Inktober 1 - Moustache

Long ago, moustaches were a sign of a gentleman. Someone who wore a moustache was trustworthy, honourable, and of the right sort, if you know what I mean. Knew the right people, looked the part, spoke correctly. Understood when to look the other way, and what’s more understood when not to look at all.

This moustache was unlike those fine specimens of years gone by. It lacked decorum. Etiquette. It had an extravagant twirl. A twirl that declared this moustache’s owner would not in fact follow common decency but instead trample over it, much like he’d trampled the convention of sensible moustaches.

The man whose face this moustache adorned was certainly not a gentleman. This man did not even wear a tie. He considered such fine attire to be the mark of someone pretentious and stuffy. The cheek!

This moustachioed man was, in fact, a private investigator. If there was anything farther from a gentleman, it was unheard of in polite society. A private investigator! Someone who made it their purpose in life to pry into the personal affairs of others. Someone who had so little going on in their life that they had to disseminate the intimate knowledge of upstanding citizens who had the right to expect the courtesy of privacy. Someone who hunted down tawdry affairs which were best laid to rest, and delighted in sharing with the world the shame of a gentleman. And to top it off, after committing the worst invasion of privacy, they are brazen enough to describe themselves as private investigators!

Really, it was too much. This little man, his funny accent and his ridiculous moustache must leave the estate at once, lest he trap them all in the library and share one’s darkest affairs with all.

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