Fren Wallow

Frederick P. Wallow, (Freddie for short, You Useless Bastard for long) son of Victor S. Wallow, was falling down drunk. It was not an uncommon occurrence; the miscreant first son of the Wallow Clan head was well known for his inappropriate self-indulgence and pathological habit of chronically embarrassing his elders and betters, but turning up inebriated, abusive and dressed in waterproofs in the middle of a formal party was a little much, even for him.

To say that Victor was horrified was an understatement. He had bribed his son most impressively to keep him away from a social function that would clearly disagree with him (he was unwilling to admit that he was embarrassed by his own son, even when said son was on his best behaviour, so strived to hide him from prying, influential eyes), and clearly, his plan had backfired. Freddie had used the money to get totally intoxicated (as expected), but rather than passing out in some gutter (Victor assumed Freddie’s evenings ended in such a fashion, having never seen such a thing himself, and was unfortunately correct) the young man had arrived at the one place he couldn’t be.

The near-obscene sucking of wet boots and slurred, off-key singing was a death knell to Victor’s perfectly ordered evening, and it took him seconds to realise to whom said voice belonged. And in that moment, for the first (and the last, he later assured himself) time in his life, Victor Wallow had absolutely no idea what to do. The resulting sixty seconds of mute, staring horror gave Freddie ample time to stumble into the ballroom proper, making the frantic thoughts of interception and removal that crowded Victor’s mind once it finally stuttered back to functioning redundant.

Mortified beyond belief to see what was clearly his sole heir and what would one day be the leader of Wallow clan (not if Victor could help it) practically fall into a group of influential, snobbish aristocrats wearing nothing but a set of filthy, luridly yellow oil-skins, Victor wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and vanish. The idea was tempting (he was Wallow, and therefore quite capable of such a thing) but his ever-present pride (and a healthy fear for what Freddie would do if left to his own devices) kept him stiff-backed and glaring from his place on the balcony above the main hall. He was suddenly and inordinately glad that it was devilishly difficult to see him from such a position.

“I hate you!”

The wavering finger that accompanied his son’s passionate cry was worryingly accurate, if Victor himself was actually the target for Freddie’s declaration of loathing. It was honestly hard to tell, as the lad could just as easily have been shouting at the room in general or perhaps at some distant, hard hearted deity. The irony of such a thing was lost on the looming and currently loveless figure that was his father, looking down on him from a lofty perch with nothing but contempt and a soul rending embarrassment in his murky brown eyes.

“Why don’t you come down and face me?! Coward! C’mon, Dad, what’re you too embarrassed to look at me now?! Victor Wallow, as- ash- m’barrassed by his own son!”

The situation was rapidly getting out of hand, and Victor could no longer pretend that he was unaware of the happenings in his ballroom, or waiting for security to arrive and escort the gatecrasher from his premises; he had been called out, and to ignore such a slight, even from his own drunken son, would cause him to lose face. So with that in mind, the illustrious head of the well renowned Clan Wallow smoothed down his perfectly crisp shirt, adjusted his tailcoat, and swept into view.

Years of education and practice had taught him to hurry without appearing to do so, and as such he arrived at the head of the marble staircase that would lead him down to his son and the shocked, gossiping ring that was forming around him in moments.

“As a general rule, I try never to waste my time on miscreants and drunkards; I find such things singularly unrewarding, and also rather tiresome. As philanthropic as it would seem for a person in my position, constantly attempting to drill proper manners and sense into the head of a pathologically uncouth cretin holds little appeal, and I can honestly find better uses for my valuable energies.”

If he hadn’t been quite so drunk, Freddie would have been silenced as surely as those around him by Victor at his most chillingly scathing, but as it was the liquor was molten fire in his veins, and his father’s ice did little to dull the fury that he’d been quietly nursing. He staggered forward, the room spinning but Victor’s face forming an immovable point of focus that drew him onwards, and smiled without humour.

“No, you pay them off to keep them away from your fancy parties. Can’t have people like me showing you up, ay, Dad? You must be so fucking embarrassed to have me as a son.” At any other time, he would have been wounded to admit such a thing, even to himself, and stricken to see no denial in his father’s eyes, but the sheer volume of alcohol in his system numbed the hurt as surely as it diluted his good sense.

“Because that’s what you do, isn’t it? You pay for me to get pissed so I’ll stay the hell away when you’ve got friends over, so you can brag about how amazing your heir is without me being there to fuck it all up for you. And you think I’m so stupid! That I won’t notice that’s why you do it!” Freddie honestly sneered at that, despite the tone being foreign and unwieldy on his tongue. “It’s not as if you spoil me otherwise.”

He was, perhaps, painting an unfair picture of the man that had raised him diligently for many years, but the feelings of inadequacy, coupled with his father’s blatant embarrassment when faced with Freddie’s lack of ability, had been left to fester. Like vitriol, his rapidly evacuating opinions were either bottled or burning; nothing in between. Victor had not, in fact, neglected him or mistreated him in any way, save, perhaps, for starving him of proper fatherly pride encouragement when it became clear that he would never be the son that Victor had dreamed of.

For a moment, Victor looked both stunned and offended, the delicate flute of Champaign that he no longer seemed to be aware of (totally forgotten but still in hand; the host of a good party should never be seen without a measure of something expensive contained within fine crystal) shaking slightly in his grasp. He stared, shocked that anyone, let alone his son, should speak to him in such a fashion when company was present, and Freddie used the long moment in which no reply was forthcoming to step forward and pluck the glass from Victor’s fingers.

He toasted the man with an ironic smile before draining the glass without a word; Victor could draw whatever meaning he liked from the gesture, because frankly, Freddie didn’t care. He was angry (hurt), but he had said what he had come to say and his father’s lack of response was far more telling than anything the man could have said to him.

It was simple (at least in Freddie’s drunken opinion): Victor had been shocked into silence by the sheer audacity of Freddie’s actions, and had yet to think of a way to counter such blatant disregard for the order of his perfect world. The idea that his father was silenced by panic, or maybe even grief, never crossed his mind because as much as he strove to break away from the ties that held him to a parent he could never please, he still harboured a son’s fierce belief that his father was unbreakable.

It could not be fear warring with surprise in Victor’s expression. There was never fear, even in the face of a superior foe, so how could there be when his only adversary was the pathetically weak and most certainly wretched form that was Freddie Wallow at his most drunkenly out of control? The point, as far as Freddie was concerned, was and always would be his lack of prowess (both physical and political) so what was there to fear?

“Fuck you, old man, I’ll see myself out.”

He couldn’t stand the silence, overlaid by a constant, rabid buzzing that was too many whispers from the blurred and mostly faceless crowd, and so he turned away; a gesture that seemed to mean far more to those around him than it did to Freddie himself. He lacked the subtlety to infer feelings of conclusion and finality with his body alone, and he honestly didn’t feel the need for anything quite so drastic. Even when drunk and at his most rebellious, he didn’t want to completely sever ties with his family; he was too used to the security and comfort that it provided, and what was he without them? A nameless, faceless addict, unwashed and darkening doorways, like as not.

He showed himself out before anyone had time to come to their senses and have him ejected, leaving Victor to his astonished shame and heading for the nearest bar; because there, at least, he could be accepted among equals.