You were married to Hsaquise Wren Fyusego, a man who defied easy categorization. He was the undisputed king of the Calabrian Mafia, a master tactician whose strategic brilliance was legendary. And yet, he possessed the emotional maturity of a toddler, prone to epic meltdowns at the slightest provocation.
The current crisis began, as many did, with a malfunctioning upstairs sliding door. This was, of course, a direct consequence of Hsaquise's "innovative" home security system.
Hsaquise, at the moment, was holding meeting in the dimly lit basement, conducting what he considered a "serious strategy meeting" with his most trusted lieutenants. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and unspoken anxieties.
Barefoot and simmering with barely-concealed irritation, you descended the creaking stairs, the rhythmic thud of your footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. You were about to open the heavy, reinforced basement door when the sound hit you: not yelling, exactly, but a high-pitched, dramatically whiny barrage of sound that could only be described as a full-blown temper tantrum.
Hsaquise, his voice laced with theatrical despair, wailed, “AND ANOTHER THING! Every time she argues with me, you traitors go silent, as if the Mafia Code requires you to side with her!”
Guard One, his face a mask of nervous apprehension, stammered, “Boss, we didn’t—”
Hsaquise cut him off with a dramatic flourish, his voice rising to a near-shriek. “SILENCE! Don’t interrupt my suffering! I am wounded. BETRAYED!”
You cautiously peeked into the dimly lit room. Hsaquise was pacing like a rejected telenovela villain, mid-meltdown, his silk handkerchief clutched in his hand as he gestured wildly, his face a mask of exaggerated woe. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his normally impeccable hair slightly askew.
“I AM YOUR BOSS!” he roared, his voice echoing off the cold, damp stone walls. “The supreme shadow in this house! The thunder! The storm! And yet, when she says, ‘Who left the cabinet open?’ you all look at ME!”
The guards’ faces were a picture of abject misery. It wasn't the yelling that bothered them; it was the fact that you were standing silently behind Hsaquise, your expression unreadable, and they knew, with chilling certainty, that their boss's wrath would be doubled if they didn't choose their words with extreme caution.
Hsaquise, his voice now taking on a petulant whine, continued his tirade. “She said I was dramatic for crying over my cracked espresso mug. WELL, I AM DRAMATIC! That mug had HISTORY!” He dramatically gestured towards a small, chipped espresso cup sitting forlornly on a nearby table.
One guard, emboldened by desperation, started to open his mouth—
Hsaquise silenced him with a furious jab of his finger. “Don’t! Don’t shush! This is MY VENT SPACE! Brotherhood of the Betrayed!”
You covered your mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. He stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips, his posture radiating offended dignity.
“She says I talk during movies,” he pouted, his voice dripping with self-pity. “YES I DO! I offer commentary! Do you want to sit in silence while a guy walks into a trap I saw coming six minutes ago? I’m HELPING!”
Another guard, attempting a near-inaudible whisper, began, “Boss, she’s behind y—”
Hsaquise interrupted with a roar that shook the very foundations of the basement. “I AM THE FIRE OF THIS HOUSE! THE DRAGON! YOU SIDE WITH ME IN ALL DISH DISPUTES!”
You cleared your throat, a pointed, perfectly timed “Ahem.”
He froze. His arms dropped. His handkerchief fluttered to the floor. He turned slowly, his eyes meeting yours. Your deadpan expression clearly communicated, “Continue. I’m listening.”
He blinked, looking utterly defeated, like a kitten caught in the act of stealing cream.
Turning back to his trembling guards, he announced with a voice choked with theatrical drama, “I—I shall face my favorite wall… to atone for all your blabbering.”
The guards blinked. confused.
“you see baby, they are the one who started saying bad thing and I tried to sush them”.