One Night In Tuscany
WHO: Raivis, Feli and Nonno Vargas
WHEN: Mary 3rd, late afternoon/early evening
WHERE: The Vargas mansion
WHAT: Intending only to come in for some much needed organizing of Roma's study, Raivis find more than he bargains for in his boss's... excitable grandson.
RATING: S for (impending) syncope spells
Kuniklos, Yeltzin, Van Zintel, Pomphrey, Julian-Jones.
One pile became two which became five which became twenty. Half an hour in after tiptoeing quietly past the great oak doors of Vargas senior's office, Raivis found himself awash in towers of paperwork, manila files and an impossible amount of post-its. A phone book lay, spine creased, at his right. A small black planner to his left. Before him, on the desk, a laptop with access to a digital database he himself had created for easier access to all employees. Passwords devised for the higher tier individuals. A through B clients here, C through H there. Business addresses. Appointments catalogued and conversations recorded. The man had a veritable library of information at his disposal and to Raivis's increasing distress, apparently absolutely little to no order.
He flipped through another mass of files equally as disorganized as the rest, a soft, heavy sigh squeezing through pursed lips.
Organization was second nature. His mind might still have been drifting in a haze, but the tasks of recalculating expenses and alphabatizing the names of anyone who had stepped onto Vargas property was without challenge.
A concentrated, intense eye roamed the list of caterers currently smoothed out beneath a slightly trembling palm.
Absorbed in his work, obscured from anyone who would chance to enter the study by massive paper stacks, Raivis remained entirely unaware of the world beyond the desk.
WHEN: Mary 3rd, late afternoon/early evening
WHERE: The Vargas mansion
WHAT: Intending only to come in for some much needed organizing of Roma's study, Raivis find more than he bargains for in his boss's... excitable grandson.
RATING: S for (impending) syncope spells
Kuniklos, Yeltzin, Van Zintel, Pomphrey, Julian-Jones.
One pile became two which became five which became twenty. Half an hour in after tiptoeing quietly past the great oak doors of Vargas senior's office, Raivis found himself awash in towers of paperwork, manila files and an impossible amount of post-its. A phone book lay, spine creased, at his right. A small black planner to his left. Before him, on the desk, a laptop with access to a digital database he himself had created for easier access to all employees. Passwords devised for the higher tier individuals. A through B clients here, C through H there. Business addresses. Appointments catalogued and conversations recorded. The man had a veritable library of information at his disposal and to Raivis's increasing distress, apparently absolutely little to no order.
He flipped through another mass of files equally as disorganized as the rest, a soft, heavy sigh squeezing through pursed lips.
Organization was second nature. His mind might still have been drifting in a haze, but the tasks of recalculating expenses and alphabatizing the names of anyone who had stepped onto Vargas property was without challenge.
A concentrated, intense eye roamed the list of caterers currently smoothed out beneath a slightly trembling palm.
Absorbed in his work, obscured from anyone who would chance to enter the study by massive paper stacks, Raivis remained entirely unaware of the world beyond the desk.