Long, silk, dark-maroon and black diamond-pattern smoking jacket.
Suede, dark-maroon vest.
Black cravat.
Tobacco pipe. (I just bite it. It's for the look; I don't light it.)
Gold pocket-watch.
Yes. That's the ensemble. I'm ready to go. I set and wind the pocket-watch, and I'm on my way to the party.
I trot lightly up the steps to the front entrance, where a tuxedoed man stands behind a glass podium. In a cheezy, low-pitched, stuffy, accented voice he blats out "Invitation, Sir?"
I shoot him a firm look, and say "Nineteen-Thirteen. Webster Nineteen-Thirteen."
He checks his invite list, and looks back up. "Thank you, Sir."
I walk towards the white, wood-framed glass double doors, and push them both open as I enter between them. This makes for a more grand entrance. I nod toward the string quartet playing in the corner as I stroll through the entry. People stand around talking with one another over elegant glasses of wine and dainty little hors d'oeuvres. I notice the women in the room have turned their gaze in my direction. Their eyes follow me as I silently pluck a glass of wine from a passing server's plate. I turn on my heel, and observe the evening's festivities from a silent corner as I wait.
I wait for the inevitable.
About three and a half minutes after I arrive, the first female heads over to me for an introduction. She's blonde, wearing a low-cut, pale pink blouse.
"Hi. I'm Denise. Who might you be?"
"My name's Webster," I lie.
Her face changes in appearence to a look of happy excitement and disbelief. Her mouth opens slightly as she comprehends what she believes I have just said.
"Webster? Webster N-N-Nineteen-Thirteen?"
I wink, smile, and say "The very same."
Her expression immediately beams with delight, and she wraps my free arm with hers. We share idle conversation about words like "Tourney", "Chamade", and "Tirralirra". I, of course, am a wonderful conversationist, so I can easily hold my own.
Soon, more women make their way over to where I stand, and the idle chatter continues. They all believe me to be Webster 1913, and it's fucking great. I mean, what woman wouldn't want to bed one of the greatest minds of the 20th century? Especially considering how damn sexy I look. Later, as the party winds down, you can bet there are four or five women still clinging to me, and they certainly intend to go home with me for the evening.
And what better way to start a morning than lying in bed, nude, with three other women while your breakfast is prepared by Webster 1913 himself?
Well, not 'himself', but a remarkably good facsimile. Damn, I'm smooth.
Jiggy, even.