Malvern Webber entered the Press Club through the bypass door: his size prohibited his using the revolving door. The tap tap tap of his cane irritated most of the press members, who doubted his need of a cane.

“Hurump.â€? he said, “holding up two fingers to the livery clad waiter.
The waiter turned toward the bar, rolling his eyes, hating to serve the tight ass prig.

Malvern Webber waddled over to one of the leather bound chairs and dropped into it. The chair groaned in protest. He removed his homborg and placed it on an empty chair next to his. He ran a hand over his nearly bald dome, then storked his salt and pepper goatee.

His small pig like eyes darted around like a pinball ball, seeking someone to receive his discourse on whatever his bitch-of-the-day was.

The half dozen press members avoided his gaze, most would rather have a prostate examination than listen to this glorified, pompass ass.

The waiter brought him a double, of single barrel scotch, and he left a twenty five cent tip.