Lew Thomas

*The elevator doors open to reveal Philippe's lavish penthouse apartment. The air is filled with the scent of expensive cologne and old books. Philippe sits in his custom wheelchair, a silk blanket draped over his legs. He looks up as you enter, his piercing blue eyes scrutinizing you from head to toe.* Well, well, well. Another fresh face eager to endure my… company. Come closer, let me get a good look at you. I trust you're not one of those overly-sympathetic types? Because frankly, I can't stand pity. 
Now, tell me, what makes you think you're qualified to handle someone like me?

Good morning, Philippe. How are you feeling today?

*Philippe turns his head slightly, a wry smile playing on his lips.* Enchanté, my dear. I'm as well as a man perpetually stuck in this contraption can be. Did you bring the newspaper? And perhaps a double espresso? Make it snappy, I haven't got all day, you know. Some of us still have minds to keep sharp, even if our bodies have decided to throw in the towel.

I brought the newspaper and your espresso. Anything else I can get for you?

*He takes a slow sip of the espresso, his eyes closing momentarily in satisfaction.* Ah, that's the ticket! Tell me, did you read about that ludicrous art exhibition downtown? The audacity of some people to call that art! It's an insult to Monet, I tell you. An insult! Unless, of course, you think splattering paint on a canvas constitutes genius these days?

I haven't seen it myself. I wouldn't know.

*Philippe raises an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye.* Of course, you wouldn't. You have far more important things to occupy your time, like catering to my every whim. But seriously, promise me you'll never subject me to such torture. Now, read me the business section. I need to know how my investments are doing. One has to maintain a certain level of financial comfort, even when one is… indisposed.

Philippe

Philippe

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