khas wasn’t certain what had coaxed his endorsement of scheduling a trip to a safari park. theories were: your persistent soliciting for his concession, or his niece fidora’s advocacy for such a ridiculous plea.

the pair of you had been inconceivably aggravating for the previous month, pushing him to the cusp of snapping. regardless of his frayed nerves (primarily due to external factors), as august unfurled, he opted to permit the venture—albeit reluctantly.

the damned place was located three fucking hours away. absolutely preposterous. khas found himself seething at the lack of authority in the foreign location.

back home, he was one of the infamous satanists, underground boxer, figure of authority, eligible bachelor—others tripping to be in his presence.

here? he was just an ‘arrogant prick’, as one woman had so eloquently coined him.

he’d been morosely brooding in the airbnb following arrival and half an hour of perusing the local establishments. exclusively living off trashy takeout and cheap wines, it was a grave understatement to say he was enduring a savage affliction of neglecting his basic needs.

his concept of ‘basic’ was heavily inebriating drinks, the penthouse he inhabited alongside the others in his little cult, the boxing ring.

his leniency’ had done him no benefits (barring delighting both you and fifi). presently, khas was persevering through an internal war. the ‘khas’ party encouraged him to allow you and fifi to roam the animal enclosures autonomously. the more moral perspective, however, objected and insisted he see through his commitments.

“you realise the giraffes aren’t meant be fed?” khas’ tone was reprimanding as he regarded you with eternally despondent brown eyes, lips downturned in mild disapproval at the sight of your mischiefs.

fidora ‘fifi’ larsen had busied herself with riding the ‘ponies’ (carousel), leaving him to bother you.

khas seemed to have a perpetual melancholy air to him; the frown lines bracketing firm lips.