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[indent][indent]Light oozed in through the cracks of the curtains of the bedroom. That wasn’t what woke Ambrose up. It was instead his mother pounding on his door. “Ambrose Win Hightower the Second,” she barked out. He knew that his entire name meant trouble. So, he rolled over and glanced at his fancy, digital clock. The time was displayed in a lemonade yellow against a cloudy background. [i]Shit.[/i] It was late. His head felt like an anchor was tied to his brow. It tried to keep him attached to his pillow, but he pried himself out of the cool comfort of his sheets. “I’m up!” he responded.

“As you should be. It’s summer, and I will not tolerate a layabout son.” There was a clink of ice cubes against a glass as her heels tapped away from the door. 

Ambrose stood, stretched, and caught his reflection in the large mirror in the corner. He flexed, pursed his lips, and gave himself a wink. The sleep wasn’t shaken off that easily, but it was enough to propel him to the shower, then in front of yet another mirror, and into a [url=https://i.pinimg.com/564x/2d/f1/6b/2df16bf854a7228c9c592c001a35bc69.jpg]change of clothing[/url]. Clothing that might have seemed like a bit much for the middle of summer, but being wealthy meant that the temperature outside didn’t affect common style.  He looked like he was ready to hop aboard a yacht, any yacht, and so decided to head to the docks. If he made his rounds in New Hope, his mother couldn’t find fault in him. The docks first, then maybe further in town for lunch—[i]errr dinner[/i]—and then back in enough time to catch up on his shows. He had to stop binging things until the wee hours, or his sleeping patterns would never get fixed. 

He pulled up next to the lake to see everyone milling about like ants excited about a Cheeto having landed on their hill. [i]Right. Duh.[/i] Preparations for the Summer Festival abounded. [i]Right.[/i] Ambrose cracked a wide smile. This was all part of his plan. It wasn’t instantaneously made up on the spot to appease the masses and make him look like a good Samaritan. He parked his silver Volvo and strolled up, hands in his pockets.

“Alright! Who needs a big strong man to help them move things?” He laughed. “I’m kidding. I’m not big at all, nearly single-digit body fat.” The joke was only funny to him. It was a humble brag if anyone ever heard it. This is probably the reason why there was a certain citizen of New Hope that disliked him. And as far as Ambrose was concerned—it was just Weasel. Everyone else loved him.[/indent][/indent]