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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required In his derby hat and his three piece tweed suit so exquisitely sublime. Grandpa Rory entered the men’s club on Sixteenth and fine. A lady would have swooned if she had been there as an attendant. He had an air about him that made women less than independent. The hat check boy offered to take this distinguished tiger’s hat. He said “no thank you, son,” giving his derby a gentle tap. He was the kind of guy who would take attention from a groom. Other men stopped talking to watch this tiger enter their lunch room. He did not speak at all, but his flair and ambiance was well understood. He entered stealthily, as a king of mafia kings and wise guys should. Some hastily left, getting their check and heading toward the door. Listening as they left for Grandpa Rory’s well heard of emphatic roar. Grandpa approached the table of two having a bit of a drink. He asked if he could sit, giving the young cub a gentle kindly wink. The older gentleman looked startled, and was I am quite sure. For this was Ruffian T. Rory, a man with reputation pure. So I hear you are hiring my grandson, he said to the middle aged man. The man began to whimper, took out his handkerchief, and fan. What are the terms? The conditions? The money? Grandpa Rory said. The man promptly fell on the floor with a heart attack, thoroughly dead. Grandpa! Rory said. That is the sixteenth interview you have blown. Can you just stay away next time? Can you please just stay at home? Grandpa Rory said to him, “My grandson, the job offer is still there.” So Little Rory went to work for Grandpa, providing heirs within the lair.
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