked pointedly back at me and said, "Will that be all, sir?"

I was still fairly stunned to have heard Wadsworth proclaim that I would be offering a sacrifice to an entity of darkness, but I decided that it would be best to talk to him later out of the earshot of Beezle.

"Yes, Wadsworth. That's all."

"Very good sir. Dinner will be served shortly."

That was half an hour ago. The smells wafting in my direction are overpowering every other sense I have, so I bid you ado.


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