Simon "Little Si" Gillianson sat with his arms folded and a frown on his face. Being the bastard son of SimonTheSwanHunter was a fact he had rarely broadcast, and his mother had gone to her unwashed grave lamenting it. He had no desire to join "the family business," if you could even call sitting around telling people how important you were and not publishing a newspaper a business, and the man had made little effort to include him for most of his adult life.

The fact was, Little Si loved all creatures, particularly swans, and it had always been a bone of contention between them. The rifle and hunting lessons "Big Dad Si," as he constantly demanded to be called, had given him for Christmas five years earlier had been the final straw. Things were said, other things were thrown, and Little Si had vowed then that he would have nothing more to do with SimonTheSwanHunter from that day forward. He had been true to his promise.

The news that his biological father was dead had not come as a surprise. The fact that Simon’s lawyer had been instructed to seek him out in the event of his father’s passing so that he could be present at the reading of the will had been. He wanted nothing from the man and, frankly, expected even less. Little Si’s life as a zookeeper was quiet, uneventful, and just the way he liked it. If he hadn’t known that his mother would have demanded he collect every cent he could from Simon had she been alive, he might not even have bothered to attend. But as it was, he had acquiesced and now found himself seated on a rather tired-looking leather couch, angry at himself for being here and trying not to stand out.

"Can we move this along a little?" twigs said, seemingly directing his question at the pompous-looking lawyer holding the sealed envelope, despite not looking up from his fingernails, which he was absentmindedly picking at.

"Of course, sir. I believe everyone is present now," Simon’s lawyer, Lincoln, announced, enjoying his five minutes of fame and casting a rather needless eye around the occupants of the room. "Are we all ready?"

"On fucking tenterhooks, pal," @Gneiss answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What’s the old bastard giving us?"

Little Si felt his foot nervously tapping on the stained floorboards and ordered it to stop. Lincoln made a show of adjusting his glasses, clearing his throat, and rolling up his sleeves before finally breaking the seal and removing the document from the envelope. He cleared his throat once again, much to the chagrin of the gathering, before finally starting to read aloud.

"The Last.....Will.....and.....Testament....of...Simonnn....TheSwanHunterrrrrrr…"

"Jesus Christ, get on with it!" @SlimRagnarok banged his fist on the table, causing Lincoln to flinch as his moment was stolen away from him.

"Of course, of course, er, Last Will and Testament…" He cast a quick look at Slim before hurriedly continuing. "I, SimonTheSwanHunter, commonly referred to as Big Si by virtually everyone, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all prior wills and codicils made-"

"Did he not just say 'get on with it'?" interrupted Gneiss with a wave of his hand, breaking Lincoln’s already stuttering stride.

"Right, right, here, nominate executor, we don’t need to hear that....pay all my debts, all correct, yes, ah, okay, here we go. To my second, twigs, whose first and last names I do not know, nor care to know, I leave my apartment on 10th Street overlooking the smouldering embers of Hobbs, and a guide on running successful Organized Crimes. Please share this with Drieza, he needs all the help he can get."

twigs snorted derisively, and Lincoln hurried on.

"To 'TheNewGuy,' I leave the rights to operate for the rest of his days in the wasteland of Corktown, provided that he keeps Monarch away from any position of responsibility and takes no travel tips from BuddyBigPaw. Who would want it anyway, right?"

Nobody laughed.

"Oh, erm, okay, the joke was-"

"We got the joke. It was just fucking terrible," Slim growled. "What’s next?"

"Ah. Oh. Right.....hmmm....to TomJoad, I leave my complete and utter contempt. Irregular I guess, but there we are. To Matt, if he is even still alive after me, which seems super fucking unlikely as he’s like a million years old, oh dear, erm, I leave the responsibility of keeping TonyTheTailor's 'tirets' in check, from swirlying any leaders and/or accidentally swirling himself. Then it says 'good luck'. Strange. Erm, there are several more insults to TomJoad here, I'll skip over those. Oh my. A line or two about HeadCoach’s wife, which I don’t think anyone needs to hear about, good Lord..." he said as he rotated the page. "Or see the accompanying pornographic sketch…"

Another frightened glance upward.

"To my friends in New York, please visit a gym. Any gym. To DarwinRoss, thanks for the forts and drawing and for not being from New York. Well, he has a point I suppose and no mention of repaying anyone for those forts that I can see....oh, yes, ok. Looks like WaffleStompingChamp has been crossed out from receiving anything. Understandable. Yes, yes, right, here we are. Ahem hem: To Slim, in his own mind only, Ragnarok, that’s what it says, I swear. I, er, I leave the remainder of my estate, including the warehouses at Gratiot Avenue, the residence at West Boston Boulevard, my enormous, almost grotesque wealth, our headquarters and offices on 12th Street and Clairmount, and the stewardship of the 12th Street Public Toilets, because he will know what to do, so that he can continue to run my family business…"

Slim nodded and stood up, presuming the matters were complete, but Lincoln kept yammering.

"…until such time as my natural son, Little Simon Gillianson, weedy little maggot that he is, comes of age. Thereafter, he will succeed me as the head of Swanfree Swansong, and you all have to listen to me because I’m dead and the King of Detroit, and succession is.....hereditary.”

As Lincoln came to a halt, every eye in the room turned towards Little Si, and as they did he slowly realised that his mouth was hanging open. He shut it, realising what had just happened. Wealth, power, an unmanageable task of placating more qualified people bound only by the final words of an idiot and no animals to care for. His beloved otters, majestic giraffes, beautiful swans. Forgotten. Abandoned. He looked up at the hard stares coming his way and he knew this was exactly what SimonTheSwanHunter intended as his final hurrah.

"That bastard's ruined my life."