Mr Creosote was the Minister of Deference. He used to be in the military and commanded a battalion of cleaning bots. He sustained some injuries (carpal tunnel syndrome) and presented his case effectively enough to be generously compensated. He argued his case so well, that he was immediately offered the position of Minister of Deference after he retired from the military, since he had quite the way with words.
Mr Creosote was in his fifties. He was a thin man. He had six sets of formal attire, one which he'd only wear to weddings and special events. He jogged and read in his spare time. He liked to drink wine and thought of himself as a connoisseur. He never gets drunk. He dislikes drunk people. He also dislike smokers or gamblers. He thought of them as decadent and pitiful. He did not like his job. He believes jobs are not meant to be liked. He liked himself. He liked his wife most of the time.
His wife recently joined the community centre because she had nothing better to do. She was kicked out of the singing class because she was too bossy. The people there recommended her to join the first wives' club where members met to exchange pointers on how to manage their husbands better. It suited her well, even though she would feel that the other members were pitiful for having husbands who had affairs. Mr Creosote did not have any other women. She was fairly sure of that.
The latest thing the club had been raving about was how to manipulate the diets of the husbands. "The way through to a man's heart is through his stomach." That was the theme until ideas for things relevant to it to do ran out. The latest thing was eating light and right, which was why Mr Creosote had to bring a sandwich to lunch.
Mr Creosote liked bringing sandwiches to lunch. He was rather pleased with himself for having a wife who prepared it for him and cared for his health. Anyway, it was economical and efficient. It would validate why he would not go out for lunch. Every lunch time, he would feel uncomfortable of the possibility of somebody asking him to go for lunch. He did not like to eat lunch with the people from his office, because they were his subordinates and would obligate him to pay for lunch if they were to eat together. He was resigned to how it was lonely to be at the top. He was used to it, because in the cleaning battalion he had to eat by himself too.
At lunch time, he took out his wine magazine and sandwich. He flipped to the page that he had previously bookmarked with a post-it note so he could read it for lunch. It featured an article on beef and wines. He was having a mashed cow tumour sandwich, so it was apt. He held the magazine in his left hand and the sandwich in his right. Then he felt that there was something tickling his nose, so he held the sandwich with his mouth by not biting through it, to free his right hand. Then he dug his nose and a piece of snot fell straight down from his nose and landed on his sandwich. He was aware of it, but he ate it anyway, with the bite after next. He ate his own snot without much thought.
(sneak.)
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