The Wild Child's Bodyguard

so it all started-

• the Wild Child's bodyguard •

So it all started when I was attacked.

I was attacked by a steaming mug of coffee.

"Oh my- I- you- I'm sorry, miss!" the waiter has his eyes wide, pleading and desperate, and in a panic gets out his filthy rag of a cloth and tries to wipe my previously white designer pants.

"YOU! " my blood boils in my ears and my eyes widen in morbid horror as he starts to pat my pants, a pathetic effort to take away the brown coffee stain that is most likely going to be permanent. "STOP!'" I spread my arms in a gesture of exasperation and explode. "Don't look at me, don't talk to me, and DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The poor guy freezes, looking as if he were a cornered rat dressed up in a white serving uniform. His huge, dumbo sized ears are flushed red in embarrassment. I could almost hear him whimper for mercy. Good. If I had my way, I'd strangle him, drown him in ice cold water, and then toss him into the deepest, darkest pits of hell for this unspeakable sin-

Deep breaths, Lisa, deep breaths.

I will make sure his entire family pay for their failure of a son-

Lisa, remember, being angry makes you wrinkly.

Okay. That's right. I take two deep breaths. This stupid waiter is not worth the price of any flaws on my face.

I'll just have to show him who's boss.

"Do you know," I drawl out, shutting my eyes and taking more deep breaths, "-that the pants you just ruined were made by a renowned French tailor?" I hear him gulp. "José Quint Pascal. My father flew him in just to design and sew this for me. Do you know what that means, you ignorant fool?" I stand, putting all the disdain I have into my glare. "Even if you work all three hundred and sixty five days for the next fifty years of your life you will never be able to afford it. Ever."

"I'm really sorry, miss-" he squeaks, but cuts himself off as I take two threatening steps towards him. The manager of the restaurant choose this time to appear by his side- a lengthy man in his mid forties and a permanent look of dislike on his face. Just in time.

"Is anything the matter, Miss Kingsley?"

"Funny you should ask," I look to the manager, "I came to this five star restaurant, expecting five star service, and this is what I get?" I raise an eyebrow, gesturing to the waiter who is now looking up at me in desperation.

The manager frowns at him in disgust, before turning back to me with a forced smile, "I'm sorry for his behaviour, Miss Kingsley, he's merely a new trainee. To show you that our apology is sincere, whatever you order will be on the house."

I give a fake laugh. "No thanks. I can pay for my meals. This restaurant, on the other hand, might need to start worrying about paying off their bills since they've just lost the Kingsley's as their loyal customer."

The looks on their faces are priceless- jaw dropped, eyes almost popping out of their sockets... Even the manager's look of dislike is replaced by panic momentarily. That'll show them.

Brushing imaginary lint off my pink fuchsia blouse, I slam fifty dollars down the unsuspecting coffee table, look at the dumbo-eared waiter, and add as much ice I can into my words, "Keep the change. You'll need it for the legal fees."

I stomp out of the parlour, leaving a gaggle of patrons throwing sympathetic glances at the waiter who starts bawling his eyes out while his manager scolds and fires him on the spot. And he calls himself part of the male species, ha! Goes to show how unmanly the men of our age were becoming!