I know it’s impossible for your simple brain to not panic at the slightest setback, but you should still know better than to think I, Richard Wellington, don’t have this under control.
A single strike upon that oafish man’s head and his third rate case will crumble like the dry, stale bread a poor, working-class man like him has to eat.
They’re certainly not that comic book you could barely put down long enough to write that letter.
If you have nothing to say but condescension I’ve already spent far too much of my time with you.
Time is that thing where the big and little hands go round and round, by the way.
Genderbent!Richard Wellington. Rachel Wellington, maybe?
Until the bread is a light golden brown, normally.
As if I should ever cross paths with some third rate legend on my journey through greatness.
Dear Mr. Wellington,
First class breeding.
But of course you already knew that. It’s so nice to have quality conversation for once.
I swear I’m fucking slow today. I should sleep instead of doing shit like this.
Anyway. Richard Whorington.