Hello, I’m Lord Byron Castleface, of the Castleface Castlefaces

Charmed to meet you, I’m sure I am. Afraid I can’t stay at this adequately society-type party long, as I have plans to do something elaborate with horses this evening. But I did think I should make an appearance, being who I am and all—I know what is expected of me.

And yes you did hear me right. I am Lord Byron Castleface. Yes, of the Castlefaces.

Now now, no need to be polite or offer to kiss my golden socks at all. I don’t like sycophants. All I ask is to be treated like anyone else here in this room full of untouchable royalty—I do presume all of the servant class are kept safely out of sight until called upon. But of course I am aware of the distinction my lineage carries.

My great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was Archibald Guiseppe Castleface III, and he is the one who originally commissioned the construction of Castle Castleface out on the Castleface moors of north Castlefacia. Since then Castleface has become the foremost name in the trades, owing to us owning most of the Pacific Ocean as well as the patent for “the concept of boats.” Additionally, there’re all those diamond mines that we blew up for the insurance payouts and from that point, well, you know the rest.

But don’t let that change your perspective of me. I’m no more important than any old duke or viscount. I put my rocket-car tuxedo pants on one leg at a time just like anyone else—with the help of my fifty butlers, all named Chives.

Of course, then I get in my rocket-car and rocket to work at Consolidated Rocket-Car Inc., where I oversee the rocket-car division. I own everything even remotely associated with the company so the job is really just a hobby, but still, it gets me out of all of my houses for the day.

I do prefer to spend my time working rather than simply resting on my rocket laurels. There is so much to get out of life—why waste it living an existence of absolute worry-free leisure and joy? I’ll leave that to the middle-lower upper class to spend their days. Me, I’m a real salt of the earth, knighted Illuminati grandfounder.

Oh sure, I’ve had some advantages—if you haven’t noticed yet, my top hat is made of solid moon rock—but I don’t let that go to my head. No, I treat every man like an equal.

Like just the other day for instance. Chives #37 and I were out on the veranda watching the airshow ballet I had commissioned from the Luxembourg Flying Corps when, wouldn’t you know it, Chives #37 realizes he forgot my opera glasses up in the third-floor zoo. A less forgiving aristocrat might have given him a good wallop with their sword cane. But I realize that mistakes happen, and once he got the glasses I told him to simply deduct whatever amount he thought was fair from his paycheck for wasting my time—then when it was too little I deducted more. Another little mistake he made. Can you believe it?

By the way, I’ve noticed that your chandeliers aren’t made from exotic snakeskin. Was that a design choice or is there some kind of snake shortage I was unaware of?

In any case, suppose I must be off now. Those horses won’t do elaborate things on their own now, will they? Still though, it was charming for you to meet me and I do hope we shall do this again sometime. Perhaps you could come take a tour of the rocket-car testing facility sometime—I’m sure Chives #25 will be more than happy to make the arrangement.

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