Mr. Grillbanister (of the Chesapeake Grillbanisters) was no ordinary quadrillionaire with a fortune at his disposal and lackeys ready to be dispatched at a moment’s notice to every corner of the globe to do his bidding.
No.
He was the most eccentric quadrillionaire with a fortune at his disposal and lackeys ready to be dispatched at a moment’s notice to every corner of the globe to do his bidding in the world.
For instance, he’d already bought all the caviar in the world and used it to spackle the Great Wall of China.
He’d funded an on-going operation to dredge the entire Atlantic Ocean (never mind that she’d gone down in the Pacific) to find Amelia Earhart, dead or alive.
His accountant Mandrake had long ago learned to just get things done. But today, even Mandrake was surprised.
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“I’m going to open up a monkey signature farm,” said Mr. Grillbanister.
“Monkey signature farm?” repeated Mandrake.
“I’m sure my roomful of typewriter monkeys can spare a few? Provide them with inkwells, fountain pens, and blank cheques. Have their names all legally changed to words that rhyme with Ptarmigan Jones. Only the very best signatures will then be planted, to grow trees bearing the finest monkey signature fruit the world has ever seen. Just get it done, Mandrake.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mandrake, deciding now was not the best time to let Grillbanister know that the typewriter monkeys had formed a union and were now on strike.
