Lousy Servant

I expect my tea to be placed by my bedside at precisely 8 in the morning.
Any earlier, and it will be cold when I drink it.
Any later, and it will not be there when I reach for it.
Instead, I will reach for my sonic whip and you will suffer dearly.
It used to be that the Blahva made good servants, but we’ve bred them to be stupid while breeding out rebellion and independence.
“Shave your matted fur,” I growl to my houseboy. “And show some initiative.”
He licks an eye, shivers with fear, and gleeps assent.
Liar.