Woobster was a rich man, but never a bright one, and so when Jeebs volunteered his services as a manservant, Woobster just said “Sure, whatever, here’s where I keep my money, so take a decent wage” and went back to hard-boiling eggs… well, actually, he was boiling half dozens of them, pulling the eggs out of the water at different times, and trying to see if he could catch one at the very moment it became hard-boiled with a well-timed shell-cracking ambush.
His fingers were prune-y from the water and the blisters, as the eggs came out quite hot.
—
Woobster had a dreadful fear of his Aunt Agnes and came to Jeebs with the problem: a visit was imminent. How could the social call be avoided?
“Not to worry,” said Jeebs, who took a clean spade out of the closet where it rested by the ironing board. He led Woobster out to a nearby park where, is it happened, he had already taken the liberty of digging a grave-sized hole and supplying a comfortable casket. “If you’ll please do me the kindness of reclining…”
Woobster lowered himself in, pushing his manicured fingers into the padded casket’s sides. “Quite well cushioned, Jeebs, well done. But I say… once you’ve shoveled the dirt on top of me, won’t there be— and I’m not trying to impugn your planning or expertise, you understand, and I’m quite grateful for this hiding place where Aunt Agnes is quite unlikely to find me, but— air quality will be an issue, won’t it?”
“I’ve already taken that into consideration,” said Jeebs, tossing an air freshener in the shape of a pine tree onto Woobster’s chest. It fluttered down, end over end, and Woobster had just enough time to remove its plastic sleeve and catch his first scent of chemical pine when Jeebs kicked shut the casket’s lid and the first skittering sounds of pitched dirt started clattering across its surface.
Woobster’s high score on the Drones’ Ms. Pacman machine is beaten. Jeebs addresses the issue by revealing he’s already kidnapped the offending video game winner and hands Woobster a pistol.
Jeebs finishes tying fishing line around Woobster’s wrists, then gives an efficient nod to the sailor pressing currency into his hand.
“Are you quite sure about this, Jeebs?” mutters Woobster, watching Jeebs thumb through his paper money for a quick count.
“It’s all accounted for, sir. There’s no way that you can be maneuvered into marriage while you’ve been impressed into service on a whaling vessel. You’ll be safe from the wiles of Ms. Beautina for at least 8 months until your return.”