An engine outside slowly ground down to a dull roar before silence and car doors slammed. The greasy haired woman leaning on the counter brushed a wispy tendril off her ear and flashed her braces alluringly. Alas, Brian had no time for flirting, as his first customer of the day walked in.
As the enormous man entering the studio carrying the equally rotund fluffy pony passed Kimmy, exiting the front door, brief pleasantries were exchanged. Kimmy worked at the Fluffmart Daycare at the other end of the strip mall. Plopped down on the counter with an audible “pfft!” as fluff, fat, and a tiny bit of flatulence hit the photo studio counter, Brian found himself yet again in the presence of His Royal Highness, Prince Rupert himself.
Three weeks ago, The obnxoious sports car had roared into the parking lot with the large, oily man in the anime t-shirt, his buxom and bored looking wife, and their portly little prince. Rupert was adorable, wearing a little elf costume, the gorgeous woman wearing a red sweater dress, and the man in a stained red t-shirt with a santa suit print on it.
Brian was an excellent photographer, but even with his immense talent he could not make a decent family portrait from this mess. Katya had been a model before she moved to the united states, and every single picture she was perfect. Brian fondly remembered their conversations about photography while Miles was being obnoxious on his phone in the lobby. So, so many lovely conversations with Katya over the last month. and Rupert was a great little subject, sitting still and smiling wide. Miles… well. Rupert’s Daddeh didn’t even bother to shave that day.
“Good Morning, Miles. Good morning, your highness.”
The enormous man’s cheeks puffed like a smarty pony as he huffed, “Hmmf! It is proper decorum to always greet his highness prince rupert first and only after he has greeted you. Although, mayhaps, that is expecting too much from a lowly but hard-working tradesman like yourself.”
Rupert bobbed his perfectly coiffed head at the lowly Brian and clapped his hooves together excitedly. “Mistu Bwine has pwetty pitchuws for Woo-put???”
“You betcha, Your highness! You look so handsome!”
Brian pulled one of the greeting cards from the box and handed it to Miles. The corpulent man’s jowls shook with a quiet rage. “Hmmpf! This will not do! My lovely bride Katya has elected to return to Romania and I do not wish to see her name on these holiday tidings of joy.”
“Oh? oh no. Sorry to hear that. Reprints only take me about 3 days, and I charge $50 per batch of one hundred.”
Miles sighed and raised his voice at the ceiling, “This is unacceptable! I already paid you, and I want these corrected!”
Brian smiled and shrugged, “I really am sorry, but $50 is the lowest i can charge for reprints. Paper and ink cost me money, and you had 2 weeks to tell me if you wanted anything modified.”
Miles clenched a fist to his drooping chest melodramatically, “Is there no other solution?!”
Brian picked up a red sharpie from his register and scratched out the offending name. Miles took a permanent marker himself and began crossing out the entire 150 count box of greeting cards. How such a repugnant man had 150 people to send these to, Brian could not even guess.
Rupert sat cheerfully singing a song to himself, before a thought flashed before the little fluffy pony’s mind.
“Daddeh is dis duh Dibborce? Color on papews and Mummah Katya gits haff yo monies?”
Miles looked perplexed, “No, Rupert where did you hear that?”
Rupert beamed up at his Daddeh, proud to have remembered something that happened almost a month ago, “Mummah Katya tawkies bout dibborce on Pictow Day while Mummah gib Mistuh Bwine wickie cweens on his nunu stick.”
The silence in the photo studio was deafening.
