Patrick slumped against the plush velvet of the carriage seat. The sound of the wheels on the cobblestone made him feel as if it were raindrops, turning him to want to rest as his gaze turned hazy from wanting to sleep.
He turned his eyes to look at his hand, specifically the one that held Valeria's, it still felt a little warm. Or maybe just his lingering adrenaline.
I have rizz energy, plus I'm a rich young master. I have this seven inch dick when I get erect too.
Patrick thought randomly, he forgot to add that he was stupid. He also forgot to add that his social skills are very very very fucking low and his pretty face was the only one thing that made Valeria think he was a normal person with normal social skills.
He also did not know anything about business even though he was a merchant heir. Added to the fact that he does not know noble culture and the way of the worlds thinking.
Noble culture can be ignored since its retardedly elitist anyways.
Patrick himself would agree that speaking indirectly creates misunderstandings if you didnt read the lines between words, its also a lot of thinking for someone as stupid as he is.
From the other side of the carriage, since the carriage has two seatings from the left and the right, was the old man.
Reidward sat like a gargoyle like those ones from haunted houses, while he took a swig of alcohol after pulling it from his backpocket.
The old man was staring at Patrick with a look that suggested he was either planning to slap some maids face until their cheeks turn red like a ripe tomato or planning something in mind to increase Patrick's capacity to talk to people. The latter is more probable.
"Rizz." Patrick muttered as he was lulled into a nap.
"Rizz..." Reidward whispered the word to himself, tasting the Earth words on his tongue like a ripe mango.
"A peculiar term. You truly are a paragon, Master Patrick."
The carriage jolted as it hit a pothole, and Patrick's eyes shot open. He wasn't back on Earth. He wasn't dead.
He was in a world where the way light moves was particularly suspicious, maids faint like Victorian poets. His butler was a violent drunk, slapping anyone when he felt like it.
Reidward looked at Patrick's exhausted face as the young master took a nap. The butler decided it would be better to make the young man actually take a good night's sleep. Deciding so, Reidward informed the man driving the carriage to stop multiple blocks away from their estate first, to give the young master time to sleep.
The driver did not mind such things, nobles have always been eccentric since time immemorial. Reidward did not expect his young master to sleep for a whole day until next morning. Deciding that it was time to let Patrick wake up, he made the carriage move by instructing the driver to.
"We're here," Reidward announced, as the carriage moved more than three blocks.
The carriage door creaked open, revealing the Bidi Company headquarters. There was a sign though that someone forgot to take off, the "Fix Machines" sign. Everyone knows they fix machines when theres a Bidi Company name but it seems the workers like it.
The structure was made of brass and some soot. But as Patrick stepped out, the air felt different.
The female employees from the earlier day ago did not cheer as instructed by Reidward. The old butler frowned at the audacity of these poor bitches.
This was supposed to be useful for Master Patrick's confidence ritual!
The girls that were outside the company were whispering. Their eyes trailed down from Patrick's groggy face from taking a nap, to the unmistakable, location where his crotch would be, between his legs. His large and proud silhouette of his seven inch upgrade pressing against his white trousers.
One of the watchmakers, a young woman with grease on her cheeks, accidentally dropped a magnifying glass when Patrick caught her staring.
"Welcome back, Master!" she squeaked, her face turning the color of a ripe beet.
Patrick couldn't help himself and smirked. The post-nut clarity from the previous day had worn off. He then controlled his expression, thinking that it was pathetic and creepy to smile like that.
Why would they look at my pants anyways. I swear, this world is weird.
"Reidward," Patrick said, his voice dropping an octave as he adjusted his collar. "About that celebratory tea... make sure it's strong. And find me more of those smut novels. I need to... study the local customs."
Reidward's crimson tinged eyes glinted. He leaned in, the stench of alcohol hitting Patrick like a physical wall. "Of course, Young Master."
Reidward continued as he led Patrick to walk, "Learn as much as you can, the marriage is for the future of the Bidi Company and also for your happiness."
Reidward forgot his dissatisfaction after seeing the young master in better spirit, ignoring that the women didn't cheer when they entered, those stares are plenty attention to lift Patrick's spirit.
Patrick walked into the building, the women making way for the young master.
His swagger returning in full force. He didn't know how he got here, and he didn't care about the physics of glowy women anymore. He had a mansion and a massive dick.
Slowly, the female employees that Reidward instructed to cheer slowly entered back into the company floor to get back to work.
The other male workers mostly did not care that Reidward ordered the girls to cheer the young master, they were used to plenty more stupid acts from other nobles just because they had money, this was tame in comparison, the people here appreciate that they can earn a living wage and thats kind enough than most other companies.
The workers here were mostly old people and the younger ones were assistants to fix their respected objects.
"Learn, huh?" Patrick muttered to himself, catching his reflection in a polished brass clock from the many objects inside the working floor.
For the first time in twenty-one rotations of the earth, he didn't look like an ugly loser. He looked like trouble. "I think I can manage that."
The sound of objects being handled as the workers returned to their job, made Patrick feel as if this was going to be the familiar tune when he comes home.
The scent of metallic shite, the god awful stench of burnt oil clogging his nose. The bitter solvents to clean rust and pure sweat.
This is the smell you're stuck with, you seed brained prick, Patrick told himself, his eyes watering.
But hey, it's your home now. Better learn to love the stink.