"D'you know a mister Warner?" I asked the taxi driver. My family hailed from Scotland and I used this oppertunity to start learning more about my heritage. Starting with a perfect accent. I made my voice do dips and round curves over end sounds to make myself sound Scottish.
"'Fraid not, mum, i'll just take you to the address so ye' can find out yourself." Said he, his hands kindly rotating the steering wheel.
Scotland is so beautiful, so new, it's like a different planet with human beings that I liked. They were polite, well dressed, and so cultured. The taxi driver and I were instant friends by noon.
*
The taxi rolled up to a gate with a mailbox on it. The address matched the one on the sheet in my hand. "This is Mr. B. Warner's mansion."
"Shall I wait here?"
"Let me see if 'e answers first, thanks Berkley."
I went to the iron gate, it was spiked at the top like spears turned upward and in a line. There was a button on the gate, I pushed it to no resident avail. I squeezed my face between the bars, my green eyes flashing over the lawn and observing the manor more closely.
It was a huge house a terracotta color, it was stony and tall with lots of windows and balconies. There was a terrifying gargoyle on every right angle. The space between me and the front door was half a mile of green grass and tall trees with budding flowers. This guy lived in style.
"Who on earth makes this much money?" Observing the paper, I read over the name four more times. I sounded it out, each time my ears rang like they were dogs that caught a scent. I know this name. . .from somewhere. . .
Brian Hugh Warner. . .
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I'm deeply honored about how many reads this is receiving! Next chapter coming this way!
