Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

8: and nothing pleaseth but rare accidents

Henry

I'm going to fucking kill him.
So what I said. What my exact words to him were: "Ensure deposits enter these two accounts at the proper rate according to these notes I have here. That's all I'm asking you to do. Let Joan handle your siblings."
What my miscreant brain-damaged off spring heard was, "Rework every single aspect of our business initiatives into a streamlined patter that only makes sense to your deranged mind while raising your siblings on your own and doubling our income in two weeks while laundering several million dollars through a front business you bought at two am, three hours after I left you."
I don't know how he got it that wrong but here we are.
"He's fucking insane. He's psychotic. He's fucking psychotic."
A couple of folders??? Really? Really Harry? Didn't you mean eighteen different binders and notebooks filled with incomprehensible scribble including an entire poster board on the wall of people you're planning to fire and/or just kill? Along with cancelling and changing all of my meetings and pissing off the Percys who are our allies who he has regulated to as minimal work as possible and wrote a fucking dissertation as to why.
And that's just in my office. Where he told me to look. Where he permitted me to look. Not his office, which does not exist, it's a room I've tried to lock him out of repeatedly and---
"Jesus Christ," I put my face in my hands.
The room is organized chaos. It's supposed to be empty. Stacks of books and ledgers. Plots and charts and graphs on every single wall, all in his tidy scrawl. Occasionally notes in Latin so that nobody but him can fucking read it, because he's fucking psycho. There are four laptops set up looks like they're running some sort of scheme too. I unplug all of them, throwing one across the room.
"You fucking lunatic," I say, tearing one of the papers from the wall. Five, ten, and twenty year plan? Really?
That's it. I'm gonna do it. His mother was against it, but I think it'll be fucking good for him. I'm gonna hire a plane. And I'm gonna drop him in a foreign fucking third world country and he can either come home or overthrow a whole government I think it'll be the latter, but if it's the former then he can home that's fine. No. Just no. Fuck this. And this is just two rooms. I've been through two rooms I haven't even checked his bedroom or the attic yet. What's he planning in there? World domination?
I wanted that to be sarcasm. I wanted it not to be true. I wanted Joan to be right. I really fucking did. I tear down his papers, shoving laptops off of tables, heedless of breaking them. Fuck this shit. Just fuck it. He is not doing this he's not being this. I am still his father.
I'm not dead yet. No matter how he might wish it.