Maximus Cloydparse was never at a loss for words.
His verbal wittery came easily to him, even as a young student in a small one-room schoolhouse. When the teacher realized he had no clue what the answer to the equation on the chalkboard was, she had rhetorically exclaimed; “Maximus, where were YOU when the lights went out?” to which he had replied: “In the dark.”
The class had erupted in laughter, and even the red-faced teacher had been forced to smile.
Over the years, he’d grown prideful of always having the ‘mot juste’ right at the fingertips of his tongue (a phrase he had coined himself). He was the toast of the town in all the parlours, speak-easies and taverns in the city.
“What’s your problem?” detractors would ask. “You are.” he would counter, to explosions of laughter by his sycophantic entourage.
But when you are the fastest wordsmith in town, the fame and constant ego stroking can have its way with you. And as many men of history before him had learned, there is always someone trying to usurp you. And such was the case one fateful night at The Pen and Octopus when, after a young upstart had cut in line at the bar ahead of him, Cloydparse’s bristling “Excuse ME!” was met with a resounding “No excuse FOR you.”
The gasp of Maximus’ followers was so quick and deep that several windows were blown from their casements onto passersby.
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Cloydparse stared to sweat. “What the –“ he began. And he paused pregnantly. Dickens? Hell? Devil? As he weighed the options, one of his minions soiled himself in anticipation. “Hey.” he concluded, not brilliantly, but his followers muttered approval.
“Hay is for horses,” replied the upstart.
“I know you are, but what am I?” he parried, desperately.
“Go fuck yourself, asshole.” replied his challenger.
It was over. He had nothing. And instead of being remembered as the man who had an answer for everything, he became the man who had eaten that guy’s face in that bar that night.
