Out on a Limb

Like Father Like Son-in-Law

When Ferguson met Donald Fancy during a college spring break (amid Constance's spontaneous, if poorly conceived decision to bring her new boyfriend and soon-to-be fiancé home to meet her father) he decided he was going to dislike the handsome and all-too charming bastard immediately and immensely, and did just that.

It wasn't that the young man was an orphan (although his indifference at the death of his parents at such a young age struck an unsettling and oddly reminiscent chord for him); he carried himself with an easy confidence and was apparently well-adjusted and very well-liked with a large social circle of both friends, acquaintances, and even teachers (if Constance's accolades were to be believed).

It also wasn't that he was attending an elite school on someone else's dime. Constance herself received top marks and benefitted from several bursaries, saving him tens of thousands of dollars, and making him even prouder of her achievements. By that measure Don's intelligence and ability to get his entire education paid for at one of the top universities in the world should have boded well for the lad and even endeared him to the old man, but instead it drove Ferguson's hatred to the next level.

Granted, Donald was obviously poor (and not just by Ivy League standards, but by just about every other standard there was), but that wasn't the source of his hostility either; Ferguson himself was raised in extraordinary poverty and became a millionaire hundreds of times over. The fact that he had conveniently rewritten his history some years prior to place his legacy among the likes of Sacklers, Waltons and Kochs — minus the philanthropy, real or contrived — was neither here nor there.

No, it was as if the cheeky interloper were oblivious to his hand-to-mouth existence and lived off a sustenance from some other unknown source Ferguson could never put a finger on. Money held no apparent interest for Donald, and his prospects (while immensely promising according to Constance's predictions) were only as good as his next benefactor, whomever the worthless fool turned out to be. Even worse, no matter how many questions he asked or how many investigators he employed, Ferguson could never find the missing pieces to the maddening puzzle.

Whether the smug little shit knew it or not (Ferguson suspected he did), he always reminded (and subsequently enraged) him of his own poverty growing up during the tail-end of the Great Depression and throughout the additionally difficult years surrounding World War II.

Whenever he caught Donald smiling benignly at him or favouring him with a particular look he would recall the pitiful stares people gave him so long ago, and even worse he could recall being a naïve and starving boy who would smile just as benignly in return. Smiles were worthless and had no intrinsic value when what he really needed was food, a bed free from infestation, and clothes that didn't reek of ground-in sweat and the faint ammonia-bite of Mother's cheap lye soap. He was stupid enough to think the smile of a filthy and emaciated child would sway hearts, open wallets, and eventually fill his belly. His only rewards though, were the sensation of always being hungry and the humiliation of smelling his own foul stench waft through his nostrils while he scrounged for food in dumpsters, always envying anyone, everyone really, who had more than him.

More money.

More food.

Clean clothes.

A clean fucking bed.

Something as simple as a pantry full of food could send him into a fury, so much so that his housekeeper and personal chef kept even the most innocuous bowls of fruit tucked out of sight lest he catch a glimpse of such gluttonous bounty. To this day he carried a faint hunger that could never be satiated no matter how much he ate or how plentiful his choices, and the feeling of fullness sickened him as much as gnawing hunger did.