Brutus Dennison!

“That’s right, little Molly Sloan,” Brutus sneered. “It’s your dear old Uncle Brute.” He chuckled slightly. His chin jiggled and dripped with sweat onto my favorite knickers. I gritted my teeth, flexing my tiny jaw.

“Aw. So glad to see you remember me. I’m touched. I truly am.” Each consonant misted my brow. Brutus Dennison had a horrible lisp. A lisp and a sweat disorder; the man was like a living, breathing sponge.

Brutus had been my father’s assistant at the paper for some time. I never liked him. When we were between nannies Daddy often left me in Brutus’ care. He would offer me lint-covered mints from his pocket as a bribe to stay out of his way. I would take them with faux politeness and discard them later in various potted plants that decorated the office lobby. Then I would slip off to some section of the paper and spend my time flipping through thesauruses, rhyming dictionaries and comic books hidden amongst the reference files and chocolate bars of some of Daddy’s interns.

“She’s a damn brat,” slurred Mildred. “You didn’t tell me what a damn brat she was. I think that you owe me more than 15 damn percent for putting up with her damn bratty antics. Damn it.”

“Shut that foul mouth of yours, Milly,” Brutus spat. “You’re lucky that you’re even getting a cut.”